32726	----	Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories October 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [Illustration: The B. E. M. purred contentedly as the giant stroked his eyeballs] DEATH OF A B. E. M. by BERKELEY LIVINGSTON The writer hated to create bug-eyed monsters, but they hated him too! "Blast them!" the writer groaned in bitter accents. "How I hate those B. E. M's.!" "Hang them!" the artist yelled. "How I hate those B. E. M's.!" "Darn them!" the B. E. M. moaned. "How I hate those humans!" * * * * * The artist and the writer sat staring at each other in wordless misery, their coffee untasted and their spirits at low ebb. Up above, in the beehive that was the publishing house which gave them their livelihood, the word had gone around. _B. E. M'S, B. E. M'S...._ Sadly, in accents forlorn, the writer said: "Bug-eyed monsters! Ye gads! Bug-eyed monsters! Jack, old boy, do you realize we're setting science-fiction back a hundred years?" "I know just how you feel, Harry," the artist replied. "After all, we too had presumed that we had been freed of these monsters. So back we go to the drawing board, our minds tortured and twisted ..." He sighed disconsolately. "Oh, well," the writer sighed and blew out his breath. He stared fixedly at his coffee until a something blue slipped into focus. His glance traveled upward from the hem of the girl's apron, past the lovely swell of her charms and on past the sweet throat, to the gay, smiling face and sparkling eyes. Forgotten then were B. E. M's. for both. Diane, the goddess of the restaurant corps of enchanting waitresses, was at their side.... * * * * * Hiah-Leugh was having his eyeballs massaged. It was a delicate and tedious operation for the one doing the massaging; not every Goman was possessed of eight eyeballs. But Hiah-Leugh was not an ordinary Goman. Not he! He was chief of all the Gomans, which meant he was head of all the bug-eyed monsters on the whole of the planet of XYZ268PDQ. The four-headed slave, one of the giants Hiah-Leugh's tribe had captured on one of their forays into the terrible forest of Evil Contractions, scratched himself with one of his six arms. He was quite bored with this peaceful, though tedious pursuit the tribe of Hiah-Leugh had given to him as his duties. Especially the massaging of eyeballs. Of course it helped to have six arms. Ooh! His four heads ranged themselves in a single line. The slave had committed a sin. There were three cardinal sins on the planet of XYZ268PDQ. Two of them were unmentionable and the third was forgetting to massage all of the eight eyeballs of Hiah-Leugh at one and the same time. If it were not for the massage the giants of the planet would all live in peace. But it took a man with six arms to do the job. In fact it was to the regret of Hiah-Leugh that the giants did not have eight arms. Now one of the eyelids was closing. In a second or two it would be closed completely and once a single of the eight eyes closed the others automatically followed suit. There was but a single thing to do in this case. The giant did it. He poked his finger into the drooping lid. Hiah-Leugh awoke with a suddenness of shock and startled surprise. He howled in pain then leaped from the chair, scuttling about the room-of-massage on his twelve pairs of crablike legs at a great pace. "Heavens to Betsy!" Hiah-Leugh screamed. "You _are_ the clumsiest giant.... But what can a B. E. M. expect? Oh, well! You're excused. Go and see if there are any children to frighten...." There were four different expressions on the four heads. One showed pleasure, and another, surprise and a third, gloom and the fourth was blank completely. This head was the dumb one. It had but one expression, blankness. The four heads bent and the great body bowed low, and slowly, with great effort and with many bumpings into various pieces of furniture, the giant bowed himself out of the massage parlor. Hiah-Leugh was left alone. But not for long. Suddenly a whole section of the wall slid back showing another room. This was the famous Gloating Chamber of Hiah-Leugh. Here were brought all the victims the tribe captured. And here it was that their chief was supposed to spend his time in _Gloating_ over the tortures his torturers were supposed to spend their time in devising. But business had been very bad lately. Not only was there not a single victim in the Gloating Chamber, there was not a single torturer available. Hiah-Leugh suddenly remembered. Something about a picnic.... Then why had the wall slid back? "_Hiah-Leugh! Hiah-Leugh!_" it was the clarion call of his ninth concubine, the lovely and charming Sally Patica. But what in the name of all that was unmentionable was she doing in the Gloating Chamber? Of course she too could be _Gloating_! He moved slowly toward the room, hoping against hope she was not in a bad mood. The last time she had called in that tone of voice he had suffered greatly. She had made him go without an eyeball massage for a whole week.... * * * * * She was pacing back and forth on the long, raised platform. Hiah-Leugh skirted the Iron Maiden, the Pallid Pulley, the Bronze Beater, the Copper Conker, and Giant Mas-Mixer, which was a fake. Nothing was ever mixed in it except the noxious weed Hiah-Leugh used in his pipe. At the sound of his approach Sally stopped her pacing and fixed him with a baleful glance out of eyes, four and five. Eyes, two and three were busy seeing if her coiffure was right and eyes one, six and seven were having their lids tweezed. After all, she had twelve pairs of legs which were also used for hands. A heck of a lot could be done with so many appendages. She started in even before he quite reached her side: "Where is everybody? Do I have to sit by myself every day? _Must_ you have your eyeballs massaged _everyday_? Where are the torturers? Where is everybody...?" "I think there's a picnic scheduled for today, dear," Hiah-Leugh said. "Why wasn't I told about it?" Sally demanded. She had very probably _been_ told about it but knowing his ninth concubine and the limits of her memory, she had very surely forgotten. "Hiah-Leugh!" she broke in on him before he could frame a reply. "I'm so terribly, terribly bored! There hasn't been a good torture since, since ... when _was_ the last time there was a torture party?" "The time Gin-Pad was caught stealing wokkerjabbies from his youngest child," Hiah-Leugh said. "We put him in the Pallid Pulley and stretched four of his legs until they were longer than the rest. And to this day Gin-Pad walks like he's looking for something between his forelegs...." Six of Sally's seven pairs of eyes crossed suddenly, a sign she was in thought. Hiah-Leugh had the wishful hope that the seventh pair would cross. When that happened Sally would be ex-concubine. She would also be ex-living but that didn't bother him. We all have to die sometime, he thought. But why does she have to live so long? The thought processes of Sally Patica wound their weary way and came to their proper end. Life was boresome. And she had to think of something to make it less so. She did. "Y'know, Hiah," she said as she uncrossed her eyes, "I have an idea...." The chief of all the Gomans rolled all eight pairs of his eyes ceiling-ward. Not another of her ideas. Oh no! Not that! The last time she had one of her ideas it was for a treasure hunt, a treasure hunt for a five-headed giant, despite Hiah-Leugh's insistence there were no such beings. But she wanted one dead or alive. She got it, dead. What Sally didn't know was that her mate gave orders to have one killed and have a fifth head sewn on his shoulders. Love, however, was as strong on planet XYZ268PDQ as it was on any other planet, and as burdensome, and though Hiah-Leugh felt his heart sink, he also knew he would give in to her wishes. "... What do you think of this; bring some humans up here and we'll run a torture party for our fiends?" The male's jaw dropped, all three feet of it. This was even worse than he had imagined. _Bring some humans up here_, she said. Had she any idea of what that entailed? No. _NOO!_ He tried to reason with her: "Darling. Wait. Don't be hasty. Let me explain. In the first place have you ever met a human?" "What difference does that make?" she pouted. "I've heard about them." "But sweetheart," he went on in his pleading. "They're quite horrible. They have but one head, and a single pair of arms and legs. They walk upright and they can only bear _children_...." This was new to her. "... Children...?" "Yes! And they're horrible things, really. Must be raised on pablum and formulas and things like that. _Formulas._ Sounds mechanical. No, Sally, my pet. I'll think of something else. Something which will not require so much work...." It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the instant he said it. "_Work!_" she yelped. "So that's what's troubling you. Too much work you say. And what is occupying your time now? Have you even so much as gone to the forest of Evil Contractions to capture a giant in the past six months? Not you! You're satisfied with the way things are. You wouldn't give a hang if I died of boredom. And when I ask for something like a torture party, all you can say is, it's too much work." She started to cry. And after all she had seven pairs of eyes to shed tears from. It was the biggest crying jag since the invasion from space a millenium before when the invaders used tear gas.... Hiah-Leugh threw up all the arms he could spare and shouted: "Okay. _OKAY!_ I'll call a meeting of the Council and we'll plan something." * * * * * "The situation is this," Hiah-Leugh said in opening the meeting, "we must (get the) right to work and bring some humans up here." The assembled B. E. M's. stopped looking bored at the words. They had wondered why their chieftan had called the meeting. Now they knew. One after the other they repeated the words as if they couldn't believe their senses. Humans! Here on Planet XYZ268PDQ. "But mighty chief," one of them said in objection. "Do you realize what you're asking of us?" Another said: "How, when...?" And a third asked: "Who?" "Our scientists, that's who," Hiah-Leugh answered. "What the heck we got them for anyway? Seems all they do is sleep. Let them wake up and to work." But the oldest and wisest of them said: "Why can't we be normal monsters and not act like we're expected to? Isn't peace enough for us? Must we look for trouble?" But their chieftan knew there was no turning back. Not if he wanted peace. And knowing Sally Patica, he also knew there would be no peace for him until he brought some humans up for torture. "Let them construct space ships, terrible weapons of war, plagues and all the necessary adjuncts to planetary invasion. Let them prepare for the holocaust," Hiah-Leugh shouted, drowning out the others. But it was the youngest, a mere youth of ten thousand years, upon whose head but a single eye showed, who pointed out the path. He was already bored with this meeting; besides, he had but fallen in love the day before and wanted to get back to his amorata. "Why all this fuss?" he asked. "What's more, we don't have scientists, or mathematicians, or warriors. If the giants weren't so stupid we'd never capture them. So let's stop this foolishness, this dreaming...." That was the clue. After all, Hiah-Leugh hadn't been made chief of all the Gomans for nothing. He proved his right to the leadership then. "That's it!" he said. "The artists and writers of the human world have made monsters of us, even though we can't do any of the things they pretend we can. There is but a single attribute we possess which they have said we do. We can project ourselves through space and time. So let us to the Earth, and pluck one or two of these humans, and if I may offer a suggestion, let us take a writer and artist from among them and bring them back with us...." * * * * * Harry Zmilch, writer-extraordinary of science-fiction, passed weary fingers across a furrowed brow. A few feet to the rear of the desk at which Zmilch labored stood the drawing board of Jack Gangreneyellow, the artist. He too paused in his labors. At one and the same instant they turned and regarded each other with solemn, staring eyes. "No use, Joe," Harry said. "I can't do it. I've beaten my brain until it refuses to function. I keep typing the same word over and over again ... nuts ... nuts!... Bug-eyed monsters! There aren't such things. My imagination just can't bring them to paper." "Nor can mine to the board," Jack said. "Still it's easier for you," Harry said. "All you've got to do is draw a spider or huge bug of sorts, put a man and woman somewhere in the drawing, make the woman appear as if she'd lost half her clothes in a struggle, and you've got your piece. With me it's different." Gangreneyellow snorted. This character, he thought, knew as little of art and the difficulties of composition as the next guy. "That's what you think," he retorted. "All you guys have to do is _imagine_ a monster, have a man and woman placed in peril by the monster's presence and you've got a story. With us it's different...." Zmilch was half-turned, facing his friend across the width of one shoulder. At the other's words, Zmilch turned all the way, got up from his chair and strolled to the board on which a drawing in full color was in its last stages. The drawing depicted a jungle scene. In the foreground a man and woman stood in petrified stance, the man's arm around the woman's shoulders. He was dressed for safari, pith helmet, breeches, boots, open shirt and all. The woman looked like she'd spent all her life in the jungle. She wore a leopard skin draped becomingly to show the greater part of her charms. They were in semiprofile so that the artist could depict the terror on their faces. And full in the center of the drawing was an immense web stretched between the boles of two jungle giants. Descending the web was a gigantic bug, or spider, the artist had not detailed it too well. "I thought you said you were finding it hard to do?" Zmilch asked. "Why you've just about finished it." Gangreneyellow, not to be outdone by his friend, walked over to the other's desk and read aloud from the author's manuscript: "'... Tom Brighteyes knew he hadn't the smallest chance of escaping. The hordes of Micro Ambrosia were but a short way off. Ahead the Great Swamp blocked any chances of escape for him and the Leopard Girl. Their doom was sealed. He turned to her and said: "Leopard Girl, I love you. I know. I'm from another world, a world where men and women are not the same as this. Oh, I don't mean the outward man and woman, but the inward. This is a savage world, a world where both men and women have to struggle to exist against terrifying odds. Horrible beasts, terrible insects, and natural phenomena make this place a nightmare of existence. But here I found love and perhaps death. I am not sorry I came." "Tom Brighteyes," the girl turned to him and drew close. "I love you too. I think I felt love from the first instant I saw you, backed against a tree, with your puny weapons facing Hogo the Mogo, king of all the swampland. Hogo the Mogo used to eat guys like you for breakfast. Yet you drew a cigarette from a silver, enamel case upon whose shining face a small chaste crest revealed your excellent taste in such things, and while Hogo the Mogo slavered his hate in your face, you drew a king's size, Exhilirato from the case and lit it with a nonchalance that took my breath away...." "What the heck are you complaining about?" Gangreneyellow asked. "You're not doing so badly yourself." "Yeah," said a strange voice. "Neither of you are doing badly. Everything is just horrible, isn't it? The B. E. M's. march across your pages and drawing boards with assembly-line facility. But have either of you two had any feelings for us?" The two men turned startled and terrified faces in the direction of the mysterious voice. They could see nothing. Yet they could feel the impalpable presence of some strange being in this very room with them. Suddenly they became aware of a strange fog emanating from one wall. It swept closer drawing them into its greasy folds. The voice seemed to come from the very heart of this fog: "... Well, perhaps things will be different soon...?" Then the fog enveloped them completely, and their senses fled from them.... * * * * * It was an odd sort of voice, mellow, fluid, yet holding accents of anger in its even flow: "Both of you complained you couldn't imagine this. So we brought you here to prove its existence." The writer and artist opened their eyes and the fog in which they'd been bound was no longer there. They were in an immense chamber whose vaulted ceiling extended for a full hundred feet in the air and seemed suspended by slender strings, so tenuous were the web-like supports, so fragile were the arches. They were standing before a tremendous table whose semi-circular length might have been fifty feet from one end to the other. And seated at the table were the most horrifying monsters they had ever seen. There was one, a huge beetle-like thing with two heads and a scaly body and four pairs of pincers extending from the line of jaw. There was, another, somewhat like a spider, but with dozens of legs. A third was half-man, half alligator; a fourth was all snake, but with three human heads; and another was all head without body. They were, the two men realized, the most terrible _things_ they had ever imagined. "... And there is the rub," the voice went on. "We are all as you have imagined us. We exist only in your imagination." "But how can that be?" Harry Zmilch asked. "We are here. We can see you...." "Only because your imaginations have been developed to such a degree," the voice replied. "Were you able to you would imagine us as something altogether different. But since there are limits to your imagination we are as we are. Now you must pay the penalty of that imagination. "Torture will be the price we will exact from you...." In an instant they were transported to the torture chamber. They saw the horrible machines, the Copper Conker, the Pallid Pulley, and the rest. And up on the platform they saw Sally Patica in all her glory, her seven pairs of eyes watering so great was her excitement. The monsters got in each other's way so hurried were they to tie and make fast the two humans to the torture machines. And despite Harry's and Jack's screams, they were bound, hand and foot and placed on each of the machines in turn. But though the machines whirled and clanked and ground and grunted and snarled their vicious ways the two humans could not feel a single thing. Yet all about them the horrible monsters screamed and shouted and laughed and danced and on the platform Sally Patica shrieked with joy. "A torture party at last," she screamed. "Oh, Hiah-Leugh, I'm so happy. I'm the happiest monster in the whole world." But down below, on the last of the machines in the assembly line, Harry Zmilch thought as he was being whirled around, his head always meeting a mace-like thing which was supposed to shear a slice from his head at every turn but which felt like a feather, gosh! If I get back alive what a story I could do on B. E. M's. While on another instrument of torture, the Pallid Pulley, a device supposed to tear the limbs slowly from a man, Jack Gangreneyellow thought, man! what a cover I could make if ever I get out of this. A strange thing happened then. The machines stopped their whirring, the monsters stopped their shriekings, and Jack and Harry stopped moving. "Ohh, you nasty humans," Hiah-Leugh said. "Now you've spoiled our party!" "Why?" Harry asked. "Because all this has been in vain. All you can see is that we're monsters. And as such we have no feelings except for the giving of pain, torture and death. Gosh, fellas! Can't you see these things aren't real? We're the nicest monsters." But all Harry and Jack could think of was that B. E. M's. were real. Further, they were as terrible as anything they had ever imagined. "Yes," Hiah-Leugh went on. "We are as you have imagined because we live only in your imagination. And there we live as monsters. If in the beginning you had given us other lines to read and other lives to live, things might be as they really are. But no. The human race had to be the master race. The insect world and the animal world could only provide danger and conflict." He turned to the assembled monsters and said, sadly, "Okay, boys. Turn 'em loose. Let them go back to their typewriters and drawing boards...." * * * * * Harry Zmilch shook his head savagely and looked at his friend. He was doing the same. "Got dizzy for a second," Harry said. "Gees! Have I got a swell ending for my story...." "Funny," Jack said. "I got dizzy too. And have I got a sweet idea for a monster. All detail...." Harry went back and typed: 'But Tom Brighteyes was no longer listening to the voice of his beloved. Behind him were the advance guards of Hogo the Mogo. And ahead the dreaded swamp. There was but one thing to do, go into the sixth dimension, the fifth was already too perilous. Drawing the girl within the embrace of his brawny arms, he closed his eyes and sent out the powerful thought waves which would send him into the sixth dimension....' And at the end, he tacked on: To be continued next month.... 
16328	----	BEOWULF AN ANGLO-SAXON EPIC POEM _TRANSLATED FROM THE HEYNE-SOCIN TEXT_ BY JNO: LESSLIE HALL, Ph. D. (J.H.U.) Professor of English and History in The College of William and Mary D.C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by JNO: LESSLIE HALL, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. TO My Wife [v] CONTENTS. PAGE Preface vii Bibliography of Translations xi Glossary of Proper Names xiii List of Words and Phrases not in General Use xviii The Life and Death of Scyld (I.) 1 Scyld's Successors } (II.) 3 Hrothgar's Great Mead-Hall Grendel, the Murderer (III.) 5 Beowulf Goes to Hrothgar's Assistance (IV.) 8 The Geats Reach Heorot (V.) 10 Beowulf Introduces Himself at the Palace (VI.) 12 Hrothgar and Beowulf (VII.) 14 Hrothgar and Beowulf (continued) (VIII.) 17 Unferth Taunts Beowulf (IX.) 19 Beowulf Silences Unferth } (X.) 21 Glee is High All Sleep save One (XI.) 24 Grendel and Beowulf (XII.) 26 Grendel is Vanquished (XIII.) 28 Rejoicing of the Danes (XIV.) 30 Hrothgar's Gratitude (XV.) 33 Hrothgar Lavishes Gifts upon his Deliverer (XVI.) 35 Banquet (continued) } (XVII.) 37 The Scop's Song of Finn and Hnæf The Finn Episode (continued) } (XVIII.) 39 The Banquet Continues Beowulf Receives Further Honor (XIX.) 41 The Mother of Grendel (XX.) 44 Hrothgar's Account of the Monsters (XXI.) 46 Beowulf Seeks Grendel's Mother (XXII.) 48 Beowulf's Fight with Grendel's Mother (XXIII.) 51 Beowulf is Double-Conqueror (XXIV.) 53 [vi] Beowulf Brings his Trophies } (XXV.) 57 Hrothgar's Gratitude Hrothgar Moralizes } (XXVI.) 60 Rest after Labor Sorrow at Parting (XXVII.) 62 The Homeward Journey } (XXVIII.) 64 The Two Queens Beowulf and Higelac (XXIX.) 67 Beowulf Narrates his Adventures to Higelac (XXX.) 69 Gift-Giving is Mutual (XXXI.) 73 The Hoard and the Dragon (XXXII.) 75 Brave Though Aged } (XXXIII.) 78 Reminiscences Beowulf Seeks the Dragon } (XXXIV.) 81 Beowulf's Reminiscences Reminiscences (continued) } (XXXV.) 83 Beowulf's Last Battle Wiglaf the Trusty } (XXXVI.) 88 Beowulf is Deserted by Friends and by Sword The Fatal Struggle } (XXXVII.) 91 Beowulf's Last Moments Wiglaf Plunders the Dragon's Den } (XXXVIII.) 93 Beowulf's Death The Dead Foes } (XXXIX.) 95 Wiglaf's Bitter Taunts The Messenger of Death (XL.) 97 The Messenger's Retrospect (XLI.) 99 Wiglaf's Sad Story } (XLII.) 103 The Hoard Carried Off The Burning of Beowulf (XLIII.) 106 Addenda 109 [vii] PREFACE. The present work is a modest effort to reproduce approximately, in modern measures, the venerable epic, Beowulf. _Approximately_, I repeat; for a very close reproduction of Anglo-Saxon verse would, to a large extent, be prose to a modern ear. The Heyne-Socin text and glossary have been closely followed. Occasionally a deviation has been made, but always for what seemed good and sufficient reason. The translator does not aim to be an editor. Once in a while, however, he has added a conjecture of his own to the emendations quoted from the criticisms of other students of the poem. This work is addressed to two classes of readers. From both of these alike the translator begs sympathy and co-operation. The Anglo-Saxon scholar he hopes to please by adhering faithfully to the original. The student of English literature he aims to interest by giving him, in modern garb, the most ancient epic of our race. This is a bold and venturesome undertaking; and yet there must be some students of the Teutonic past willing to follow even a daring guide, if they may read in modern phrases of the sorrows of Hrothgar, of the prowess of Beowulf, and of the feelings that stirred the hearts of our forefathers in their primeval homes. In order to please the larger class of readers, a regular cadence has been used, a measure which, while retaining the essential characteristics of the original, permits the reader to see ahead of him in reading. Perhaps every Anglo-Saxon scholar has his own theory as to how Beowulf should be translated. Some have given us prose versions of what we believe to be a great poem. Is it any reflection on our honored Kemble and Arnold to say that their translations fail to show a layman that Beowulf is justly called our first _epic_? Of those translators who have used verse, several have written from what would seem a mistaken point of view. Is it proper, for instance, that the grave and solemn speeches of Beowulf and Hrothgar be put in ballad measures, tripping lightly and airily along? Or, again, is it fitting that the rough martial music of Anglo-Saxon verse be interpreted to us in the smooth measures of modern blank verse? Do we hear what has been beautifully called "the clanging tread of a warrior in mail"? [viii] Of all English translations of Beowulf, that of Professor Garnett alone gives any adequate idea of the chief characteristics of this great Teutonic epic. The measure used in the present translation is believed to be as near a reproduction of the original as modern English affords. The cadences closely resemble those used by Browning in some of his most striking poems. The four stresses of the Anglo-Saxon verse are retained, and as much thesis and anacrusis is allowed as is consistent with a regular cadence. Alliteration has been used to a large extent; but it was thought that modern ears would hardly tolerate it on every line. End-rhyme has been used occasionally; internal rhyme, sporadically. Both have some warrant in Anglo-Saxon poetry. (For end-rhyme, see 1_53, 1_54; for internal rhyme, 2_21, 6_40.) What Gummere[1] calls the "rime-giver" has been studiously kept; _viz._, the first accented syllable in the second half-verse always carries the alliteration; and the last accented syllable alliterates only sporadically. Alternate alliteration is occasionally used as in the original. (See 7_61, 8_5.) No two accented syllables have been brought together, except occasionally after a cæsural pause. (See 2_19 and 12_1.) Or, scientifically speaking, Sievers's C type has been avoided as not consonant with the plan of translation. Several of his types, however, constantly occur; _e.g._ A and a variant (/ x | / x) (/ x x | / x); B and a variant (x / | x / ) (x x / | x / ); a variant of D (/ x | / x x); E (/ x x | / ). Anacrusis gives further variety to the types used in the translation. The parallelisms of the original have been faithfully preserved. (_E.g._, 1_16 and 1_17: "Lord" and "Wielder of Glory"; 1_30, 1_31, 1_32; 2_12 and 2_13; 2_27 and 2_28; 3_5 and 3_6.) Occasionally, some loss has been sustained; but, on the other hand, a gain has here and there been made. The effort has been made to give a decided flavor of archaism to the translation. All words not in keeping with the spirit of the poem have been avoided. Again, though many archaic words have been used, there are none, it is believed, which are not found in standard modern poetry. [ix] With these preliminary remarks, it will not be amiss to give an outline of the story of the poem. _THE STORY._ _Hrothgar, king of the Danes, or Scyldings, builds a great mead-hall, or palace, in which he hopes to feast his liegemen and to give them presents. The joy of king and retainers is, however, of short duration. Grendel, the monster, is seized with hateful jealousy. He cannot brook the sounds of joyance that reach him down in his fen-dwelling near the hall. Oft and anon he goes to the joyous building, bent on direful mischief. Thane after thane is ruthlessly carried off and devoured, while no one is found strong enough and bold enough to cope with the monster. For twelve years he persecutes Hrothgar and his vassals._ _Over sea, a day's voyage off, Beowulf, of the Geats, nephew of Higelac, king of the Geats, hears of Grendel's doings and of Hrothgar's misery. He resolves to crush the fell monster and relieve the aged king. With fourteen chosen companions, he sets sail for Dane-land. Reaching that country, he soon persuades Hrothgar of his ability to help him. The hours that elapse before night are spent in beer-drinking and conversation. When Hrothgar's bedtime comes he leaves the hall in charge of Beowulf, telling him that never before has he given to another the absolute wardship of his palace. All retire to rest, Beowulf, as it were, sleeping upon his arms._ _Grendel comes, the great march-stepper, bearing God's anger. He seizes and kills one of the sleeping warriors. Then he advances towards Beowulf. A fierce and desperate hand-to-hand struggle ensues. No arms are used, both combatants trusting to strength and hand-grip. Beowulf tears Grendel's shoulder from its socket, and the monster retreats to his den, howling and yelling with agony and fury. The wound is fatal._ _The next morning, at early dawn, warriors in numbers flock to the hall Heorot, to hear the news. Joy is boundless. Glee runs high. Hrothgar and his retainers are lavish of gratitude and of gifts._ _Grendel's mother, however, comes the next night to avenge his death. She is furious and raging. While Beowulf is sleeping in a room somewhat apart [x] from the quarters of the other warriors, she seizes one of Hrothgar's favorite counsellors, and carries him off and devours him. Beowulf is called. Determined to leave Heorot entirely purified, he arms himself, and goes down to look for the female monster. After traveling through the waters many hours, he meets her near the sea-bottom. She drags him to her den. There he sees Grendel lying dead. After a desperate and almost fatal struggle with the woman, he slays her, and swims upward in triumph, taking with him Grendel's head._ _Joy is renewed at Heorot. Congratulations crowd upon the victor. Hrothgar literally pours treasures into the lap of Beowulf; and it is agreed among the vassals of the king that Beowulf will be their next liegelord._ _Beowulf leaves Dane-land. Hrothgar weeps and laments at his departure._ _When the hero arrives in his own land, Higelac treats him as a distinguished guest. He is the hero of the hour._ _Beowulf subsequently becomes king of his own people, the Geats. After he has been ruling for fifty years, his own neighborhood is wofully harried by a fire-spewing dragon. Beowulf determines to kill him. In the ensuing struggle both Beowulf and the dragon are slain. The grief of the Geats is inexpressible. They determine, however, to leave nothing undone to honor the memory of their lord. A great funeral-pyre is built, and his body is burnt. Then a memorial-barrow is made, visible from a great distance, that sailors afar may be constantly reminded of the prowess of the national hero of Geatland._ _The poem closes with a glowing tribute to his bravery, his gentleness, his goodness of heart, and his generosity._ * * * * * It is the devout desire of this translator to hasten the day when the story of Beowulf shall be as familiar to English-speaking peoples as that of the Iliad. Beowulf is our first great epic. It is an epitomized history of the life of the Teutonic races. It brings vividly before us our forefathers of pre-Alfredian eras, in their love of war, of sea, and of adventure. My special thanks are due to Professors Francis A. March and James A. Harrison, for advice, sympathy, and assistance. J.L. HALL. [xi] ABBREVIATIONS USED IN THE NOTES. B. = Bugge. C. = Cosijn. Gr. = Grein. Grdvtg. = Grundtvig. H. = Heyne. H. and S. = Harrison and Sharp. H.-So. = Heyne-Socin. K.= Kemble. Kl. = Kluge. M.= Müllenhoff. R. = Rieger. S. = Sievers. Sw. = Sweet. t.B. = ten Brink. Th. = Thorpe. W. = Wülcker. * * * * * BIBLIOGRAPHY OF TRANSLATIONS. ~Arnold, Thomas.~--Beowulf. A heroic poem of the eighth century. London, 1876. With English translation. Prose. ~Botkine, L.~--Beowulf. Epopée Anglo-Saxonne. Havre, 1877. First French translation. Passages occasionally omitted. ~Conybeare, J.J.~--Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. London, 1826. Full Latin translation, and some passages translated into English blank-verse. ~Ettmuller, L.~--Beowulf, stabreimend übersetzt. Zürich, 1840. ~Garnett, J.M.~--Beowulf: an Anglo-Saxon Poem, and the Fight at Finnsburg. Boston, 1882. An accurate line-for-line translation, using alliteration occasionally, and sometimes assuming a metrical cadence. ~Grein, C.W.M.~--Dichtungen der Angelsachsen, stabreimend übersetzt. 2 Bde. Göttingen, 1857-59. ~Grion, Giusto.~--Beovulf, poema epico anglo-sassone del VII. secolo, tradotto e illustrato. Lucca, 1883. First Italian translation. ~Grundtvig, N.F.S.~--Bjowulfs Drape. Copenhagen, 1820. ~Heyne, M.~--A translation in iambic measures. Paderborn, 1863. ~Kemble, J.M.~--The Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, the Traveller's Song, and the Battle of Finnsburg. London, 1833. The second edition contains a prose translation of Beowulf. ~Leo, H.~--Ueber Beowulf. Halle, 1839. Translations of extracts. [xii] ~Lumsden, H.W.~--Beowulf, translated into modern rhymes. London, 1881. Ballad measures. Passages occasionally omitted. ~Sandras, G.S.~--De carminibus Cædmoni adjudicatis. Paris, 1859. An extract from Beowulf, with Latin translation. ~Schaldmose, F.~--Beowulf og Scopes Widsith, to Angelsaxiske Digte. Copenhagen, 1847. ~Simrock, K.~--Beowulf. Uebersetzt und erläutert. Stuttgart und Augsburg, 1859. Alliterative measures. ~Thorkelin, G.J.~--De Danorum rebus gestis secul. III. et IV. poema Danicum dialecto Anglosaxonica. Havniæ, 1815. Latin translation. ~Thorpe, B.~--The Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, the Scôp or Gleeman's Tale, and the Fight at Finnsburg. Oxford, 1855. English translation in short lines, generally containing two stresses. ~Wackerbarth, A.D.~--Beowulf, translated into English verse. London, 1849. ~Wickberg, R.~--Beowulf, en fornengelsk hjeltedikt, öfersatt. Westervik. First Swedish translation. ~von Wolzogen, H.~--Beowulf, in alliterative measures. Leipzig. ~Zinsser, G.~--Der Kampf Beowulfs mit Grendel. Jahresbericht of the Realschule at Forbach, 1881. [xiii] GLOSSARY OF PROPER NAMES. * * * * * [The figures refer to the divisions of the poem in which the respective names occur. The large figures refer to fitts, the small, to lines in the fitts.] * * * * * ~Ælfhere~.--A kinsman of Wiglaf.--36_3. ~Æschere~.--Confidential friend of King Hrothgar. Elder brother of Yrmenlaf. Killed by Grendel.--21_3; 30_89. ~Beanstan~.--Father of Breca.--9_26. ~Beowulf~.--Son of Scyld, the founder of the dynasty of Scyldings. Father of Healfdene, and grandfather of Hrothgar.--1_18; 2_1. ~Beowulf~.--The hero of the poem. Sprung from the stock of Geats, son of Ecgtheow. Brought up by his maternal grandfather Hrethel, and figuring in manhood as a devoted liegeman of his uncle Higelac. A hero from his youth. Has the strength of thirty men. Engages in a swimming-match with Breca. Goes to the help of Hrothgar against the monster Grendel. Vanquishes Grendel and his mother. Afterwards becomes king of the Geats. Late in life attempts to kill a fire-spewing dragon, and is slain. Is buried with great honors. His memorial mound.--6_26; 7_2; 7_9; 9_3; 9_8; 12_28; 12_43; 23_1, etc. ~Breca~.--Beowulf's opponent in the famous swimming-match.--9_8; 9_19; 9_21; 9_22. ~Brondings~.--A people ruled by Breca.--9_23. ~Brosinga mene~.--A famous collar once owned by the Brosings.--19_7. ~Cain~.--Progenitor of Grendel and other monsters.--2_56; 20_11. ~Dæghrefn~.--A warrior of the Hugs, killed by Beowulf.--35_40. ~Danes~.--Subjects of Scyld and his descendants, and hence often called Scyldings. Other names for them are Victory-Scyldings, Honor-Scyldings, Armor-Danes, Bright-Danes, East-Danes, West-Danes, North-Danes, South-Danes, Ingwins, Hrethmen.--1_1; 2_1; 3_2; 5_14; 7_1, etc. ~Ecglaf~.--Father of Unferth, who taunts Beowulf.--9_1. ~Ecgtheow~.--Father of Beowulf, the hero of the poem. A widely-known Wægmunding warrior. Marries Hrethel's daughter. After slaying Heatholaf, a Wylfing, he flees his country.--7_3; 5_6; 8_4. ~Ecgwela~.--A king of the Danes before Scyld.--25_60. [xiv] ~Elan~.--Sister of Hrothgar, and probably wife of Ongentheow, king of the Swedes.--2_10. ~Eagle Cape~.--A promontory in Geat-land, under which took place Beowulf's last encounter.--41_87. ~Eadgils~.--Son of Ohthere and brother of Eanmund.--34_2. ~Eanmund~.--Son of Ohthere and brother of Eadgils. The reference to these brothers is vague, and variously understood. Heyne supposes as follows: Raising a revolt against their father, they are obliged to leave Sweden. They go to the land of the Geats; with what intention, is not known, but probably to conquer and plunder. The Geatish king, Heardred, is slain by one of the brothers, probably Eanmund.--36_10; 31_54 to 31_60; 33_66 to 34_6. ~Eofor~.--A Geatish hero who slays Ongentheow in war, and is rewarded by Hygelac with the hand of his only daughter.--41_18; 41_48. ~Eormenric~.--A Gothic king, from whom Hama took away the famous Brosinga mene.--19_9. ~Eomær~.--Son of Offa and Thrytho, king and queen of the Angles.--28_69. ~Finn~.--King of the North-Frisians and the Jutes. Marries Hildeburg. At his court takes place the horrible slaughter in which the Danish general, Hnæf, fell. Later on, Finn himself is slain by Danish warriors.--17_18; 17_30; 17_44; 18_4; 18_23. ~Fin-land~.--The country to which Beowulf was driven by the currents in his swimming-match.--10_22. ~Fitela~.--Son and nephew of King Sigemund, whose praises are sung in XIV.--14_42; 14_53. ~Folcwalda~.--Father of Finn.--17_38. ~Franks~.--Introduced occasionally in referring to the death of Higelac.--19_19; 40_21; 40_24. ~Frisians~.--A part of them are ruled by Finn. Some of them were engaged in the struggle in which Higelac was slain.--17_20; 17_42; 17_52; 40_21. ~Freaware~.--Daughter of King Hrothgar. Married to Ingeld, a Heathobard prince.--29_60; 30_32. ~Froda~.--King of the Heathobards, and father of Ingeld.--29_62. ~Garmund~.--Father of Offa.--28_71. ~Geats, Geatmen~.--The race to which the hero of the poem belongs. Also called Weder-Geats, or Weders, War-Geats, Sea-Geats. They are ruled by Hrethel, Hæthcyn, Higelac, and Beowulf.--4_7; 7_4; 10_45; 11_8; 27_14; 28_8. ~Gepids~.--Named in connection with the Danes and Swedes.--35_34. ~Grendel~.--A monster of the race of Cain. Dwells in the fens and moors. Is furiously envious when he hears sounds of joy in Hrothgar's palace. Causes the king untold agony for years. Is finally conquered by Beowulf, and dies of his wound. His hand and arm are hung up in Hrothgar's hall Heorot. His head is cut off by Beowulf when he goes down to fight with Grendel's mother.--2_50; 3_1; 3_13; 8_19; 11_17; 12_2; 13_27; 15_3. ~Guthlaf~.--A Dane of Hnæf's party.--18_24. ~Half-Danes~.--Branch of the Danes to which Hnæf belonged.--17_19. [xv] ~Halga~.--Surnamed the Good. Younger brother of Hrothgar.--2_9. ~Hama~.--Takes the Brosinga mene from Eormenric.--19_7. ~Hæreth~.--Father of Higelac's queen, Hygd.--28_39; 29_18. ~Hæthcyn~.--Son of Hrethel and brother of Higelac. Kills his brother Herebeald accidentally. Is slain at Ravenswood, fighting against Ongentheow.--34_43; 35_23; 40_32. ~Helmings~.--The race to which Queen Wealhtheow belonged.--10_63. ~Heming~.--A kinsman of Garmund, perhaps nephew.--28_54; 28_70. ~Hengest~.--A Danish leader. Takes command on the fall of Hnæf.--17_33; 17_41. ~Herebeald~.--Eldest son of Hrethel, the Geatish king, and brother of Higelac. Killed by his younger brother Hæthcyn.--34_43; 34_47. ~Heremod~.--A Danish king of a dynasty before the Scylding line. Was a source of great sorrow to his people.--14_64; 25_59. ~Hereric~.--Referred to as uncle of Heardred, but otherwise unknown.--31_60. ~Hetwars~.--Another name for the Franks.--33_51. ~Healfdene~.--Grandson of Scyld and father of Hrothgar. Ruled the Danes long and well.--2_5; 4_1; 8_14. ~Heardred~.--Son of Higelac and Hygd, king and queen of the Geats. Succeeds his father, with Beowulf as regent. Is slain by the sons of Ohthere.--31_56; 33_63; 33_75. ~Heathobards~.--Race of Lombards, of which Froda is king. After Froda falls in battle with the Danes, Ingeld, his son, marries Hrothgar's daughter, Freaware, in order to heal the feud.--30_1; 30_6. ~Heatholaf~.--A Wylfing warrior slain by Beowulf's father.--8_5. ~Heathoremes~.--The people on whose shores Breca is cast by the waves during his contest with Beowulf.--9_21. ~Heorogar~.--Elder brother of Hrothgar, and surnamed 'Weoroda Ræswa,' Prince of the Troopers.--2_9; 8_12. ~Hereward~.--Son of the above.--31_17. ~Heort~, ~Heorot~.--The great mead-hall which King Hrothgar builds. It is invaded by Grendel for twelve years. Finally cleansed by Beowulf, the Geat. It is called Heort on account of the hart-antlers which decorate it.--2_25; 3_32; 3_52. ~Hildeburg~.--Wife of Finn, daughter of Hoce, and related to Hnæf,--probably his sister.--17_21; 18_34. ~Hnæf~.--Leader of a branch of the Danes called Half-Danes. Killed in the struggle at Finn's castle.--17_19; 17_61. ~Hondscio~.--One of Beowulf's companions. Killed by Grendel just before Beowulf grappled with that monster.--30_43. ~Hoce~.--Father of Hildeburg and probably of Hnæf.--17_26. ~Hrethel~.--King of the Geats, father of Higelac, and grandfather of Beowulf.--7_4; 34_39. ~Hrethla~.--Once used for Hrethel.--7_82. ~Hrethmen~.--Another name for the Danes.--7_73. ~Hrethric~.--Son of Hrothgar.--18_65; 27_19. [xvi] ~Hreosna-beorh~.--A promontory in Geat-land, near which Ohthere's sons made plundering raids.--35_18. ~Hrothgar~.--The Danish king who built the hall Heort, but was long unable to enjoy it on account of Grendel's persecutions. Marries Wealhtheow, a Helming lady. Has two sons and a daughter. Is a typical Teutonic king, lavish of gifts. A devoted liegelord, as his lamentations over slain liegemen prove. Also very appreciative of kindness, as is shown by his loving gratitude to Beowulf.--2_9; 2_12; 4_1; 8_10; 15_1; etc., etc. ~Hrothmund~.--Son of Hrothgar.--18_65. ~Hrothulf~.--Probably a son of Halga, younger brother of Hrothgar. Certainly on terms of close intimacy in Hrothgar's palace.--16_26; 18_57. ~Hrunting~.--Unferth's sword, lent to Beowulf.--22_71; 25_9. ~Hugs~.--A race in alliance with the Franks and Frisians at the time of Higelac's fall.--35_41. ~Hun~.--A Frisian warrior, probably general of the Hetwars. Gives Hengest a beautiful sword.--18_19. ~Hunferth~.--Sometimes used for Unferth. ~Hygelac~, ~Higelac~.--King of the Geats, uncle and liegelord of Beowulf, the hero of the poem.--His second wife is the lovely Hygd, daughter of Hæreth. The son of their union is Heardred. Is slain in a war with the Hugs, Franks, and Frisians combined. Beowulf is regent, and afterwards king of the Geats.--4_6; 5_4; 28_34; 29_9; 29_21; 31_56. ~Hygd~.--Wife of Higelac, and daughter of Hæreth. There are some indications that she married Beowulf after she became a widow.--28_37. ~Ingeld~.--Son of the Heathobard king, Froda. Marries Hrothgar's daughter, Freaware, in order to reconcile the two peoples.--29_62; 30_32. ~Ingwins~.--Another name for the Danes.--16_52; 20_69. ~Jutes~.--Name sometimes applied to Finn's people.--17_22; 17_38; 18_17. ~Lafing~.--Name of a famous sword presented to Hengest by Hun.--18_19. ~Merewing~.--A Frankish king, probably engaged in the war in which Higelac was slain.--40_29. ~Nægling~.--Beowulf's sword.--36_76. ~Offa~.--King of the Angles, and son of Garmund. Marries the terrible Thrytho who is so strongly contrasted with Hygd.--28_59; 28_66. ~Ohthere~.--Son of Ongentheow, king of the Swedes. He is father of Eanmund and Eadgils.--40_35; 40_39. ~Onela~.--Brother of Ohthere.--36_15; 40_39. ~Ongentheow~.--King of Sweden, of the Scylfing dynasty. Married, perhaps, Elan, daughter of Healfdene.--35_26; 41_16. ~Oslaf~.--A Dane of Hnæf's party.--18_24. ~Ravenswood~.--The forest near which Hæthcyn was slain.--40_31; 40_41. ~Scefing~.--Applied (1_4) to Scyld, and meaning 'son of Scef.' [xvii] ~Scyld~.--Founder of the dynasty to which Hrothgar, his father, and grandfather belonged. He dies, and his body is put on a vessel, and set adrift. He goes from Daneland just as he had come to it--in a bark.--1_4; 1_19; 1_27. ~Scyldings~.--The descendants of Scyld. They are also called Honor-Scyldings, Victory-Scyldings, War-Scyldings, etc. (See 'Danes,' above.)--2_1; 7_1; 8_1. ~Scylfings~.--A Swedish royal line to which Wiglaf belonged.--36_2. ~Sigemund~.--Son of Wæls, and uncle and father of Fitela. His struggle with a dragon is related in connection with Beowulf's deeds of prowess.--14_38; 14_47. ~Swerting~.--Grandfather of Higelac, and father of Hrethel.--19_11. ~Swedes~.--People of Sweden, ruled by the Scylfings.--35_13. ~Thrytho~.--Wife of Offa, king of the Angles. Known for her fierce and unwomanly disposition. She is introduced as a contrast to the gentle Hygd, queen of Higelac.--28_42; 28_56. ~Unferth~.--Son of Ecglaf, and seemingly a confidential courtier of Hrothgar. Taunts Beowulf for having taken part in the swimming-match. Lends Beowulf his sword when he goes to look for Grendel's mother. In the MS. sometimes written _Hunferth_. 9_1; 18_41. ~Wæls~.--Father of Sigemund.--14_60. ~Wægmunding~.--A name occasionally applied to Wiglaf and Beowulf, and perhaps derived from a common ancestor, Wægmund.--36_6; 38_61. ~Weders~.--Another name for Geats or Wedergeats. ~Wayland~.--A fabulous smith mentioned in this poem and in other old Teutonic literature.--7_83. ~Wendels~.--The people of Wulfgar, Hrothgar's messenger and retainer. (Perhaps = Vandals.)--6_30. ~Wealhtheow~.--Wife of Hrothgar. Her queenly courtesy is well shown in the poem.--10_55. ~Weohstan~, or ~Wihstan~.--A Wægmunding, and father of Wiglaf.--36_1. ~Whale's Ness~.--A prominent promontory, on which Beowulf's mound was built.--38_52; 42_76. ~Wiglaf~.--Son of Wihstan, and related to Beowulf. He remains faithful to Beowulf in the fatal struggle with the fire-drake. Would rather die than leave his lord in his dire emergency.--36_1; 36_3; 36_28. ~Wonred~.--Father of Wulf and Eofor.--41_20; 41_26. ~Wulf~.--Son of Wonred. Engaged in the battle between Higelac's and Ongentheow's forces, and had a hand-to-hand fight with Ongentheow himself. Ongentheow disables him, and is thereupon slain by Eofor.--41_19; 41_29. ~Wulfgar~.--Lord of the Wendels, and retainer of Hrothgar.--6_18; 6_30. ~Wylfings~.--A people to whom belonged Heatholaf, who was slain by Ecgtheow.--8_6; 8_16. ~Yrmenlaf~.--Younger brother of Æschere, the hero whose death grieved Hrothgar so deeply.--21_4. [xviii] LIST OF WORDS AND PHRASES NOT IN GENERAL USE. ATHELING.--Prince, nobleman. BAIRN.--Son, child. BARROW.--Mound, rounded hill, funeral-mound. BATTLE-SARK.--Armor. BEAKER.--Cup, drinking-vessel. BEGEAR.--Prepare. BIGHT.--Bay, sea. BILL.--Sword. BOSS.--Ornamental projection. BRACTEATE.--A round ornament on a necklace. BRAND.--Sword. BURN.--Stream. BURNIE.--Armor. CARLE.--Man, hero. EARL.--Nobleman, any brave man. EKE.--Also. EMPRISE.--Enterprise, undertaking. ERST.--Formerly. ERST-WORTHY.--Worthy for a long time past. FAIN.--Glad. FERRY.--Bear, carry. FEY.--Fated, doomed. FLOAT.--Vessel, ship. FOIN.--To lunge (Shaks.). GLORY OF KINGS.--God. GREWSOME.--Cruel, fierce. HEFT.--Handle, hilt; used by synecdoche for 'sword.' HELM.--Helmet, protector. HENCHMAN.--Retainer, vassal. HIGHT.--Am (was) named. HOLM.--Ocean, curved surface of the sea. HIMSEEMED.--(It) seemed to him. LIEF.--Dear, valued. MERE.--Sea; in compounds, 'mere-ways,' 'mere-currents,' etc. MICKLE.--Much. NATHLESS.--Nevertheless. NAZE.--Edge (nose). NESS.--Edge. NICKER.--Sea-beast. QUIT, QUITE.--Requite. RATHE.--Quickly. REAVE.--Bereave, deprive. SAIL-ROAD.--Sea. SETTLE.--Seat, bench. SKINKER.--One who pours. SOOTHLY.--Truly. SWINGE.--Stroke, blow. TARGE, TARGET.--Shield. THROUGHLY.--Thoroughly. TOLD.--Counted. UNCANNY.--Ill-featured, grizzly. UNNETHE.--Difficult. WAR-SPEED.--Success in war. WEB.--Tapestry (that which is 'woven'). WEEDED.--Clad (cf. widow's weeds). WEEN.--Suppose, imagine. WEIRD.--Fate, Providence. WHILOM.--At times, formerly, often. WIELDER.--Ruler. Often used of God; also in compounds, as 'Wielder of Glory,' 'Wielder of Worship.' WIGHT.--Creature. WOLD.--Plane, extended surface. WOT.--Knows. YOUNKER.--Youth. [1] BEOWULF. I. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SCYLD. {The famous race of Spear-Danes.} Lo! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of, How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle. {Scyld, their mighty king, in honor of whom they are often called Scyldings. He is the great-grandfather of Hrothgar, so prominent in the poem.} Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers 5 From many a people their mead-benches tore. Since first he found him friendless and wretched, The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it, Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained, Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to 10 Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute: An excellent atheling! After was borne him {A son is born to him, who receives the name of Beowulf--a name afterwards made so famous by the hero of the poem.} A son and heir, young in his dwelling, Whom God-Father sent to solace the people. He had marked the misery malice had caused them, 15 [1]That reaved of their rulers they wretched had erstwhile[2] Long been afflicted. The Lord, in requital, Wielder of Glory, with world-honor blessed him. Famed was Beowulf, far spread the glory Of Scyld's great son in the lands of the Danemen. [2] {The ideal Teutonic king lavishes gifts on his vassals.} 20 So the carle that is young, by kindnesses rendered The friends of his father, with fees in abundance Must be able to earn that when age approacheth Eager companions aid him requitingly, When war assaults him serve him as liegemen: 25 By praise-worthy actions must honor be got 'Mong all of the races. At the hour that was fated {Scyld dies at the hour appointed by Fate.} Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping Warlike to wend him; away then they bare him To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades, 30 As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyldings Word-sway wielded, and the well-lovèd land-prince Long did rule them.[3] The ring-stemmèd vessel, Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor, Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing; {By his own request, his body is laid on a vessel and wafted seaward.} 35 The belovèd leader laid they down there, Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel, The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels, Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over, Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever 40 That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle, Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled Many a jewel that with him must travel On the flush of the flood afar on the current. 45 And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly, Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him {He leaves Daneland on the breast of a bark.} Who when first he was born outward did send him Lone on the main, the merest of infants: And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven [3] 50 High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him, Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit, Their mood very mournful. Men are not able {No one knows whither the boat drifted.} Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside,[4] Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied. [1] For the 'Þæt' of verse 15, Sievers suggests 'Þá' (= which). If this be accepted, the sentence 'He had ... afflicted' will read: _He_ (_i.e._ God) _had perceived the malice-caused sorrow which they, lordless, had formerly long endured_. [2] For 'aldor-léase' (15) Gr. suggested 'aldor-ceare': _He perceived their distress, that they formerly had suffered life-sorrow a long while_. [3] A very difficult passage. 'Áhte' (31) has no object. H. supplies 'geweald' from the context; and our translation is based upon this assumption, though it is far from satisfactory. Kl. suggests 'lændagas' for 'lange': _And the beloved land-prince enjoyed (had) his transitory days (i.e. lived)_. B. suggests a dislocation; but this is a dangerous doctrine, pushed rather far by that eminent scholar. [4] The reading of the H.-So. text has been quite closely followed; but some eminent scholars read 'séle-rædenne' for 'sele-rædende.' If that be adopted, the passage will read: _Men cannot tell us, indeed, the order of Fate, etc._ 'Sele-rædende' has two things to support it: (1) v. 1347; (2) it affords a parallel to 'men' in v. 50. II. SCYLD'S SUCCESSORS.--HROTHGAR'S GREAT MEAD-HALL. {Beowulf succeeds his father Scyld} In the boroughs then Beowulf, bairn of the Scyldings, Belovèd land-prince, for long-lasting season Was famed mid the folk (his father departed, The prince from his dwelling), till afterward sprang 5 Great-minded Healfdene; the Danes in his lifetime He graciously governed, grim-mooded, agèd. {Healfdene's birth.} Four bairns of his body born in succession Woke in the world, war-troopers' leader Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga the good; 10 Heard I that Elan was Ongentheow's consort, {He has three sons--one of them, Hrothgar--and a daughter named Elan. Hrothgar becomes a mighty king.} The well-beloved bedmate of the War-Scylfing leader. Then glory in battle to Hrothgar was given, Waxing of war-fame, that willingly kinsmen Obeyed his bidding, till the boys grew to manhood, 15 A numerous band. It burned in his spirit To urge his folk to found a great building, A mead-hall grander than men of the era {He is eager to build a great hall in which he may feast his retainers} Ever had heard of, and in it to share With young and old all of the blessings 20 The Lord had allowed him, save life and retainers. Then the work I find afar was assigned [4] To many races in middle-earth's regions, To adorn the great folk-hall. In due time it happened Early 'mong men, that 'twas finished entirely, 25 The greatest of hall-buildings; Heorot he named it {The hall is completed, and is called Heort, or Heorot.} Who wide-reaching word-sway wielded 'mong earlmen. His promise he brake not, rings he lavished, Treasure at banquet. Towered the hall up High and horn-crested, huge between antlers: 30 It battle-waves bided, the blasting fire-demon; Ere long then from hottest hatred must sword-wrath Arise for a woman's husband and father. Then the mighty war-spirit[1] endured for a season, {The Monster Grendel is madly envious of the Danemen's joy.} Bore it bitterly, he who bided in darkness, 35 That light-hearted laughter loud in the building Greeted him daily; there was dulcet harp-music, Clear song of the singer. He said that was able {[The course of the story is interrupted by a short reference to some old account of the creation.]} To tell from of old earthmen's beginnings, That Father Almighty earth had created, 40 The winsome wold that the water encircleth, Set exultingly the sun's and the moon's beams To lavish their lustre on land-folk and races, And earth He embellished in all her regions With limbs and leaves; life He bestowed too 45 On all the kindreds that live under heaven. {The glee of the warriors is overcast by a horrible dread.} So blessed with abundance, brimming with joyance, The warriors abided, till a certain one gan to Dog them with deeds of direfullest malice, A foe in the hall-building: this horrible stranger[2] 50 Was Grendel entitled, the march-stepper famous Who[3] dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness; The wan-mooded being abode for a season [5] In the land of the giants, when the Lord and Creator Had banned him and branded. For that bitter murder, 55 The killing of Abel, all-ruling Father {Cain is referred to as a progenitor of Grendel, and of monsters in general.} The kindred of Cain crushed with His vengeance; In the feud He rejoiced not, but far away drove him From kindred and kind, that crime to atone for, Meter of Justice. Thence ill-favored creatures, 60 Elves and giants, monsters of ocean, Came into being, and the giants that longtime Grappled with God; He gave them requital. [1] R. and t. B. prefer 'ellor-gæst' to 'ellen-gæst' (86): _Then the stranger from afar endured, etc._ [2] Some authorities would translate '_demon_' instead of '_stranger_.' [3] Some authorities arrange differently, and render: _Who dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness, the land of the giant-race._ III. GRENDEL THE MURDERER. {Grendel attacks the sleeping heroes} When the sun was sunken, he set out to visit The lofty hall-building, how the Ring-Danes had used it For beds and benches when the banquet was over. Then he found there reposing many a noble 5 Asleep after supper; sorrow the heroes,[1] Misery knew not. The monster of evil Greedy and cruel tarried but little, {He drags off thirty of them, and devours them} Fell and frantic, and forced from their slumbers Thirty of thanemen; thence he departed 10 Leaping and laughing, his lair to return to, With surfeit of slaughter sallying homeward. In the dusk of the dawning, as the day was just breaking, Was Grendel's prowess revealed to the warriors: {A cry of agony goes up, when Grendel's horrible deed is fully realized.} Then, his meal-taking finished, a moan was uplifted, 15 Morning-cry mighty. The man-ruler famous, The long-worthy atheling, sat very woful, Suffered great sorrow, sighed for his liegemen, [6] When they had seen the track of the hateful pursuer, The spirit accursèd: too crushing that sorrow, {The monster returns the next night.} 20 Too loathsome and lasting. Not longer he tarried, But one night after continued his slaughter Shameless and shocking, shrinking but little From malice and murder; they mastered him fully. He was easy to find then who otherwhere looked for 25 A pleasanter place of repose in the lodges, A bed in the bowers. Then was brought to his notice Told him truly by token apparent The hall-thane's hatred: he held himself after Further and faster who the foeman did baffle. 30 [2]So ruled he and strongly strove against justice Lone against all men, till empty uptowered {King Hrothgar's agony and suspense last twelve years.} The choicest of houses. Long was the season: Twelve-winters' time torture suffered The friend of the Scyldings, every affliction, 35 Endless agony; hence it after[3] became Certainly known to the children of men Sadly in measures, that long against Hrothgar Grendel struggled:--his grudges he cherished, Murderous malice, many a winter, 40 Strife unremitting, and peacefully wished he [4]Life-woe to lift from no liegeman at all of The men of the Dane-folk, for money to settle, No counsellor needed count for a moment [7] On handsome amends at the hands of the murderer; {Grendel is unremitting in his persecutions.} 45 The monster of evil fiercely did harass, The ill-planning death-shade, both elder and younger, Trapping and tricking them. He trod every night then The mist-covered moor-fens; men do not know where Witches and wizards wander and ramble. 50 So the foe of mankind many of evils Grievous injuries, often accomplished, Horrible hermit; Heort he frequented, Gem-bedecked palace, when night-shades had fallen {God is against the monster.} (Since God did oppose him, not the throne could he touch,[5] 55 The light-flashing jewel, love of Him knew not). 'Twas a fearful affliction to the friend of the Scyldings {The king and his council deliberate in vain.} Soul-crushing sorrow. Not seldom in private Sat the king in his council; conference held they What the braves should determine 'gainst terrors unlooked for. {They invoke the aid of their gods.} 60 At the shrines of their idols often they promised Gifts and offerings, earnestly prayed they The devil from hell would help them to lighten Their people's oppression. Such practice they used then, Hope of the heathen; hell they remembered 65 In innermost spirit, God they knew not, {The true God they do not know.} Judge of their actions, All-wielding Ruler, No praise could they give the Guardian of Heaven, The Wielder of Glory. Woe will be his who Through furious hatred his spirit shall drive to 70 The clutch of the fire, no comfort shall look for, Wax no wiser; well for the man who, Living his life-days, his Lord may face And find defence in his Father's embrace! [1] The translation is based on 'weras,' adopted by H.-So.--K. and Th. read 'wera' and, arranging differently, render 119(2)-120: _They knew not sorrow, the wretchedness of man, aught of misfortune_.--For 'unhælo' (120) R. suggests 'unfælo': _The uncanny creature, greedy and cruel, etc_. [2] S. rearranges and translates: _So he ruled and struggled unjustly, one against all, till the noblest of buildings stood useless (it was a long while) twelve years' time: the friend of the Scyldings suffered distress, every woe, great sorrows, etc_. [3] For 'syððan,' B. suggests 'sárcwidum': _Hence in mournful words it became well known, etc_. Various other words beginning with 's' have been conjectured. [4] The H.-So. glossary is very inconsistent in referring to this passage.--'Sibbe' (154), which H.-So. regards as an instr., B. takes as accus., obj. of 'wolde.' Putting a comma after Deniga, he renders: _He did not desire peace with any of the Danes, nor did he wish to remove their life-woe, nor to settle for money_. [5] Of this difficult passage the following interpretations among others are given: (1) Though Grendel has frequented Heorot as a demon, he could not become ruler of the Danes, on account of his hostility to God. (2) Hrothgar was much grieved that Grendel had not appeared before his throne to receive presents. (3) He was not permitted to devastate the hall, on account of the Creator; _i.e._ God wished to make his visit fatal to him.--Ne ... wisse (169) W. renders: _Nor had he any desire to do so_; 'his' being obj. gen. = danach. [8] IV. BEOWULF GOES TO HROTHGAR'S ASSISTANCE. {Hrothgar sees no way of escape from the persecutions of Grendel.} So Healfdene's kinsman constantly mused on His long-lasting sorrow; the battle-thane clever Was not anywise able evils to 'scape from: Too crushing the sorrow that came to the people, 5 Loathsome and lasting the life-grinding torture, {Beowulf, the Geat, hero of the poem, hears of Hrothgar's sorrow, and resolves to go to his assistance.} Greatest of night-woes. So Higelac's liegeman, Good amid Geatmen, of Grendel's achievements Heard in his home:[1] of heroes then living He was stoutest and strongest, sturdy and noble. 10 He bade them prepare him a bark that was trusty; He said he the war-king would seek o'er the ocean, The folk-leader noble, since he needed retainers. For the perilous project prudent companions Chided him little, though loving him dearly; 15 They egged the brave atheling, augured him glory. {With fourteen carefully chosen companions, he sets out for Dane-land.} The excellent knight from the folk of the Geatmen Had liegemen selected, likest to prove them Trustworthy warriors; with fourteen companions The vessel he looked for; a liegeman then showed them, 20 A sea-crafty man, the bounds of the country. Fast the days fleeted; the float was a-water, The craft by the cliff. Clomb to the prow then Well-equipped warriors: the wave-currents twisted The sea on the sand; soldiers then carried 25 On the breast of the vessel bright-shining jewels, Handsome war-armor; heroes outshoved then, Warmen the wood-ship, on its wished-for adventure. [9] {The vessel sails like a bird} The foamy-necked floater fanned by the breeze, Likest a bird, glided the waters, {In twenty four hours they reach the shores of Hrothgar's dominions} 30 Till twenty and four hours thereafter The twist-stemmed vessel had traveled such distance That the sailing-men saw the sloping embankments, The sea cliffs gleaming, precipitous mountains, Nesses enormous: they were nearing the limits 35 At the end of the ocean.[2] Up thence quickly The men of the Weders clomb to the mainland, Fastened their vessel (battle weeds rattled, War burnies clattered), the Wielder they thanked That the ways o'er the waters had waxen so gentle. {They are hailed by the Danish coast guard} 40 Then well from the cliff edge the guard of the Scyldings Who the sea-cliffs should see to, saw o'er the gangway Brave ones bearing beauteous targets, Armor all ready, anxiously thought he, Musing and wondering what men were approaching. 45 High on his horse then Hrothgar's retainer Turned him to coastward, mightily brandished His lance in his hands, questioned with boldness. {His challenge} "Who are ye men here, mail-covered warriors Clad in your corslets, come thus a-driving 50 A high riding ship o'er the shoals of the waters, [3]And hither 'neath helmets have hied o'er the ocean? [10] I have been strand-guard, standing as warden, Lest enemies ever anywise ravage Danish dominions with army of war-ships. 55 More boldly never have warriors ventured Hither to come; of kinsmen's approval, Word-leave of warriors, I ween that ye surely {He is struck by Beowulf's appearance.} Nothing have known. Never a greater one Of earls o'er the earth have _I_ had a sight of 60 Than is one of your number, a hero in armor; No low-ranking fellow[4] adorned with his weapons, But launching them little, unless looks are deceiving, And striking appearance. Ere ye pass on your journey As treacherous spies to the land of the Scyldings 65 And farther fare, I fully must know now What race ye belong to. Ye far-away dwellers, Sea-faring sailors, my simple opinion Hear ye and hearken: haste is most fitting Plainly to tell me what place ye are come from." [1] 'From hám' (194) is much disputed. One rendering is: _Beowulf, being away from home, heard of Hrothgar's troubles, etc_. Another, that adopted by S. and endorsed in the H.-So. notes, is: _B. heard from his neighborhood (neighbors),_ i.e. _in his home, etc_. A third is: _B., being at home, heard this as occurring away from home_. The H.-So. glossary and notes conflict. [2] 'Eoletes' (224) is marked with a (?) by H.-So.; our rendering simply follows his conjecture.--Other conjectures as to 'eolet' are: (1) _voyage_, (2) _toil_, _labor_, (3) _hasty journey_. [3] The lacuna of the MS at this point has been supplied by various conjectures. The reading adopted by H.-So. has been rendered in the above translation. W., like H.-So., makes 'ic' the beginning of a new sentence, but, for 'helmas bæron,' he reads 'hringed stefnan.' This has the advantage of giving a parallel to 'brontne ceol' instead of a kenning for 'go.'--B puts the (?) after 'holmas', and begins a new sentence at the middle of the line. Translate: _What warriors are ye, clad in armor, who have thus come bringing the foaming vessel over the water way, hither over the seas? For some time on the wall I have been coast guard, etc_. S. endorses most of what B. says, but leaves out 'on the wall' in the last sentence. If W.'s 'hringed stefnan' be accepted, change line 51 above to, _A ring-stemmed vessel hither o'ersea_. [4] 'Seld-guma' (249) is variously rendered: (1) _housecarle_; (2) _home-stayer_; (3) _common man_. Dr. H. Wood suggests _a man-at-arms in another's house_. V. THE GEATS REACH HEOROT. {Beowulf courteously replies.} The chief of the strangers rendered him answer, War-troopers' leader, and word-treasure opened: {We are Geats.} "We are sprung from the lineage of the people of Geatland, And Higelac's hearth-friends. To heroes unnumbered {My father Ecgtheow was well-known in his day.} 5 My father was known, a noble head-warrior Ecgtheow titled; many a winter He lived with the people, ere he passed on his journey, Old from his dwelling; each of the counsellors Widely mid world-folk well remembers him. {Our intentions towards King Hrothgar are of the kindest.} 10 We, kindly of spirit, the lord of thy people, The son of King Healfdene, have come here to visit, [11] Folk-troop's defender: be free in thy counsels! To the noble one bear we a weighty commission, The helm of the Danemen; we shall hide, I ween, {Is it true that a monster is slaying Danish heroes?} 15 Naught of our message. Thou know'st if it happen, As we soothly heard say, that some savage despoiler, Some hidden pursuer, on nights that are murky By deeds very direful 'mid the Danemen exhibits Hatred unheard of, horrid destruction 20 And the falling of dead. From feelings least selfish {I can help your king to free himself from this horrible creature.} I am able to render counsel to Hrothgar, How he, wise and worthy, may worst the destroyer, If the anguish of sorrow should ever be lessened,[1] Comfort come to him, and care-waves grow cooler, 25 Or ever hereafter he agony suffer And troublous distress, while towereth upward The handsomest of houses high on the summit." {The coast-guard reminds Beowulf that it is easier to say than to do.} Bestriding his stallion, the strand-watchman answered, The doughty retainer: "The difference surely 30 'Twixt words and works, the warlike shield-bearer Who judgeth wisely well shall determine. This band, I hear, beareth no malice {I am satisfied of your good intentions, and shall lead you to the palace.} To the prince of the Scyldings. Pass ye then onward With weapons and armor. I shall lead you in person; 35 To my war-trusty vassals command I shall issue To keep from all injury your excellent vessel, {Your boat shall be well cared for during your stay here.} Your fresh-tarred craft, 'gainst every opposer Close by the sea-shore, till the curved-neckèd bark shall Waft back again the well-beloved hero 40 O'er the way of the water to Weder dominions. {He again compliments Beowulf.} To warrior so great 'twill be granted sure In the storm of strife to stand secure." Onward they fared then (the vessel lay quiet, The broad-bosomed bark was bound by its cable, [12] 45 Firmly at anchor); the boar-signs glistened[2] Bright on the visors vivid with gilding, Blaze-hardened, brilliant; the boar acted warden. The heroes hastened, hurried the liegemen, {The land is perhaps rolling.} Descended together, till they saw the great palace, 50 The well-fashioned wassail-hall wondrous and gleaming: {Heorot flashes on their view.} 'Mid world-folk and kindreds that was widest reputed Of halls under heaven which the hero abode in; Its lustre enlightened lands without number. Then the battle-brave hero showed them the glittering 55 Court of the bold ones, that they easily thither Might fare on their journey; the aforementioned warrior Turning his courser, quoth as he left them: {The coast-guard, having discharged his duty, bids them God-speed.} "'Tis time I were faring; Father Almighty Grant you His grace, and give you to journey 60 Safe on your mission! To the sea I will get me 'Gainst hostile warriors as warden to stand." [1] 'Edwendan' (280) B. takes to be the subs. 'edwenden' (cf. 1775); and 'bisigu' he takes as gen. sing., limiting 'edwenden': _If reparation for sorrows is ever to come_. This is supported by t.B. [2] Combining the emendations of B. and t.B., we may read: _The boar-images glistened ... brilliant, protected the life of the war-mooded man_. They read 'ferh-wearde' (305) and 'gúðmódgum men' (306). VI. BEOWULF INTRODUCES HIMSELF AT THE PALACE. The highway glistened with many-hued pebble, A by-path led the liegemen together. [1]Firm and hand-locked the war-burnie glistened, The ring-sword radiant rang 'mid the armor 5 As the party was approaching the palace together {They set their arms and armor against the wall.} In warlike equipments. 'Gainst the wall of the building Their wide-fashioned war-shields they weary did set then, [13] Battle-shields sturdy; benchward they turned then; Their battle-sarks rattled, the gear of the heroes; 10 The lances stood up then, all in a cluster, The arms of the seamen, ashen-shafts mounted With edges of iron: the armor-clad troopers {A Danish hero asks them whence and why they are come.} Were decked with weapons. Then a proud-mooded hero Asked of the champions questions of lineage: 15 "From what borders bear ye your battle-shields plated, Gilded and gleaming, your gray-colored burnies, Helmets with visors and heap of war-lances?-- To Hrothgar the king I am servant and liegeman. 'Mong folk from far-lands found I have never {He expresses no little admiration for the strangers.} 20 Men so many of mien more courageous. I ween that from valor, nowise as outlaws, But from greatness of soul ye sought for King Hrothgar." {Beowulf replies.} Then the strength-famous earlman answer rendered, The proud-mooded Wederchief replied to his question, {We are Higelac's table-companions, and bear an important commission to your prince.} 25 Hardy 'neath helmet: "Higelac's mates are we; Beowulf hight I. To the bairn of Healfdene, The famous folk-leader, I freely will tell To thy prince my commission, if pleasantly hearing He'll grant we may greet him so gracious to all men." 30 Wulfgar replied then (he was prince of the Wendels, His boldness of spirit was known unto many, His prowess and prudence): "The prince of the Scyldings, {Wulfgar, the thane, says that he will go and ask Hrothgar whether he will see the strangers.} The friend-lord of Danemen, I will ask of thy journey, The giver of rings, as thou urgest me do it, 35 The folk-chief famous, and inform thee early What answer the good one mindeth to render me." He turned then hurriedly where Hrothgar was sitting, [2]Old and hoary, his earlmen attending him; The strength-famous went till he stood at the shoulder 40 Of the lord of the Danemen, of courteous thanemen The custom he minded. Wulfgar addressed then His friendly liegelord: "Folk of the Geatmen [14] {He thereupon urges his liegelord to receive the visitors courteously.} O'er the way of the waters are wafted hither, Faring from far-lands: the foremost in rank 45 The battle-champions Beowulf title. They make this petition: with thee, O my chieftain, To be granted a conference; O gracious King Hrothgar, Friendly answer refuse not to give them! {Hrothgar, too, is struck with Beowulf's appearance.} In war-trappings weeded worthy they seem 50 Of earls to be honored; sure the atheling is doughty Who headed the heroes hitherward coming." [1] Instead of the punctuation given by H.-So, S. proposed to insert a comma after 'scír' (322), and to take 'hring-íren' as meaning 'ring-mail' and as parallel with 'gúð-byrne.' The passage would then read: _The firm and hand-locked war-burnie shone, bright ring-mail, rang 'mid the armor, etc_. [2] Gr. and others translate 'unhár' by 'bald'; _old and bald_. VII. HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF. {Hrothgar remembers Beowulf as a youth, and also remembers his father.} Hrothgar answered, helm of the Scyldings: "I remember this man as the merest of striplings. His father long dead now was Ecgtheow titled, Him Hrethel the Geatman granted at home his 5 One only daughter; his battle-brave son Is come but now, sought a trustworthy friend. Seafaring sailors asserted it then, {Beowulf is reported to have the strength of thirty men.} Who valuable gift-gems of the Geatmen[1] carried As peace-offering thither, that he thirty men's grapple 10 Has in his hand, the hero-in-battle. {God hath sent him to our rescue.} The holy Creator usward sent him, To West-Dane warriors, I ween, for to render 'Gainst Grendel's grimness gracious assistance: I shall give to the good one gift-gems for courage. 15 Hasten to bid them hither to speed them,[2] To see assembled this circle of kinsmen; Tell them expressly they're welcome in sooth to The men of the Danes." To the door of the building [15] {Wulfgar invites the strangers in.} Wulfgar went then, this word-message shouted: 20 "My victorious liegelord bade me to tell you, The East-Danes' atheling, that your origin knows he, And o'er wave-billows wafted ye welcome are hither, Valiant of spirit. Ye straightway may enter Clad in corslets, cased in your helmets, 25 To see King Hrothgar. Here let your battle-boards, Wood-spears and war-shafts, await your conferring." The mighty one rose then, with many a liegeman, An excellent thane-group; some there did await them, And as bid of the brave one the battle-gear guarded. 30 Together they hied them, while the hero did guide them, 'Neath Heorot's roof; the high-minded went then Sturdy 'neath helmet till he stood in the building. Beowulf spake (his burnie did glisten, His armor seamed over by the art of the craftsman): {Beowulf salutes Hrothgar, and then proceeds to boast of his youthful achievements.} 35 "Hail thou, Hrothgar! I am Higelac's kinsman And vassal forsooth; many a wonder I dared as a stripling. The doings of Grendel, In far-off fatherland I fully did know of: Sea-farers tell us, this hall-building standeth, 40 Excellent edifice, empty and useless To all the earlmen after evenlight's glimmer 'Neath heaven's bright hues hath hidden its glory. This my earls then urged me, the most excellent of them, Carles very clever, to come and assist thee, 45 Folk-leader Hrothgar; fully they knew of {His fight with the nickers.} The strength of my body. Themselves they beheld me When I came from the contest, when covered with gore Foes I escaped from, where five[3] I had bound, [16] The giant-race wasted, in the waters destroying 50 The nickers by night, bore numberless sorrows, The Weders avenged (woes had they suffered) Enemies ravaged; alone now with Grendel {He intends to fight Grendel unaided.} I shall manage the matter, with the monster of evil, The giant, decide it. Thee I would therefore 55 Beg of thy bounty, Bright-Danish chieftain, Lord of the Scyldings, this single petition: Not to refuse me, defender of warriors, Friend-lord of folks, so far have I sought thee, That _I_ may unaided, my earlmen assisting me, 60 This brave-mooded war-band, purify Heorot. I have heard on inquiry, the horrible creature {Since the monster uses no weapons,} From veriest rashness recks not for weapons; I this do scorn then, so be Higelac gracious, My liegelord belovèd, lenient of spirit, 65 To bear a blade or a broad-fashioned target, A shield to the onset; only with hand-grip {I, too, shall disdain to use any.} The foe I must grapple, fight for my life then, Foeman with foeman; he fain must rely on The doom of the Lord whom death layeth hold of. {Should he crush me, he will eat my companions as he has eaten thy thanes.} 70 I ween he will wish, if he win in the struggle, To eat in the war-hall earls of the Geat-folk, Boldly to swallow[4] them, as of yore he did often The best of the Hrethmen! Thou needest not trouble A head-watch to give me;[5] he will have me dripping [17] {In case of my defeat, thou wilt not have the trouble of burying me.} 75 And dreary with gore, if death overtake me,[6] Will bear me off bleeding, biting and mouthing me, The hermit will eat me, heedless of pity, Marking the moor-fens; no more wilt thou need then {Should I fall, send my armor to my lord, King Higelac.} Find me my food.[7] If I fall in the battle, 80 Send to Higelac the armor that serveth To shield my bosom, the best of equipments, Richest of ring-mails; 'tis the relic of Hrethla, {Weird is supreme} The work of Wayland. Goes Weird as she must go!" [1] Some render 'gif-sceattas' by 'tribute.'--'Géata' B. and Th. emended to 'Géatum.' If this be accepted, change '_of_ the Geatmen' to '_to_ the Geatmen.' [2] If t.B.'s emendation of vv. 386, 387 be accepted, the two lines, 'Hasten ... kinsmen' will read: _Hasten thou, bid the throng of kinsmen go into the hall together_. [3] For 420 (_b_) and 421 (_a_), B. suggests: Þær ic (on) fífelgeban ýðde eotena cyn = _where I in the ocean destroyed the eoten-race_.--t.B. accepts B.'s "brilliant" 'fífelgeban,' omits 'on,' emends 'cyn' to 'hám,' arranging: Þær ic fífelgeban ýðde, eotena hám = _where I desolated the ocean, the home of the eotens_.--This would be better but for changing 'cyn' to 'hám.'--I suggest: Þær ic fífelgeband (cf. nhd. Bande) ýðde, eotena cyn = _where I conquered the monster band, the race of the eotens_. This makes no change except to read '_fífel_' for '_fífe_.' [4] 'Unforhte' (444) is much disputed.--H.-So. wavers between adj. and adv. Gr. and B. take it as an adv. modifying _etan: Will eat the Geats fearlessly_.--Kl. considers this reading absurd, and proposes 'anforhte' = timid.--Understanding 'unforhte' as an adj. has this advantage, viz. that it gives a parallel to 'Geátena leóde': but to take it as an adv. is more natural. Furthermore, to call the Geats 'brave' might, at this point, seem like an implied thrust at the Danes, so long helpless; while to call his own men 'timid' would be befouling his own nest. [5] For 'head-watch,' cf. H.-So. notes and cf. v. 2910.--Th. translates: _Thou wilt not need my head to hide_ (i.e., thou wilt have no occasion to bury me, as Grendel will devour me whole).--Simrock imagines a kind of dead-watch.--Dr. H. Wood suggests: _Thou wilt not have to bury so much as my head_ (for Grendel will be a thorough undertaker),--grim humor. [6] S. proposes a colon after 'nimeð' (l. 447). This would make no essential change in the translation. [7] Owing to the vagueness of 'feorme' (451), this passage is variously translated. In our translation, H.-So.'s glossary has been quite closely followed. This agrees substantially with B.'s translation (P. and B. XII. 87). R. translates: _Thou needst not take care longer as to the consumption of my dead body._ 'Líc' is also a crux here, as it may mean living body or dead body. VIII. HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF.--_Continued_. {Hrothgar responds.} Hrothgar discoursed, helm of the Scyldings: "To defend our folk and to furnish assistance,[1] Thou soughtest us hither, good friend Beowulf. {Reminiscences of Beowulf's father, Ecgtheow.} The fiercest of feuds thy father engaged in, 5 Heatholaf killed he in hand-to-hand conflict 'Mid Wilfingish warriors; then the Wederish people For fear of a feud were forced to disown him. Thence flying he fled to the folk of the South-Danes, [18] The race of the Scyldings, o'er the roll of the waters; 10 I had lately begun then to govern the Danemen, The hoard-seat of heroes held in my youth, Rich in its jewels: dead was Heregar, My kinsman and elder had earth-joys forsaken, Healfdene his bairn. He was better than I am! 15 That feud thereafter for a fee I compounded; O'er the weltering waters to the Wilfings I sent Ornaments old; oaths did he swear me. {Hrothgar recounts to Beowulf the horrors of Grendel's persecutions.} It pains me in spirit to any to tell it, What grief in Heorot Grendel hath caused me, 20 What horror unlooked-for, by hatred unceasing. Waned is my war-band, wasted my hall-troop; Weird hath offcast them to the clutches of Grendel. God can easily hinder the scather From deeds so direful. Oft drunken with beer {My thanes have made many boasts, but have not executed them.} 25 O'er the ale-vessel promised warriors in armor They would willingly wait on the wassailing-benches A grapple with Grendel, with grimmest of edges. Then this mead-hall at morning with murder was reeking, The building was bloody at breaking of daylight, 30 The bench-deals all flooded, dripping and bloodied, The folk-hall was gory: I had fewer retainers, Dear-beloved warriors, whom death had laid hold of. {Sit down to the feast, and give us comfort.} Sit at the feast now, thy intents unto heroes,[2] Thy victor-fame show, as thy spirit doth urge thee!" {A bench is made ready for Beowulf and his party.} 35 For the men of the Geats then together assembled, In the beer-hall blithesome a bench was made ready; There warlike in spirit they went to be seated, Proud and exultant. A liegeman did service, [19] Who a beaker embellished bore with decorum, {The gleeman sings} 40 And gleaming-drink poured. The gleeman sang whilom {The heroes all rejoice together.} Hearty in Heorot; there was heroes' rejoicing, A numerous war-band of Weders and Danemen. [1] B. and S. reject the reading given in H.-So., and suggested by Grtvg. B. suggests for 457-458: wáere-ryhtum Þú, wine mín Béowulf, and for ár-stafum úsic sóhtest. This means: _From the obligations of clientage, my friend Beowulf, and for assistance thou hast sought us_.--This gives coherence to Hrothgar's opening remarks in VIII., and also introduces a new motive for Beowulf's coming to Hrothgar's aid. [2] _Sit now at the feast, and disclose thy purposes to the victorious heroes, as thy spirit urges_.--Kl. reaches the above translation by erasing the comma after 'meoto' and reading 'sige-hrèðsecgum.'--There are other and bolder emendations and suggestions. Of these the boldest is to regard 'meoto' as a verb (imperative), and read 'on sæl': _Think upon gayety, etc_.--All the renderings are unsatisfactory, the one given in our translation involving a zeugma. IX. UNFERTH TAUNTS BEOWULF. {Unferth, a thane of Hrothgar, is jealous of Beowulf, and undertakes to twit him.} Unferth spoke up, Ecglaf his son, Who sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings, Opened the jousting (the journey[1] of Beowulf, Sea-farer doughty, gave sorrow to Unferth 5 And greatest chagrin, too, for granted he never That any man else on earth should attain to, Gain under heaven, more glory than he): {Did you take part in a swimming-match with Breca?} "Art thou that Beowulf with Breca did struggle, On the wide sea-currents at swimming contended, 10 Where to humor your pride the ocean ye tried, {'Twas mere folly that actuated you both to risk your lives on the ocean.} From vainest vaunting adventured your bodies In care of the waters? And no one was able Nor lief nor loth one, in the least to dissuade you Your difficult voyage; then ye ventured a-swimming, 15 Where your arms outstretching the streams ye did cover, The mere-ways measured, mixing and stirring them, Glided the ocean; angry the waves were, With the weltering of winter. In the water's possession, Ye toiled for a seven-night; he at swimming outdid thee, 20 In strength excelled thee. Then early at morning On the Heathoremes' shore the holm-currents tossed him, Sought he thenceward the home of his fathers, Beloved of his liegemen, the land of the Brondings, The peace-castle pleasant, where a people he wielded, [20] 25 Had borough and jewels. The pledge that he made thee {Breca outdid you entirely.} The son of Beanstan hath soothly accomplished. Then I ween thou wilt find thee less fortunate issue, {Much more will Grendel outdo you, if you vie with him in prowess.} Though ever triumphant in onset of battle, A grim grappling, if Grendel thou darest 30 For the space of a night near-by to wait for!" {Beowulf retaliates.} Beowulf answered, offspring of Ecgtheow: "My good friend Unferth, sure freely and wildly, {O friend Unferth, you are fuddled with beer, and cannot talk coherently.} Thou fuddled with beer of Breca hast spoken, Hast told of his journey! A fact I allege it, 35 That greater strength in the waters I had then, Ills in the ocean, than any man else had. We made agreement as the merest of striplings Promised each other (both of us then were {We simply kept an engagement made in early life.} Younkers in years) that we yet would adventure 40 Out on the ocean; it all we accomplished. While swimming the sea-floods, sword-blade unscabbarded Boldly we brandished, our bodies expected To shield from the sharks. He sure was unable {He _could_ not excel me, and I _would_ not excel him.} To swim on the waters further than I could, 45 More swift on the waves, nor _would_ I from him go. Then we two companions stayed in the ocean {After five days the currents separated us.} Five nights together, till the currents did part us, The weltering waters, weathers the bleakest, And nethermost night, and the north-wind whistled 50 Fierce in our faces; fell were the billows. The mere fishes' mood was mightily ruffled: And there against foemen my firm-knotted corslet, Hand-jointed, hardy, help did afford me; My battle-sark braided, brilliantly gilded, {A horrible sea-beast attacked me, but I slew him.} 55 Lay on my bosom. To the bottom then dragged me, A hateful fiend-scather, seized me and held me, Grim in his grapple: 'twas granted me, nathless, To pierce the monster with the point of my weapon, My obedient blade; battle offcarried 60 The mighty mere-creature by means of my hand-blow. [1] It has been plausibly suggested that 'síð' (in 501 and in 353) means 'arrival.' If so, translate the bracket: _(the arrival of Beowulf, the brave seafarer, was a source of great chagrin to Unferth, etc.)_. [21] X. BEOWULF SILENCES UNFERTH.--GLEE IS HIGH. "So ill-meaning enemies often did cause me Sorrow the sorest. I served them, in quittance, {My dear sword always served me faithfully.} With my dear-lovèd sword, as in sooth it was fitting; They missed the pleasure of feasting abundantly, 5 Ill-doers evil, of eating my body, Of surrounding the banquet deep in the ocean; But wounded with edges early at morning They were stretched a-high on the strand of the ocean, {I put a stop to the outrages of the sea-monsters.} Put to sleep with the sword, that sea-going travelers 10 No longer thereafter were hindered from sailing The foam-dashing currents. Came a light from the east, God's beautiful beacon; the billows subsided, That well I could see the nesses projecting, {Fortune helps the brave earl.} The blustering crags. Weird often saveth 15 The undoomed hero if doughty his valor! But me did it fortune[1] to fell with my weapon Nine of the nickers. Of night-struggle harder 'Neath dome of the heaven heard I but rarely, Nor of wight more woful in the waves of the ocean; 20 Yet I 'scaped with my life the grip of the monsters, {After that escape I drifted to Finland.} Weary from travel. Then the waters bare me To the land of the Finns, the flood with the current, {I have never heard of your doing any such bold deeds.} The weltering waves. Not a word hath been told me Of deeds so daring done by thee, Unferth, 25 And of sword-terror none; never hath Breca At the play of the battle, nor either of you two, Feat so fearless performèd with weapons Glinting and gleaming . . . . . . . . . . . . [22] . . . . . . . . . . . . I utter no boasting; {You are a slayer of brothers, and will suffer damnation, wise as you may be.} 30 Though with cold-blooded cruelty thou killedst thy brothers, Thy nearest of kin; thou needs must in hell get Direful damnation, though doughty thy wisdom. I tell thee in earnest, offspring of Ecglaf, Never had Grendel such numberless horrors, 35 The direful demon, done to thy liegelord, Harrying in Heorot, if thy heart were as sturdy, {Had your acts been as brave as your words, Grendel had not ravaged your land so long.} Thy mood as ferocious as thou dost describe them. He hath found out fully that the fierce-burning hatred, The edge-battle eager, of all of your kindred, 40 Of the Victory-Scyldings, need little dismay him: Oaths he exacteth, not any he spares {The monster is not afraid of the Danes,} Of the folk of the Danemen, but fighteth with pleasure, Killeth and feasteth, no contest expecteth {but he will soon learn to dread the Geats.} From Spear-Danish people. But the prowess and valor 45 Of the earls of the Geatmen early shall venture To give him a grapple. He shall go who is able Bravely to banquet, when the bright-light of morning {On the second day, any warrior may go unmolested to the mead-banquet.} Which the second day bringeth, the sun in its ether-robes, O'er children of men shines from the southward!" 50 Then the gray-haired, war-famed giver of treasure {Hrothgar's spirits are revived.} Was blithesome and joyous, the Bright-Danish ruler Expected assistance; the people's protector {The old king trusts Beowulf. The heroes are joyful.} Heard from Beowulf his bold resolution. There was laughter of heroes; loud was the clatter, 55 The words were winsome. Wealhtheow advanced then, {Queen Wealhtheow plays the hostess.} Consort of Hrothgar, of courtesy mindful, Gold-decked saluted the men in the building, And the freeborn woman the beaker presented {She offers the cup to her husband first.} To the lord of the kingdom, first of the East-Danes, 60 Bade him be blithesome when beer was a-flowing, Lief to his liegemen; he lustily tasted Of banquet and beaker, battle-famed ruler. The Helmingish lady then graciously circled 'Mid all the liegemen lesser and greater: [23] {She gives presents to the heroes.} 65 Treasure-cups tendered, till time was afforded That the decorous-mooded, diademed folk-queen {Then she offers the cup to Beowulf, thanking God that aid has come.} Might bear to Beowulf the bumper o'errunning; She greeted the Geat-prince, God she did thank, Most wise in her words, that her wish was accomplished, 70 That in any of earlmen she ever should look for Solace in sorrow. He accepted the beaker, Battle-bold warrior, at Wealhtheow's giving, {Beowulf states to the queen the object of his visit.} Then equipped for combat quoth he in measures, Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow: 75 "I purposed in spirit when I mounted the ocean, {I determined to do or die.} When I boarded my boat with a band of my liegemen, I would work to the fullest the will of your people Or in foe's-clutches fastened fall in the battle. Deeds I shall do of daring and prowess, 80 Or the last of my life-days live in this mead-hall." These words to the lady were welcome and pleasing, The boast of the Geatman; with gold trappings broidered Went the freeborn folk-queen her fond-lord to sit by. {Glee is high.} Then again as of yore was heard in the building 85 Courtly discussion, conquerors' shouting, Heroes were happy, till Healfdene's son would Go to his slumber to seek for refreshing; For the horrid hell-monster in the hall-building knew he A fight was determined,[2] since the light of the sun they 90 No longer could see, and lowering darkness O'er all had descended, and dark under heaven Shadowy shapes came shying around them. {Hrothgar retires, leaving Beowulf in charge of the hall.} The liegemen all rose then. One saluted the other, Hrothgar Beowulf, in rhythmical measures, 95 Wishing him well, and, the wassail-hall giving To his care and keeping, quoth he departing: [24] "Not to any one else have I ever entrusted, But thee and thee only, the hall of the Danemen, Since high I could heave my hand and my buckler. 100 Take thou in charge now the noblest of houses; Be mindful of honor, exhibiting prowess, Watch 'gainst the foeman! Thou shalt want no enjoyments, Survive thou safely adventure so glorious!" [1] The repetition of 'hwæðere' (574 and 578) is regarded by some scholars as a defect. B. suggests 'swá Þær' for the first: _So there it befell me, etc._ Another suggestion is to change the second 'hwæðere' into 'swá Þær': _So there I escaped with my life, etc._ [2] Kl. suggests a period after 'determined.' This would give the passage as follows: _Since they no longer could see the light of the sun, and lowering darkness was down over all, dire under the heavens shadowy beings came going around them_. XI. ALL SLEEP SAVE ONE. {Hrothgar retires.} Then Hrothgar departed, his earl-throng attending him, Folk-lord of Scyldings, forth from the building; The war-chieftain wished then Wealhtheow to look for, The queen for a bedmate. To keep away Grendel {God has provided a watch for the hall.} 5 The Glory of Kings had given a hall-watch, As men heard recounted: for the king of the Danemen He did special service, gave the giant a watcher: And the prince of the Geatmen implicitly trusted {Beowulf is self-confident} His warlike strength and the Wielder's protection. {He prepares for rest.} 10 His armor of iron off him he did then, His helmet from his head, to his henchman committed His chased-handled chain-sword, choicest of weapons, And bade him bide with his battle-equipments. The good one then uttered words of defiance, 15 Beowulf Geatman, ere his bed he upmounted: {Beowulf boasts of his ability to cope with Grendel.} "I hold me no meaner in matters of prowess, In warlike achievements, than Grendel does himself; Hence I seek not with sword-edge to sooth him to slumber, Of life to bereave him, though well I am able. {We will fight with nature's weapons only.} 20 No battle-skill[1] has he, that blows he should strike me, To shatter my shield, though sure he is mighty [25] In strife and destruction; but struggling by night we Shall do without edges, dare he to look for Weaponless warfare, and wise-mooded Father 25 The glory apportion, God ever-holy, {God may decide who shall conquer} On which hand soever to him seemeth proper." Then the brave-mooded hero bent to his slumber, The pillow received the cheek of the noble; {The Geatish warriors lie down.} And many a martial mere-thane attending 30 Sank to his slumber. Seemed it unlikely {They thought it very unlikely that they should ever see their homes again.} That ever thereafter any should hope to Be happy at home, hero-friends visit Or the lordly troop-castle where he lived from his childhood; They had heard how slaughter had snatched from the wine-hall, 35 Had recently ravished, of the race of the Scyldings {But God raised up a deliverer.} Too many by far. But the Lord to them granted The weaving of war-speed, to Wederish heroes Aid and comfort, that every opponent By one man's war-might they worsted and vanquished, {God rules the world.} 40 By the might of himself; the truth is established That God Almighty hath governed for ages Kindreds and nations. A night very lurid {Grendel comes to Heorot.} The trav'ler-at-twilight came tramping and striding. The warriors were sleeping who should watch the horned-building, {Only one warrior is awake.} 45 One only excepted. 'Mid earthmen 'twas 'stablished, Th' implacable foeman was powerless to hurl them To the land of shadows, if the Lord were unwilling; But serving as warder, in terror to foemen, He angrily bided the issue of battle.[2] [1] Gr. understood 'gódra' as meaning 'advantages in battle.' This rendering H.-So. rejects. The latter takes the passage as meaning that Grendel, though mighty and formidable, has no skill in the art of war. [2] B. in his masterly articles on Beowulf (P. and B. XII.) rejects the division usually made at this point, 'Þá.' (711), usually rendered 'then,' he translates 'when,' and connects its clause with the foregoing sentence. These changes he makes to reduce the number of 'cóm's' as principal verbs. (Cf. 703, 711, 721.) With all deference to this acute scholar, I must say that it seems to me that the poet is exhausting his resources to bring out clearly the supreme event on which the whole subsequent action turns. First, he (Grendel) came _in the wan night_; second, he came _from the moor_; third, he came _to the hall_. Time, place from which, place to which, are all given. [26] XII. GRENDEL AND BEOWULF. {Grendel comes from the fens.} 'Neath the cloudy cliffs came from the moor then Grendel going, God's anger bare he. The monster intended some one of earthmen In the hall-building grand to entrap and make way with: {He goes towards the joyous building.} 5 He went under welkin where well he knew of The wine-joyous building, brilliant with plating, Gold-hall of earthmen. Not the earliest occasion {This was not his first visit there.} He the home and manor of Hrothgar had sought: Ne'er found he in life-days later nor earlier 10 Hardier hero, hall-thanes[1] more sturdy! Then came to the building the warrior marching, {His horrid fingers tear the door open.} Bereft of his joyance. The door quickly opened On fire-hinges fastened, when his fingers had touched it; The fell one had flung then--his fury so bitter-- 15 Open the entrance. Early thereafter The foeman trod the shining hall-pavement, {He strides furiously into the hall.} Strode he angrily; from the eyes of him glimmered A lustre unlovely likest to fire. He beheld in the hall the heroes in numbers, 20 A circle of kinsmen sleeping together, {He exults over his supposed prey.} A throng of thanemen: then his thoughts were exultant, He minded to sunder from each of the thanemen The life from his body, horrible demon, Ere morning came, since fate had allowed him {Fate has decreed that he shall devour no more heroes. Beowulf suffers from suspense.} 25 The prospect of plenty. Providence willed not To permit him any more of men under heaven To eat in the night-time. Higelac's kinsman Great sorrow endured how the dire-mooded creature [27] In unlooked-for assaults were likely to bear him. 30 No thought had the monster of deferring the matter, {Grendel immediately seizes a sleeping warrior, and devours him.} But on earliest occasion he quickly laid hold of A soldier asleep, suddenly tore him, Bit his bone-prison, the blood drank in currents, Swallowed in mouthfuls: he soon had the dead man's 35 Feet and hands, too, eaten entirely. Nearer he strode then, the stout-hearted warrior {Beowulf and Grendel grapple.} Snatched as he slumbered, seizing with hand-grip, Forward the foeman foined with his hand; Caught he quickly the cunning deviser, 40 On his elbow he rested. This early discovered The master of malice, that in middle-earth's regions, 'Neath the whole of the heavens, no hand-grapple greater {The monster is amazed at Beowulf's strength.} In any man else had he ever encountered: Fearful in spirit, faint-mooded waxed he, 45 Not off could betake him; death he was pondering, {He is anxious to flee.} Would fly to his covert, seek the devils' assembly: His calling no more was the same he had followed Long in his lifetime. The liege-kinsman worthy {Beowulf recalls his boast of the evening, and determines to fulfil it.} Of Higelac minded his speech of the evening, 50 Stood he up straight and stoutly did seize him. His fingers crackled; the giant was outward, The earl stepped farther. The famous one minded To flee away farther, if he found an occasion, And off and away, avoiding delay, 55 To fly to the fen-moors; he fully was ware of The strength of his grapple in the grip of the foeman. {'Twas a luckless day for Grendel.} 'Twas an ill-taken journey that the injury-bringing, Harrying harmer to Heorot wandered: {The hall groans.} The palace re-echoed; to all of the Danemen, 60 Dwellers in castles, to each of the bold ones, Earlmen, was terror. Angry they both were, Archwarders raging.[2] Rattled the building; [28] 'Twas a marvellous wonder that the wine-hall withstood then The bold-in-battle, bent not to earthward, 65 Excellent earth-hall; but within and without it Was fastened so firmly in fetters of iron, By the art of the armorer. Off from the sill there Bent mead-benches many, as men have informed me, Adorned with gold-work, where the grim ones did struggle. 70 The Scylding wise men weened ne'er before That by might and main-strength a man under heaven Might break it in pieces, bone-decked, resplendent, Crush it by cunning, unless clutch of the fire In smoke should consume it. The sound mounted upward {Grendel's cries terrify the Danes.} 75 Novel enough; on the North Danes fastened A terror of anguish, on all of the men there Who heard from the wall the weeping and plaining, The song of defeat from the foeman of heaven, Heard him hymns of horror howl, and his sorrow 80 Hell-bound bewailing. He held him too firmly Who was strongest of main-strength of men of that era. [1] B. and t.B. emend so as to make lines 9 and 10 read: _Never in his life, earlier or later, had he, the hell-thane, found a braver hero_.--They argue that Beowulf's companions had done nothing to merit such encomiums as the usual readings allow them. [2] For 'réðe rén-weardas' (771), t.B. suggests 'réðe, rénhearde.' Translate: _They were both angry, raging and mighty_. XIII. GRENDEL IS VANQUISHED. {Beowulf has no idea of letting Grendel live.} For no cause whatever would the earlmen's defender Leave in life-joys the loathsome newcomer, He deemed his existence utterly useless To men under heaven. Many a noble 5 Of Beowulf brandished his battle-sword old, Would guard the life of his lord and protector, The far-famous chieftain, if able to do so; While waging the warfare, this wist they but little, Brave battle-thanes, while his body intending {No weapon would harm Grendel; he bore a charmed life.} 10 To slit into slivers, and seeking his spirit: That the relentless foeman nor finest of weapons Of all on the earth, nor any of war-bills [29] Was willing to injure; but weapons of victory Swords and suchlike he had sworn to dispense with. 15 His death at that time must prove to be wretched, And the far-away spirit widely should journey Into enemies' power. This plainly he saw then Who with mirth[1] of mood malice no little Had wrought in the past on the race of the earthmen 20 (To God he was hostile), that his body would fail him, But Higelac's hardy henchman and kinsman Held him by the hand; hateful to other {Grendel is sorely wounded.} Was each one if living. A body-wound suffered The direful demon, damage incurable {His body bursts.} 25 Was seen on his shoulder, his sinews were shivered, His body did burst. To Beowulf was given Glory in battle; Grendel from thenceward Must flee and hide him in the fen-cliffs and marshes, Sick unto death, his dwelling must look for 30 Unwinsome and woful; he wist the more fully {The monster flees away to hide in the moors.} The end of his earthly existence was nearing, His life-days' limits. At last for the Danemen, When the slaughter was over, their wish was accomplished. The comer-from-far-land had cleansed then of evil, 35 Wise and valiant, the war-hall of Hrothgar, Saved it from violence. He joyed in the night-work, In repute for prowess; the prince of the Geatmen For the East-Danish people his boast had accomplished, Bettered their burdensome bale-sorrows fully, 40 The craft-begot evil they erstwhile had suffered And were forced to endure from crushing oppression, Their manifold misery. 'Twas a manifest token, {Beowulf suspends Grendel's hand and arm in Heorot.} When the hero-in-battle the hand suspended, The arm and the shoulder (there was all of the claw 45 Of Grendel together) 'neath great-stretching hall-roof. [1] It has been proposed to translate 'myrðe' by _with sorrow_; but there seems no authority for such a rendering. To the present translator, the phrase 'módes myrðe' seems a mere padding for _gladly_; i.e., _he who gladly harassed mankind_. [30] XIV. REJOICING OF THE DANES. {At early dawn, warriors from far and near come together to hear of the night's adventures.} In the mist of the morning many a warrior Stood round the gift-hall, as the story is told me: Folk-princes fared then from far and from near Through long-stretching journeys to look at the wonder, 5 The footprints of the foeman. Few of the warriors {Few warriors lamented Grendel's destruction.} Who gazed on the foot-tracks of the inglorious creature His parting from life pained very deeply, How, weary in spirit, off from those regions In combats conquered he carried his traces, 10 Fated and flying, to the flood of the nickers. {Grendel's blood dyes the waters.} There in bloody billows bubbled the currents, The angry eddy was everywhere mingled And seething with gore, welling with sword-blood;[1] He death-doomed had hid him, when reaved of his joyance 15 He laid down his life in the lair he had fled to, His heathenish spirit, where hell did receive him. Thence the friends from of old backward turned them, And many a younker from merry adventure, Striding their stallions, stout from the seaward, 20 Heroes on horses. There were heard very often {Beowulf is the hero of the hour.} Beowulf's praises; many often asserted That neither south nor north, in the circuit of waters, {He is regarded as a probable successor to Hrothgar.} O'er outstretching earth-plain, none other was better 'Mid bearers of war-shields, more worthy to govern, 25 'Neath the arch of the ether. Not any, however, 'Gainst the friend-lord muttered, mocking-words uttered {But no word is uttered to derogate from the old king} Of Hrothgar the gracious (a good king he). Oft the famed ones permitted their fallow-skinned horses [31] To run in rivalry, racing and chasing, 30 Where the fieldways appeared to them fair and inviting, Known for their excellence; oft a thane of the folk-lord,[2] {The gleeman sings the deeds of heroes.} [3]A man of celebrity, mindful of rhythms, Who ancient traditions treasured in memory, New word-groups found properly bound: 35 The bard after 'gan then Beowulf's venture {He sings in alliterative measures of Beowulf's prowess.} Wisely to tell of, and words that were clever To utter skilfully, earnestly speaking, Everything told he that he heard as to Sigmund's {Also of Sigemund, who has slain a great fire-dragon.} Mighty achievements, many things hidden, 40 The strife of the Wælsing, the wide-going ventures The children of men knew of but little, The feud and the fury, but Fitela with him, When suchlike matters he minded to speak of, Uncle to nephew, as in every contention 45 Each to other was ever devoted: A numerous host of the race of the scathers They had slain with the sword-edge. To Sigmund accrued then No little of glory, when his life-days were over, Since he sturdy in struggle had destroyed the great dragon, 50 The hoard-treasure's keeper; 'neath the hoar-grayish stone he, The son of the atheling, unaided adventured The perilous project; not present was Fitela, Yet the fortune befell him of forcing his weapon Through the marvellous dragon, that it stood in the wall, 55 Well-honored weapon; the worm was slaughtered. The great one had gained then by his glorious achievement To reap from the ring-hoard richest enjoyment, [32] As best it did please him: his vessel he loaded, Shining ornaments on the ship's bosom carried, 60 Kinsman of Wæls: the drake in heat melted. {Sigemund was widely famed.} He was farthest famed of fugitive pilgrims, Mid wide-scattered world-folk, for works of great prowess, War-troopers' shelter: hence waxed he in honor.[4] {Heremod, an unfortunate Danish king, is introduced by way of contrast.} Afterward Heremod's hero-strength failed him, 65 His vigor and valor. 'Mid venomous haters To the hands of foemen he was foully delivered, Offdriven early. Agony-billows {Unlike Sigemund and Beowulf, Heremod was a burden to his people.} Oppressed him too long, to his people he became then, To all the athelings, an ever-great burden; 70 And the daring one's journey in days of yore Many wise men were wont to deplore, Such as hoped he would bring them help in their sorrow, That the son of their ruler should rise into power, Holding the headship held by his fathers, 75 Should govern the people, the gold-hoard and borough, The kingdom of heroes, the realm of the Scyldings. {Beowulf is an honor to his race.} He to all men became then far more beloved, Higelac's kinsman, to kindreds and races, To his friends much dearer; him malice assaulted.-- {The story is resumed.} 80 Oft running and racing on roadsters they measured The dun-colored highways. Then the light of the morning Was hurried and hastened. Went henchmen in numbers To the beautiful building, bold ones in spirit, To look at the wonder; the liegelord himself then 85 From his wife-bower wending, warden of treasures, Glorious trod with troopers unnumbered, Famed for his virtues, and with him the queen-wife Measured the mead-ways, with maidens attending. [1] S. emends, suggesting 'déop' for 'déog,' and removing semicolon after 'wéol.' The two half-lines 'welling ... hid him' would then read: _The bloody deep welled with sword-gore_. B. accepts 'déop' for 'déog,' but reads 'déað-fæges': _The deep boiled with the sword-gore of the death-doomed one_. [2] Another and quite different rendering of this passage is as follows: _Oft a liegeman of the king, a fame-covered man mindful of songs, who very many ancient traditions remembered (he found other word-groups accurately bound together) began afterward to tell of Beowulf's adventure, skilfully to narrate it, etc_. [3] Might 'guma gilp-hladen' mean 'a man laden with boasts of the deeds of others'? [4] t.B. accepts B.'s 'hé þæs áron þáh' as given by H.-So., but puts a comma after 'þáh,' and takes 'siððan' as introducing a dependent clause: _He throve in honor since Heremod's strength ... had decreased_. [33] XV. HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE. Hrothgar discoursed (to the hall-building went he, He stood by the pillar,[1] saw the steep-rising hall-roof Gleaming with gold-gems, and Grendel his hand there): {Hrothgar gives thanks for the overthrow of the monster.} "For the sight we behold now, thanks to the Wielder 5 Early be offered! Much evil I bided, Snaring from Grendel:[2] God can e'er 'complish Wonder on wonder, Wielder of Glory! {I had given up all hope, when this brave liegeman came to our aid.} But lately I reckoned ne'er under heaven Comfort to gain me for any of sorrows, 10 While the handsomest of houses horrid with bloodstain Gory uptowered; grief had offfrightened[3] Each of the wise ones who weened not that ever The folk-troop's defences 'gainst foes they should strengthen, 'Gainst sprites and monsters. Through the might of the Wielder 15 A doughty retainer hath a deed now accomplished Which erstwhile we all with our excellent wisdom {If his mother yet liveth, well may she thank God for this son.} Failed to perform. May affirm very truly What woman soever in all of the nations Gave birth to the child, if yet she surviveth, 20 That the long-ruling Lord was lavish to herward In the birth of the bairn. Now, Beowulf dear, {Hereafter, Beowulf, thou shalt be my son.} Most excellent hero, I'll love thee in spirit As bairn of my body; bear well henceforward The relationship new. No lack shall befall thee 25 Of earth-joys any I ever can give thee. Full often for lesser service I've given [34] Hero less hardy hoard-treasure precious, {Thou hast won immortal distinction.} To a weaker in war-strife. By works of distinction Thou hast gained for thyself now that thy glory shall flourish 30 Forever and ever. The All-Ruler quite thee With good from His hand as He hitherto did thee!" {Beowulf replies: I was most happy to render thee this service.} Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's offspring: "That labor of glory most gladly achieved we, The combat accomplished, unquailing we ventured 35 The enemy's grapple; I would grant it much rather Thou wert able to look at the creature in person, Faint unto falling, the foe in his trappings! On murder-bed quickly I minded to bind him, With firm-holding fetters, that forced by my grapple 40 Low he should lie in life-and-death struggle 'Less his body escape; I was wholly unable, {I could not keep the monster from escaping, as God did not will that I should.} Since God did not will it, to keep him from going, Not held him that firmly, hated opposer; Too swift was the foeman. Yet safety regarding 45 He suffered his hand behind him to linger, His arm and shoulder, to act as watcher; {He left his hand and arm behind.} No shadow of solace the woe-begone creature Found him there nathless: the hated destroyer Liveth no longer, lashed for his evils, 50 But sorrow hath seized him, in snare-meshes hath him Close in its clutches, keepeth him writhing In baleful bonds: there banished for evil The man shall wait for the mighty tribunal, {God will give him his deserts.} How the God of glory shall give him his earnings." 55 Then the soldier kept silent, son of old Ecglaf, {Unferth has nothing more to say, for Beowulf's actions speak louder than words.} From boasting and bragging of battle-achievements, Since the princes beheld there the hand that depended 'Neath the lofty hall-timbers by the might of the nobleman, Each one before him, the enemy's fingers; 60 Each finger-nail strong steel most resembled, The heathen one's hand-spur, the hero-in-battle's Claw most uncanny; quoth they agreeing, [35] {No sword will harm the monster.} That not any excellent edges of brave ones Was willing to touch him, the terrible creature's 65 Battle-hand bloody to bear away from him. [1] B. and t.B. read 'staþole,' and translate _stood on the floor_. [2] For 'snaring from Grendel,' 'sorrows at Grendel's hands' has been suggested. This gives a parallel to 'láðes.' 'Grynna' may well be gen. pl. of 'gyrn,' by a scribal slip. [3] The H.-So punctuation has been followed; but B. has been followed in understanding 'gehwylcne' as object of 'wíd-scofen (hæfde).' Gr. construes 'wéa' as nom abs. XVI. HROTHGAR LAVISHES GIFTS UPON HIS DELIVERER. {Heorot is adorned with hands.} Then straight was ordered that Heorot inside[1] With hands be embellished: a host of them gathered, Of men and women, who the wassailing-building The guest-hall begeared. Gold-flashing sparkled 5 Webs on the walls then, of wonders a many To each of the heroes that look on such objects. {The hall is defaced, however.} The beautiful building was broken to pieces Which all within with irons was fastened, Its hinges torn off: only the roof was 10 Whole and uninjured when the horrible creature Outlawed for evil off had betaken him, Hopeless of living. 'Tis hard to avoid it {[A vague passage of five verses.]} (Whoever will do it!); but he doubtless must come to[2] The place awaiting, as Wyrd hath appointed, 15 Soul-bearers, earth-dwellers, earls under heaven, Where bound on its bed his body shall slumber {Hrothgar goes to the banquet.} When feasting is finished. Full was the time then That the son of Healfdene went to the building; [36] The excellent atheling would eat of the banquet. 20 Ne'er heard I that people with hero-band larger Bare them better tow'rds their bracelet-bestower. The laden-with-glory stooped to the bench then (Their kinsmen-companions in plenty were joyful, Many a cupful quaffing complaisantly), 25 Doughty of spirit in the high-tow'ring palace, {Hrothgar's nephew, Hrothulf, is present.} Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot then inside Was filled with friendly ones; falsehood and treachery The Folk-Scyldings now nowise did practise. {Hrothgar lavishes gifts upon Beowulf.} Then the offspring of Healfdene offered to Beowulf 30 A golden standard, as reward for the victory, A banner embossed, burnie and helmet; Many men saw then a song-famous weapon Borne 'fore the hero. Beowulf drank of The cup in the building; that treasure-bestowing 35 He needed not blush for in battle-men's presence. {Four handsomer gifts were never presented.} Ne'er heard I that many men on the ale-bench In friendlier fashion to their fellows presented Four bright jewels with gold-work embellished. 'Round the roof of the helmet a head-guarder outside 40 Braided with wires, with bosses was furnished, That swords-for-the-battle fight-hardened might fail Boldly to harm him, when the hero proceeded {Hrothgar commands that eight finely caparisoned steeds be brought to Beowulf.} Forth against foemen. The defender of earls then Commanded that eight steeds with bridles 45 Gold-plated, gleaming, be guided to hallward, Inside the building; on one of them stood then An art-broidered saddle embellished with jewels; 'Twas the sovereign's seat, when the son of King Healfdene Was pleased to take part in the play of the edges; 50 The famous one's valor ne'er failed at the front when Slain ones were bowing. And to Beowulf granted The prince of the Ingwins, power over both, O'er war-steeds and weapons; bade him well to enjoy them. In so manly a manner the mighty-famed chieftain, [37] 55 Hoard-ward of heroes, with horses and jewels War-storms requited, that none e'er condemneth Who willeth to tell truth with full justice. [1] Kl. suggests 'hroden' for 'háten,' and renders: _Then quickly was Heorot adorned within, with hands bedecked_.--B. suggests 'gefrætwon' instead of 'gefrætwod,' and renders: _Then was it commanded to adorn Heorot within quickly with hands_.--The former has the advantage of affording a parallel to 'gefrætwod': both have the disadvantage of altering the text. [2] The passage 1005-1009 seems to be hopeless. One difficult point is to find a subject for 'gesacan.' Some say 'he'; others supply 'each,' _i.e., every soul-bearer ... must gain the inevitable place_. The genitives in this case are partitive.--If 'he' be subj., the genitives are dependent on 'gearwe' (= prepared).--The 'he' itself is disputed, some referring it to Grendel; but B. takes it as involved in the parenthesis. XVII. BANQUET (_continued_).--THE SCOP'S SONG OF FINN AND HNÆF. {Each of Beowulf's companions receives a costly gift.} And the atheling of earlmen to each of the heroes Who the ways of the waters went with Beowulf, A costly gift-token gave on the mead-bench, Offered an heirloom, and ordered that that man {The warrior killed by Grendel is to be paid for in gold.} 5 With gold should be paid for, whom Grendel had erstwhile Wickedly slaughtered, as he more of them had done Had far-seeing God and the mood of the hero The fate not averted: the Father then governed All of the earth-dwellers, as He ever is doing; 10 Hence insight for all men is everywhere fittest, Forethought of spirit! much he shall suffer Of lief and of loathsome who long in this present Useth the world in this woful existence. There was music and merriment mingling together {Hrothgar's scop recalls events in the reign of his lord's father.} 15 Touching Healfdene's leader; the joy-wood was fingered, Measures recited, when the singer of Hrothgar On mead-bench should mention the merry hall-joyance Of the kinsmen of Finn, when onset surprised them: {Hnæf, the Danish general, is treacherously attacked while staying at Finn's castle.} "The Half-Danish hero, Hnæf of the Scyldings, 20 On the field of the Frisians was fated to perish. Sure Hildeburg needed not mention approving The faith of the Jutemen: though blameless entirely, {Queen Hildeburg is not only wife of Finn, but a kinswoman of the murdered Hnæf.} When shields were shivered she was shorn of her darlings, Of bairns and brothers: they bent to their fate 25 With war-spear wounded; woe was that woman. Not causeless lamented the daughter of Hoce The decree of the Wielder when morning-light came and She was able 'neath heaven to behold the destruction [38] Of brothers and bairns, where the brightest of earth-joys {Finn's force is almost exterminated.} 30 She had hitherto had: all the henchmen of Finn War had offtaken, save a handful remaining, That he nowise was able to offer resistance[1] {Hengest succeeds Hnæf as Danish general.} To the onset of Hengest in the parley of battle, Nor the wretched remnant to rescue in war from 35 The earl of the atheling; but they offered conditions, {Compact between the Frisians and the Danes.} Another great building to fully make ready, A hall and a high-seat, that half they might rule with The sons of the Jutemen, and that Folcwalda's son would Day after day the Danemen honor 40 When gifts were giving, and grant of his ring-store To Hengest's earl-troop ever so freely, Of his gold-plated jewels, as he encouraged the Frisians {Equality of gifts agreed on.} On the bench of the beer-hall. On both sides they swore then A fast-binding compact; Finn unto Hengest 45 With no thought of revoking vowed then most solemnly The woe-begone remnant well to take charge of, His Witan advising; the agreement should no one By words or works weaken and shatter, By artifice ever injure its value, 50 Though reaved of their ruler their ring-giver's slayer They followed as vassals, Fate so requiring: {No one shall refer to old grudges.} Then if one of the Frisians the quarrel should speak of In tones that were taunting, terrible edges Should cut in requital. Accomplished the oath was, 55 And treasure of gold from the hoard was uplifted. {Danish warriors are burned on a funeral-pyre.} The best of the Scylding braves was then fully Prepared for the pile; at the pyre was seen clearly The blood-gory burnie, the boar with his gilding, The iron-hard swine, athelings many 60 Fatally wounded; no few had been slaughtered. Hildeburg bade then, at the burning of Hnæf, [39] {Queen Hildeburg has her son burnt along with Hnæf.} The bairn of her bosom to bear to the fire, That his body be burned and borne to the pyre. The woe-stricken woman wept on his shoulder,[2] 65 In measures lamented; upmounted the hero.[3] The greatest of dead-fires curled to the welkin, On the hill's-front crackled; heads were a-melting, Wound-doors bursting, while the blood was a-coursing From body-bite fierce. The fire devoured them, 70 Greediest of spirits, whom war had offcarried From both of the peoples; their bravest were fallen. [1] For 1084, R. suggests 'wiht Hengeste wið gefeohtan.'--K. suggests 'wið Hengeste wiht gefeohtan.' Neither emendation would make any essential change in the translation. [2] The separation of adjective and noun by a phrase (cf. v. 1118) being very unusual, some scholars have put 'earme on eaxle' with the foregoing lines, inserting a semicolon after 'eaxle.' In this case 'on eaxe' (_i.e._, on the ashes, cinders) is sometimes read, and this affords a parallel to 'on bæl.' Let us hope that a satisfactory rendering shall yet be reached without resorting to any tampering with the text, such as Lichtenheld proposed: 'earme ides on eaxle gnornode.' [3] For 'gúð-rinc,' 'gúð-réc,' _battle-smoke_, has been suggested. XVIII. THE FINN EPISODE (_continued_).--THE BANQUET CONTINUES. {The survivors go to Friesland, the home of Finn.} "Then the warriors departed to go to their dwellings, Reaved of their friends, Friesland to visit, Their homes and high-city. Hengest continued {Hengest remains there all winter, unable to get away.} Biding with Finn the blood-tainted winter, 5 Wholly unsundered;[1] of fatherland thought he Though unable to drive the ring-stemmèd vessel [40] O'er the ways of the waters; the wave-deeps were tossing, Fought with the wind; winter in ice-bonds Closed up the currents, till there came to the dwelling 10 A year in its course, as yet it revolveth, If season propitious one alway regardeth, World-cheering weathers. Then winter was gone, Earth's bosom was lovely; the exile would get him, {He devises schemes of vengeance.} The guest from the palace; on grewsomest vengeance 15 He brooded more eager than on oversea journeys, Whe'r onset-of-anger he were able to 'complish, The bairns of the Jutemen therein to remember. Nowise refused he the duties of liegeman When Hun of the Frisians the battle-sword Láfing, 20 Fairest of falchions, friendly did give him: Its edges were famous in folk-talk of Jutland. And savage sword-fury seized in its clutches Bold-mooded Finn where he bode in his palace, {Guthlaf and Oslaf revenge Hnæf's slaughter.} When the grewsome grapple Guthlaf and Oslaf 25 Had mournfully mentioned, the mere-journey over, For sorrows half-blamed him; the flickering spirit Could not bide in his bosom. Then the building was covered[2] {Finn is slain.} With corpses of foemen, and Finn too was slaughtered, The king with his comrades, and the queen made a prisoner. {The jewels of Finn, and his queen are carried away by the Danes.} 30 The troops of the Scyldings bore to their vessels All that the land-king had in his palace, Such trinkets and treasures they took as, on searching, At Finn's they could find. They ferried to Daneland The excellent woman on oversea journey, {The lay is concluded, and the main story is resumed.} 35 Led her to their land-folk." The lay was concluded, The gleeman's recital. Shouts again rose then, Bench-glee resounded, bearers then offered {Skinkers carry round the beaker.} Wine from wonder-vats. Wealhtheo advanced then Going 'neath gold-crown, where the good ones were seated [41] {Queen Wealhtheow greets Hrothgar, as he sits beside Hrothulf, his nephew.} 40 Uncle and nephew; their peace was yet mutual, True each to the other. And Unferth the spokesman Sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings: Each trusted his spirit that his mood was courageous, Though at fight he had failed in faith to his kinsmen. 45 Said the queen of the Scyldings: "My lord and protector, Treasure-bestower, take thou this beaker; Joyance attend thee, gold-friend of heroes, {Be generous to the Geats.} And greet thou the Geatmen with gracious responses! So ought one to do. Be kind to the Geatmen, 50 In gifts not niggardly; anear and afar now Peace thou enjoyest. Report hath informed me Thou'lt have for a bairn the battle-brave hero. Now is Heorot cleansèd, ring-palace gleaming; {Have as much joy as possible in thy hall, once more purified.} Give while thou mayest many rewards, 55 And bequeath to thy kinsmen kingdom and people, On wending thy way to the Wielder's splendor. I know good Hrothulf, that the noble young troopers {I know that Hrothulf will prove faithful if he survive thee.} He'll care for and honor, lord of the Scyldings, If earth-joys thou endest earlier than he doth; 60 I reckon that recompense he'll render with kindness Our offspring and issue, if that all he remember, What favors of yore, when he yet was an infant, We awarded to him for his worship and pleasure." Then she turned by the bench where her sons were carousing, 65 Hrethric and Hrothmund, and the heroes' offspring, {Beowulf is sitting by the two royal sons.} The war-youth together; there the good one was sitting 'Twixt the brothers twain, Beowulf Geatman. [1] For 1130 (1) R. and Gr. suggest 'elne unflitme' as 1098 (1) reads. The latter verse is undisputed; and, for the former, 'elne' would be as possible as 'ealles,' and 'unflitme' is well supported. Accepting 'elne unflitme' for both, I would suggest '_very peaceably_' for both places: (1) _Finn to Hengest very peaceably vowed with oaths_, etc. (2) _Hengest then still the slaughter-stained winter remained there with Finn very peaceably_. The two passages become thus correlatives, the second a sequel of the first. 'Elne,' in the sense of very (swíðe), needs no argument; and 'unflitme' (from 'flítan') can, it seems to me, be more plausibly rendered 'peaceful,' 'peaceable,' than 'contestable,' or 'conquerable.' [2] Some scholars have proposed 'roden'; the line would then read: _Then the building was reddened, etc._, instead of 'covered.' The 'h' may have been carried over from the three alliterating 'h's.' XIX. BEOWULF RECEIVES FURTHER HONOR. {More gifts are offered Beowulf.} A beaker was borne him, and bidding to quaff it Graciously given, and gold that was twisted Pleasantly proffered, a pair of arm-jewels, [42] Rings and corslet, of collars the greatest 5 I've heard of 'neath heaven. Of heroes not any More splendid from jewels have I heard 'neath the welkin, {A famous necklace is referred to, in comparison with the gems presented to Beowulf.} Since Hama off bore the Brosingmen's necklace, The bracteates and jewels, from the bright-shining city,[1] Eormenric's cunning craftiness fled from, 10 Chose gain everlasting. Geatish Higelac, Grandson of Swerting, last had this jewel When tramping 'neath banner the treasure he guarded, The field-spoil defended; Fate offcarried him When for deeds of daring he endured tribulation, 15 Hate from the Frisians; the ornaments bare he O'er the cup of the currents, costly gem-treasures, Mighty folk-leader, he fell 'neath his target; The[2] corpse of the king then came into charge of The race of the Frankmen, the mail-shirt and collar: 20 Warmen less noble plundered the fallen, When the fight was finished; the folk of the Geatmen The field of the dead held in possession. The choicest of mead-halls with cheering resounded. Wealhtheo discoursed, the war-troop addressed she: {Queen Wealhtheow magnifies Beowulf's achievements.} 25 "This collar enjoy thou, Beowulf worthy, Young man, in safety, and use thou this armor, Gems of the people, and prosper thou fully, Show thyself sturdy and be to these liegemen Mild with instruction! I'll mind thy requital. 30 Thou hast brought it to pass that far and near Forever and ever earthmen shall honor thee, Even so widely as ocean surroundeth The blustering bluffs. Be, while thou livest, [43] A wealth-blessèd atheling. I wish thee most truly {May gifts never fail thee.} 35 Jewels and treasure. Be kind to my son, thou Living in joyance! Here each of the nobles Is true unto other, gentle in spirit, Loyal to leader. The liegemen are peaceful, The war-troops ready: well-drunken heroes,[3] 40 Do as I bid ye." Then she went to the settle. There was choicest of banquets, wine drank the heroes: {They little know of the sorrow in store for them.} Weird they knew not, destiny cruel, As to many an earlman early it happened, When evening had come and Hrothgar had parted 45 Off to his manor, the mighty to slumber. Warriors unnumbered warded the building As erst they did often: the ale-settle bared they, 'Twas covered all over with beds and pillows. {A doomed thane is there with them.} Doomed unto death, down to his slumber 50 Bowed then a beer-thane. Their battle-shields placed they, Bright-shining targets, up by their heads then; O'er the atheling on ale-bench 'twas easy to see there Battle-high helmet, burnie of ring-mail, {They were always ready for battle.} And mighty war-spear. 'Twas the wont of that people 55 To constantly keep them equipped for the battle,[4] At home or marching--in either condition-- At seasons just such as necessity ordered As best for their ruler; that people was worthy. [1] C. suggests a semicolon after 'city,' with 'he' as supplied subject of 'fled' and 'chose.' [2] For 'feorh' S. suggests 'feoh': 'corpse' in the translation would then be changed to '_possessions_,' '_belongings_.' This is a better reading than one joining, in such intimate syntactical relations, things so unlike as 'corpse' and 'jewels.' [3] S. suggests '_wine-joyous heroes_,' '_warriors elated with wine_.' [4] I believe this translation brings out the meaning of the poet, without departing seriously from the H.-So. text. 'Oft' frequently means 'constantly,' 'continually,' not always 'often.'--Why 'an (on) wíg gearwe' should be written 'ánwíg-gearwe' (= ready for single combat), I cannot see. 'Gearwe' occurs quite frequently with 'on'; cf. B. 1110 (_ready for the pyre_), El. 222 (_ready for the glad journey_). Moreover, what has the idea of single combat to do with B. 1247 ff.? The poet is giving an inventory of the arms and armor which they lay aside on retiring, and he closes his narration by saying that they were _always prepared for battle both at home and on the march_. [44] XX. THE MOTHER OF GRENDEL. They sank then to slumber. With sorrow one paid for His evening repose, as often betid them While Grendel was holding[1] the gold-bedecked palace, Ill-deeds performing, till his end overtook him, 5 Death for his sins. 'Twas seen very clearly, {Grendel's mother is known to be thirsting for revenge.} Known unto earth-folk, that still an avenger Outlived the loathed one, long since the sorrow Caused by the struggle; the mother of Grendel, Devil-shaped woman, her woe ever minded, 10 Who was held to inhabit the horrible waters, {[Grendel's progenitor, Cain, is again referred to.]} The cold-flowing currents, after Cain had become a Slayer-with-edges to his one only brother, The son of his sire; he set out then banished, Marked as a murderer, man-joys avoiding, 15 Lived in the desert. Thence demons unnumbered {The poet again magnifies Beowulf's valor.} Fate-sent awoke; one of them Grendel, Sword-cursèd, hateful, who at Heorot met with A man that was watching, waiting the struggle, Where a horrid one held him with hand-grapple sturdy; 20 Nathless he minded the might of his body, The glorious gift God had allowed him, And folk-ruling Father's favor relied on, His help and His comfort: so he conquered the foeman, The hell-spirit humbled: he unhappy departed then, 25 Reaved of his joyance, journeying to death-haunts, Foeman of man. His mother moreover {Grendel's mother comes to avenge her son.} Eager and gloomy was anxious to go on Her mournful mission, mindful of vengeance For the death of her son. She came then to Heorot [45] 30 Where the Armor-Dane earlmen all through the building Were lying in slumber. Soon there became then Return[2] to the nobles, when the mother of Grendel Entered the folk-hall; the fear was less grievous By even so much as the vigor of maidens, 35 War-strength of women, by warrior is reckoned, When well-carved weapon, worked with the hammer, Blade very bloody, brave with its edges, Strikes down the boar-sign that stands on the helmet. Then the hard-edgèd weapon was heaved in the building,[3] 40 The brand o'er the benches, broad-lindens many Hand-fast were lifted; for helmet he recked not, For armor-net broad, whom terror laid hold of. She went then hastily, outward would get her Her life for to save, when some one did spy her; {She seizes a favorite liegemen of Hrothgar's.} 45 Soon she had grappled one of the athelings Fast and firmly, when fenward she hied her; That one to Hrothgar was liefest of heroes In rank of retainer where waters encircle, A mighty shield-warrior, whom she murdered at slumber, 50 A broadly-famed battle-knight. Beowulf was absent, {Beowulf was asleep in another part of the palace.} But another apartment was erstwhile devoted To the glory-decked Geatman when gold was distributed. There was hubbub in Heorot. The hand that was famous She grasped in its gore;[4] grief was renewed then [46] 55 In homes and houses: 'twas no happy arrangement In both of the quarters to barter and purchase With lives of their friends. Then the well-agèd ruler, The gray-headed war-thane, was woful in spirit, When his long-trusted liegeman lifeless he knew of, {Beowulf is sent for.} 60 His dearest one gone. Quick from a room was Beowulf brought, brave and triumphant. As day was dawning in the dusk of the morning, {He comes at Hrothgar's summons.} Went then that earlman, champion noble, Came with comrades, where the clever one bided 65 Whether God all gracious would grant him a respite After the woe he had suffered. The war-worthy hero With a troop of retainers trod then the pavement (The hall-building groaned), till he greeted the wise one, {Beowulf inquires how Hrothgar had enjoyed his night's rest.} The earl of the Ingwins;[5] asked if the night had 70 Fully refreshed him, as fain he would have it. [1] Several eminent authorities either read or emend the MS. so as to make this verse read, _While Grendel was wasting the gold-bedecked palace_. So 20_15 below: _ravaged the desert_. [2] For 'sóna' (1281), t.B. suggests 'sára,' limiting 'edhwyrft.' Read then: _Return of sorrows to the nobles, etc_. This emendation supplies the syntactical gap after 'edhwyrft.' [3] Some authorities follow Grein's lexicon in treating 'heard ecg' as an adj. limiting 'sweord': H.-So. renders it as a subst. (So v. 1491.) The sense of the translation would be the same. [4] B. suggests 'under hróf genam' (v. 1303). This emendation, as well as an emendation with (?) to v. 739, he offers, because 'under' baffles him in both passages. All we need is to take 'under' in its secondary meaning of 'in,' which, though not given by Grein, occurs in the literature. Cf. Chron. 876 (March's A.-S. Gram. § 355) and Oro. Amaz. I. 10, where 'under' = _in the midst of_. Cf. modern Eng. 'in such circumstances,' which interchanges in good usage with 'under such circumstances.' [5] For 'néod-laðu' (1321) C. suggests 'néad-láðum,' and translates: _asked whether the night had been pleasant to him after crushing-hostility_. XXI. HROTHGAR'S ACCOUNT OF THE MONSTERS. {Hrothgar laments the death of Æschere, his shoulder-companion.} Hrothgar rejoined, helm of the Scyldings: "Ask not of joyance! Grief is renewed to The folk of the Danemen. Dead is Æschere, Yrmenlaf's brother, older than he, 5 My true-hearted counsellor, trusty adviser, Shoulder-companion, when fighting in battle Our heads we protected, when troopers were clashing, {He was my ideal hero.} And heroes were dashing; such an earl should be ever, An erst-worthy atheling, as Æschere proved him. 10 The flickering death-spirit became in Heorot His hand-to-hand murderer; I can not tell whither The cruel one turned in the carcass exulting, [47] {This horrible creature came to avenge Grendel's death.} By cramming discovered.[1] The quarrel she wreaked then, That last night igone Grendel thou killedst 15 In grewsomest manner, with grim-holding clutches, Since too long he had lessened my liege-troop and wasted My folk-men so foully. He fell in the battle With forfeit of life, and another has followed, A mighty crime-worker, her kinsman avenging, 20 And henceforth hath 'stablished her hatred unyielding,[2] As it well may appear to many a liegeman, Who mourneth in spirit the treasure-bestower, Her heavy heart-sorrow; the hand is now lifeless Which[3] availed you in every wish that you cherished. {I have heard my vassals speak of these two uncanny monsters who lived in the moors.} 25 Land-people heard I, liegemen, this saying, Dwellers in halls, they had seen very often A pair of such mighty march-striding creatures, Far-dwelling spirits, holding the moorlands: One of them wore, as well they might notice, 30 The image of woman, the other one wretched In guise of a man wandered in exile, Except he was huger than any of earthmen; Earth-dwelling people entitled him Grendel In days of yore: they know not their father, 35 Whe'r ill-going spirits any were borne him {The inhabit the most desolate and horrible places.} Ever before. They guard the wolf-coverts, Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses, Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains 'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles, 40 The stream under earth: not far is it henceward Measured by mile-lengths that the mere-water standeth, Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,[4] [48] A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow. There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent 45 A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom; Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for, {Even the hounded deer will not seek refuge in these uncanny regions.} Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer, Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth, 50 His life on the shore, ere in he will venture To cover his head. Uncanny the place is: Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters, Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring The weathers unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy, {To thee only can I look for assistance.} 55 And the heavens lower. Now is help to be gotten From thee and thee only! The abode thou know'st not, The dangerous place where thou'rt able to meet with The sin-laden hero: seek if thou darest! For the feud I will fully fee thee with money, 60 With old-time treasure, as erstwhile I did thee, With well-twisted jewels, if away thou shalt get thee." [1] For 'gefrægnod' (1334), K. and t.B. suggest 'gefægnod,' rendering '_rejoicing in her fill_.' This gives a parallel to 'æse wlanc' (1333). [2] The line 'And ... yielding,' B. renders: _And she has performed a deed of blood-vengeance whose effect is far-reaching_. [3] 'Sé Þe' (1345) is an instance of masc. rel. with fem. antecedent. So v. 1888, where 'sé Þe' refers to 'yldo.' [4] For 'hrímge' in the H.-So. edition, Gr. and others read 'hrínde' (=hrínende), and translate: _which rustling forests overhang_. XXII. BEOWULF SEEKS GRENDEL'S MOTHER. Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's son: {Beowulf exhorts the old king to arouse himself for action.} "Grieve not, O wise one! for each it is better, His friend to avenge than with vehemence wail him; Each of us must the end-day abide of 5 His earthly existence; who is able accomplish Glory ere death! To battle-thane noble Lifeless lying, 'tis at last most fitting. Arise, O king, quick let us hasten To look at the footprint of the kinsman of Grendel! 10 I promise thee this now: to his place he'll escape not, To embrace of the earth, nor to mountainous forest, Nor to depths of the ocean, wherever he wanders. [49] Practice thou now patient endurance Of each of thy sorrows, as I hope for thee soothly!" {Hrothgar rouses himself. His horse is brought.} 15 Then up sprang the old one, the All-Wielder thanked he, Ruler Almighty, that the man had outspoken. Then for Hrothgar a war-horse was decked with a bridle, Curly-maned courser. The clever folk-leader {They start on the track of the female monster.} Stately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troop 20 Of linden-wood bearers. Her footprints were seen then Widely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms, Where she faraway fared o'er fen-country murky, Bore away breathless the best of retainers Who pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of country. 25 The son of the athelings then went o'er the stony, Declivitous cliffs, the close-covered passes, Narrow passages, paths unfrequented, Nesses abrupt, nicker-haunts many; One of a few of wise-mooded heroes, 30 He onward advanced to view the surroundings, Till he found unawares woods of the mountain O'er hoar-stones hanging, holt-wood unjoyful; The water stood under, welling and gory. 'Twas irksome in spirit to all of the Danemen, 35 Friends of the Scyldings, to many a liegeman {The sight of Æschere's head causes them great sorrow.} Sad to be suffered, a sorrow unlittle To each of the earlmen, when to Æschere's head they Came on the cliff. The current was seething With blood and with gore (the troopers gazed on it). 40 The horn anon sang the battle-song ready. The troop were all seated; they saw 'long the water then {The water is filled with serpents and sea-dragons.} Many a serpent, mere-dragons wondrous Trying the waters, nickers a-lying On the cliffs of the nesses, which at noonday full often 45 Go on the sea-deeps their sorrowful journey, Wild-beasts and wormkind; away then they hastened {One of them is killed by Beowulf.} Hot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor, The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-prince [50] Sunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring, 50 From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missile {The dead beast is a poor swimmer} Pierced to his vitals; he proved in the currents Less doughty at swimming whom death had offcarried. Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmer Was straitened most sorely with sword-pointed boar-spears, 55 Pressed in the battle and pulled to the cliff-edge; The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger. {Beowulf prepares for a struggle with the monster.} Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments, Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample, The hand-woven corslet which could cover his body, 60 Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerless To harm the great hero, and the hating one's grasp might Not peril his safety; his head was protected By the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms, Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned, 65 Encircled with jewels, as in seasons long past The weapon-smith worked it, wondrously made it, With swine-bodies fashioned it, that thenceforward no longer Brand might bite it, and battle-sword hurt it. And that was not least of helpers in prowess {He has Unferth's sword in his hand.} 70 That Hrothgar's spokesman had lent him when straitened; And the hilted hand-sword was Hrunting entitled, Old and most excellent 'mong all of the treasures; Its blade was of iron, blotted with poison, Hardened with gore; it failed not in battle 75 Any hero under heaven in hand who it brandished, Who ventured to take the terrible journeys, The battle-field sought; not the earliest occasion That deeds of daring 'twas destined to 'complish. {Unferth has little use for swords.} Ecglaf's kinsman minded not soothly, 80 Exulting in strength, what erst he had spoken Drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent to A sword-hero bolder; himself did not venture 'Neath the strife of the currents his life to endanger, [51] To fame-deeds perform; there he forfeited glory, 85 Repute for his strength. Not so with the other When he clad in his corslet had equipped him for battle. XXIII. BEOWULF'S FIGHT WITH GRENDEL'S MOTHER. {Beowulf makes a parting speech to Hrothgar.} Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son: "Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene, Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready, Gold-friend of earlmen, what erst we agreed on, {If I fail, act as a kind liegelord to my thanes,} 5 Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance, When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve me In stead of a father; my faithful thanemen, My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for, Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar belovèd, {and send Higelac the jewels thou hast given me} 10 Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewels Thou to me hast allotted. The lord of the Geatmen May perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see it {I should like my king to know how generous a lord I found thee to be.} When he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found I Good over-measure, enjoyed him while able. 15 And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou, The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid[1] The hard-edgèd weapon; with Hrunting to aid me, I shall gain me glory, or grim-death shall take me." {Beowulf is eager for the fray.} The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words and 20 Heroic did hasten, not any rejoinder Was willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowed {He is a whole day reaching the bottom of the sea.} The doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ere He was able to see the sea at its bottom. Early she found then who fifty of winters 25 The course of the currents kept in her fury, Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominion [52] {Grendel's mother knows that some one has reached her domains.} Some one of men from above was exploring. Forth did she grab them, grappled the warrior With horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injured 30 His body unscathèd: the burnie out-guarded, That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor, The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers. The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she, {She grabs him, and bears him to her den.} The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless 35 (He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons, But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming, {Sea-monsters bite and strike him.} Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks did Break through his burnie, the brave one pursued they. The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern 40 Where no water whatever anywise harmed him, And the clutch of the current could come not anear him, Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster, {Beowulf attacks the mother of Grendel.} 45 The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset With weapon-of-battle, his hand not desisted From striking, that war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then {The sword will not bite.} The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, 50 But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered, Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor: 'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after, 55 Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory, Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed; {The hero throws down all weapons, and again trusts to his hand-grip.} He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. 60 So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats [53] (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder[2] The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle 65 Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled, That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple {Beowulf falls.} She gave him requital[3] early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, {The monster sits on him with drawn sword.} 70 Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn. {His armor saves his life.} His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 75 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corslet, comfort and succor, {God arranged for his escape.} And had God most holy not awarded the victory, 80 All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven's Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;[4] Uprose he erect ready for battle. [1] Kl. emends 'wæl-sweord.' The half-line would then read, '_the battle-sword splendid_.'--For 'heard-ecg' in next half-verse, see note to 20_39 above. [2] Sw., R., and t.B. suggest 'feaxe' for 'eaxle' (1538) and render: _Seized by the hair_. [3] If 'hand-léan' be accepted (as the MS. has it), the line will read: _She hand-reward gave him early thereafter_. [4] Sw. and S. change H.-So.'s semicolon (v. 1557) to a comma, and translate: _The Ruler of Heaven arranged it in justice easily, after he arose again_. XXIV. BEOWULF IS DOUBLE-CONQUEROR. {Beowulf grasps a giant-sword,} Then he saw mid the war-gems a weapon of victory, An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty, Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest, Only 'twas larger than any man else was [54] 5 Able to bear to the battle-encounter, The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword, Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her, 10 That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, {and fells the female monster.} Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursèd body, she fell to the ground then: The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted. The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered, 15 Just as from heaven gemlike shineth The torch of the firmament. He glanced 'long the building, And turned by the wall then, Higelac's vassal Raging and wrathful raised his battle-sword Strong by the handle. The edge was not useless 20 To the hero-in-battle, but he speedily wished to Give Grendel requital for the many assaults he Had worked on the West-Danes not once, but often, When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar, Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainers 25 Of the folk of the Danemen, and fully as many Carried away, a horrible prey. He gave him requital, grim-raging champion, {Beowulf sees the body of Grendel, and cuts off his head.} When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflict Grendel lying, of life-joys bereavèd, 30 As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him; His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered, Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy, And he cut off his head then. Early this noticed The clever carles who as comrades of Hrothgar {The waters are gory.} 35 Gazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currents Were mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory: Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse, {Beowulf is given up for dead.} The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see again The atheling ever, that exulting in victory 40 He'd return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler: [55] Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him.[1] The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departed The bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroes Homeward betook him. The strangers sat down then 45 Soul-sick, sorrowful, the sea-waves regarding: They wished and yet weened not their well-loved friend-lord {The giant-sword melts.} To see any more. The sword-blade began then, The blood having touched it, contracting and shriveling With battle-icicles; 'twas a wonderful marvel 50 That it melted entirely, likest to ice when The Father unbindeth the bond of the frost and Unwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominion Of times and of tides: a truth-firm Creator. Nor took he of jewels more in the dwelling, 55 Lord of the Weders, though they lay all around him, Than the head and the handle handsome with jewels; [56] The brand early melted, burnt was the weapon:[2] So hot was the blood, the strange-spirit poisonous {The hero swims back to the realms of day.} That in it did perish. He early swam off then 60 Who had bided in combat the carnage of haters, Went up through the ocean; the eddies were cleansèd, The spacious expanses, when the spirit from farland His life put aside and this short-lived existence. The seamen's defender came swimming to land then 65 Doughty of spirit, rejoiced in his sea-gift, The bulky burden which he bore in his keeping. The excellent vassals advanced then to meet him, To God they were grateful, were glad in their chieftain, That to see him safe and sound was granted them. 70 From the high-minded hero, then, helmet and burnie Were speedily loosened: the ocean was putrid, The water 'neath welkin weltered with gore. Forth did they fare, then, their footsteps retracing, Merry and mirthful, measured the earth-way, 75 The highway familiar: men very daring[3] Bare then the head from the sea-cliff, burdening Each of the earlmen, excellent-valiant. {It takes four men to carry Grendel's head on a spear.} Four of them had to carry with labor The head of Grendel to the high towering gold-hall 80 Upstuck on the spear, till fourteen most-valiant And battle-brave Geatmen came there going Straight to the palace: the prince of the people Measured the mead-ways, their mood-brave companion. The atheling of earlmen entered the building, 85 Deed-valiant man, adorned with distinction, Doughty shield-warrior, to address King Hrothgar: [57] Then hung by the hair, the head of Grendel Was borne to the building, where beer-thanes were drinking, Loth before earlmen and eke 'fore the lady: 90 The warriors beheld then a wonderful sight. [1] 'Þæs monige gewearð' (1599) and 'hafað þæs geworden' (2027).--In a paper published some years ago in one of the Johns Hopkins University circulars, I tried to throw upon these two long-doubtful passages some light derived from a study of like passages in Alfred's prose.--The impersonal verb 'geweorðan,' with an accus. of the person, and a þæt-clause is used several times with the meaning 'agree.' See Orosius (Sweet's ed.) 178_7; 204_34; 208_28; 210_15; 280_20. In the two Beowulf passages, the þæt-clause is anticipated by 'þæs,' which is clearly a gen. of the thing agreed on. The first passage (v. 1599 (b)-1600) I translate literally: _Then many agreed upon this (namely), that the sea-wolf had killed him_. The second passage (v. 2025 (b)-2027): _She is promised ...; to this the friend of the Scyldings has agreed, etc_. By emending 'is' instead of 'wæs' (2025), the tenses will be brought into perfect harmony. In v. 1997 ff. this same idiom occurs, and was noticed in B.'s great article on Beowulf, which appeared about the time I published my reading of 1599 and 2027. Translate 1997 then: _Wouldst let the South-Danes themselves decide about their struggle with Grendel_. Here 'Súð-Dene' is accus. of person, and 'gúðe' is gen. of thing agreed on. With such collateral support as that afforded by B. (P. and B. XII. 97), I have no hesitation in departing from H.-So., my usual guide. The idiom above treated runs through A.-S., Old Saxon, and other Teutonic languages, and should be noticed in the lexicons. [2] 'Bróden-mæl' is regarded by most scholars as meaning a damaskeened sword. Translate: _The damaskeened sword burned up_. Cf. 25_16 and note. [3] 'Cyning-balde' (1635) is the much-disputed reading of K. and Th. To render this, "_nobly bold_," "_excellently bold_," have been suggested. B. would read 'cyning-holde' (cf. 290), and render: _Men well-disposed towards the king carried the head, etc._ 'Cynebealde,' says t.B., endorsing Gr. XXV. BEOWULF BRINGS HIS TROPHIES.--HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE. {Beowulf relates his last exploit.} Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow: "Lo! we blithely have brought thee, bairn of Healfdene, Prince of the Scyldings, these presents from ocean Which thine eye looketh on, for an emblem of glory. 5 I came off alive from this, narrowly 'scaping: In war 'neath the water the work with great pains I Performed, and the fight had been finished quite nearly, Had God not defended me. I failed in the battle Aught to accomplish, aided by Hrunting, 10 Though that weapon was worthy, but the Wielder of earth-folk {God was fighting with me.} Gave me willingly to see on the wall a Heavy old hand-sword hanging in splendor (He guided most often the lorn and the friendless), That I swung as a weapon. The wards of the house then 15 I killed in the conflict (when occasion was given me). Then the battle-sword burned, the brand that was lifted,[1] As the blood-current sprang, hottest of war-sweats; Seizing the hilt, from my foes I offbore it; I avenged as I ought to their acts of malignity, 20 The murder of Danemen. I then make thee this promise, {Heorot is freed from monsters.} Thou'lt be able in Heorot careless to slumber With thy throng of heroes and the thanes of thy people Every and each, of greater and lesser, And thou needest not fear for them from the selfsame direction 25 As thou formerly fearedst, oh, folk-lord of Scyldings, [58] End-day for earlmen." To the age-hoary man then, {The famous sword is presented to Hrothgar.} The gray-haired chieftain, the gold-fashioned sword-hilt, Old-work of giants, was thereupon given; Since the fall of the fiends, it fell to the keeping 30 Of the wielder of Danemen, the wonder-smith's labor, And the bad-mooded being abandoned this world then, Opponent of God, victim of murder, And also his mother; it went to the keeping Of the best of the world-kings, where waters encircle, 35 Who the scot divided in Scylding dominion. {Hrothgar looks closely at the old sword.} Hrothgar discoursed, the hilt he regarded, The ancient heirloom where an old-time contention's Beginning was graven: the gurgling currents, The flood slew thereafter the race of the giants, 40 They had proved themselves daring: that people was loth to {It had belonged to a race hateful to God.} The Lord everlasting, through lash of the billows The Father gave them final requital. So in letters of rune on the clasp of the handle Gleaming and golden, 'twas graven exactly, 45 Set forth and said, whom that sword had been made for, Finest of irons, who first it was wrought for, Wreathed at its handle and gleaming with serpents. The wise one then said (silent they all were) {Hrothgar praises Beowulf.} Son of old Healfdene: "He may say unrefuted 50 Who performs 'mid the folk-men fairness and truth (The hoary old ruler remembers the past), That better by birth is this bairn of the nobles! Thy fame is extended through far-away countries, Good friend Beowulf, o'er all of the races, 55 Thou holdest all firmly, hero-like strength with Prudence of spirit. I'll prove myself grateful As before we agreed on; thou granted for long shalt Become a great comfort to kinsmen and comrades, {Heremod's career is again contrasted with Beowulf's.} A help unto heroes. Heremod became not 60 Such to the Scyldings, successors of Ecgwela; He grew not to please them, but grievous destruction, [59] And diresome death-woes to Danemen attracted; He slew in anger his table-companions, Trustworthy counsellors, till he turned off lonely 65 From world-joys away, wide-famous ruler: Though high-ruling heaven in hero-strength raised him, In might exalted him, o'er men of all nations Made him supreme, yet a murderous spirit Grew in his bosom: he gave then no ring-gems {A wretched failure of a king, to give no jewels to his retainers.} 70 To the Danes after custom; endured he unjoyful Standing the straits from strife that was raging, Longsome folk-sorrow. Learn then from this, Lay hold of virtue! Though laden with winters, I have sung thee these measures. 'Tis a marvel to tell it, {Hrothgar moralizes.} 75 How all-ruling God from greatness of spirit Giveth wisdom to children of men, Manor and earlship: all things He ruleth. He often permitteth the mood-thought of man of The illustrious lineage to lean to possessions, 80 Allows him earthly delights at his manor, A high-burg of heroes to hold in his keeping, Maketh portions of earth-folk hear him, And a wide-reaching kingdom so that, wisdom failing him, He himself is unable to reckon its boundaries; 85 He liveth in luxury, little debars him, Nor sickness nor age, no treachery-sorrow Becloudeth his spirit, conflict nowhere, No sword-hate, appeareth, but all of the world doth Wend as he wisheth; the worse he knoweth not, 90 Till arrant arrogance inward pervading, Waxeth and springeth, when the warder is sleeping, The guard of the soul: with sorrows encompassed, Too sound is his slumber, the slayer is near him, Who with bow and arrow aimeth in malice. [60] [1] Or rather, perhaps, '_the inlaid, or damaskeened weapon_.' Cf. 24_57 and note. XXVI. HROTHGAR MORALIZES.--REST AFTER LABOR. {A wounded spirit.} "Then bruised in his bosom he with bitter-toothed missile Is hurt 'neath his helmet: from harmful pollution He is powerless to shield him by the wonderful mandates Of the loath-cursèd spirit; what too long he hath holden 5 Him seemeth too small, savage he hoardeth, Nor boastfully giveth gold-plated rings,[1] The fate of the future flouts and forgetteth Since God had erst given him greatness no little, Wielder of Glory. His end-day anear, 10 It afterward happens that the bodily-dwelling Fleetingly fadeth, falls into ruins; Another lays hold who doleth the ornaments, The nobleman's jewels, nothing lamenting, Heedeth no terror. Oh, Beowulf dear, 15 Best of the heroes, from bale-strife defend thee, And choose thee the better, counsels eternal; {Be not over proud: life is fleeting, and its strength soon wasteth away.} Beware of arrogance, world-famous champion! But a little-while lasts thy life-vigor's fulness; 'Twill after hap early, that illness or sword-edge 20 Shall part thee from strength, or the grasp of the fire, Or the wave of the current, or clutch of the edges, Or flight of the war-spear, or age with its horrors, Or thine eyes' bright flashing shall fade into darkness: 'Twill happen full early, excellent hero, {Hrothgar gives an account of his reign.} 25 That death shall subdue thee. So the Danes a half-century I held under heaven, helped them in struggles 'Gainst many a race in middle-earth's regions, With ash-wood and edges, that enemies none On earth molested me. Lo! offsetting change, now, [61] {Sorrow after joy.} 30 Came to my manor, grief after joyance, When Grendel became my constant visitor, Inveterate hater: I from that malice Continually travailed with trouble no little. Thanks be to God that I gained in my lifetime, 35 To the Lord everlasting, to look on the gory Head with mine eyes, after long-lasting sorrow! Go to the bench now, battle-adornèd Joy in the feasting: of jewels in common We'll meet with many when morning appeareth." 40 The Geatman was gladsome, ganged he immediately To go to the bench, as the clever one bade him. Then again as before were the famous-for-prowess, Hall-inhabiters, handsomely banqueted, Feasted anew. The night-veil fell then 45 Dark o'er the warriors. The courtiers rose then; The gray-haired was anxious to go to his slumbers, The hoary old Scylding. Hankered the Geatman, {Beowulf is fagged, and seeks rest.} The champion doughty, greatly, to rest him: An earlman early outward did lead him, 50 Fagged from his faring, from far-country springing, Who for etiquette's sake all of a liegeman's Needs regarded, such as seamen at that time Were bounden to feel. The big-hearted rested; The building uptowered, spacious and gilded, 55 The guest within slumbered, till the sable-clad raven Blithely foreboded the beacon of heaven. Then the bright-shining sun o'er the bottoms came going;[2] The warriors hastened, the heads of the peoples Were ready to go again to their peoples, {The Geats prepare to leave Dane-land.} 60 The high-mooded farer would faraway thenceward Look for his vessel. The valiant one bade then,[3] [62] {Unferth asks Beowulf to accept his sword as a gift. Beowulf thanks him.} Offspring of Ecglaf, off to bear Hrunting, To take his weapon, his well-beloved iron; He him thanked for the gift, saying good he accounted 65 The war-friend and mighty, nor chid he with words then The blade of the brand: 'twas a brave-mooded hero. When the warriors were ready, arrayed in their trappings, The atheling dear to the Danemen advanced then On to the dais, where the other was sitting, 70 Grim-mooded hero, greeted King Hrothgar. [1] K. says '_proudly giveth_.'--Gr. says, '_And gives no gold-plated rings, in order to incite the recipient to boastfulness_.'--B. suggests 'gyld' for 'gylp,' and renders: _And gives no beaten rings for reward_. [2] If S.'s emendation be accepted, v. 57 will read: _Then came the light, going bright after darkness: the warriors, etc_. [3] As the passage stands in H.-So., Unferth presents Beowulf with the sword Hrunting, and B. thanks him for the gift. If, however, the suggestions of Grdtvg. and M. be accepted, the passage will read: _Then the brave one (_i.e._ Beowulf) commanded that Hrunting be borne to the son of Ecglaf (Unferth), bade him take his sword, his dear weapon; he (B.) thanked him (U.) for the loan, etc_. XXVII. SORROW AT PARTING. {Beowulf's farewell.} Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's offspring: "We men of the water wish to declare now Fared from far-lands, we're firmly determined To seek King Higelac. Here have we fitly 5 Been welcomed and feasted, as heart would desire it; Good was the greeting. If greater affection I am anywise able ever on earth to Gain at thy hands, ruler of heroes, Than yet I have done, I shall quickly be ready {I shall be ever ready to aid thee.} 10 For combat and conflict. O'er the course of the waters Learn I that neighbors alarm thee with terror, As haters did whilom, I hither will bring thee For help unto heroes henchmen by thousands. {My liegelord will encourage me in aiding thee.} I know as to Higelac, the lord of the Geatmen, 15 Though young in years, he yet will permit me, By words and by works, ward of the people, Fully to furnish thee forces and bear thee My lance to relieve thee, if liegemen shall fail thee, And help of my hand-strength; if Hrethric be treating, [63] 20 Bairn of the king, at the court of the Geatmen, He thereat may find him friends in abundance: Faraway countries he were better to seek for Who trusts in himself." Hrothgar discoursed then, Making rejoinder: "These words thou hast uttered 25 All-knowing God hath given thy spirit! {O Beowulf, thou art wise beyond thy years.} Ne'er heard I an earlman thus early in life More clever in speaking: thou'rt cautious of spirit, Mighty of muscle, in mouth-answers prudent. I count on the hope that, happen it ever 30 That missile shall rob thee of Hrethel's descendant, Edge-horrid battle, and illness or weapon Deprive thee of prince, of people's protector, {Should Higelac die, the Geats could find no better successor than thou wouldst make.} And life thou yet holdest, the Sea-Geats will never Find a more fitting folk-lord to choose them, 35 Gem-ward of heroes, than _thou_ mightest prove thee, If the kingdom of kinsmen thou carest to govern. Thy mood-spirit likes me the longer the better, Beowulf dear: thou hast brought it to pass that To both these peoples peace shall be common, {Thou hast healed the ancient breach between our races.} 40 To Geat-folk and Danemen, the strife be suspended, The secret assailings they suffered in yore-days; And also that jewels be shared while I govern The wide-stretching kingdom, and that many shall visit Others o'er the ocean with excellent gift-gems: 45 The ring-adorned bark shall bring o'er the currents Presents and love-gifts. This people I know Tow'rd foeman and friend firmly established,[1] After ancient etiquette everywise blameless." Then the warden of earlmen gave him still farther, {Parting gifts} 50 Kinsman of Healfdene, a dozen of jewels, Bade him safely seek with the presents His well-beloved people, early returning. [64] {Hrothgar kisses Beowulf, and weeps.} Then the noble-born king kissed the distinguished, Dear-lovèd liegeman, the Dane-prince saluted him, 55 And claspèd his neck; tears from him fell, From the gray-headed man: he two things expected, Agèd and reverend, but rather the second, [2]That bold in council they'd meet thereafter. The man was so dear that he failed to suppress the 60 Emotions that moved him, but in mood-fetters fastened {The old king is deeply grieved to part with his benefactor.} The long-famous hero longeth in secret Deep in his spirit for the dear-beloved man Though not a blood-kinsman. Beowulf thenceward, Gold-splendid warrior, walked o'er the meadows 65 Exulting in treasure: the sea-going vessel Riding at anchor awaited its owner. As they pressed on their way then, the present of Hrothgar {Giving liberally is the true proof of kingship.} Was frequently referred to: a folk-king indeed that Everyway blameless, till age did debar him 70 The joys of his might, which hath many oft injured. [1] For 'geworhte,' the crux of this passage, B. proposes 'geþóhte,' rendering: _I know this people with firm thought every way blameless towards foe and friends_. [2] S. and B. emend so as to negative the verb 'meet.' "Why should Hrothgar weep if he expects to meet Beowulf again?" both these scholars ask. But the weeping is mentioned before the 'expectations': the tears may have been due to many emotions, especially gratitude, struggling for expression. XXVIII. THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY.--THE TWO QUEENS. Then the band of very valiant retainers Came to the current; they were clad all in armor, {The coast-guard again.} In link-woven burnies. The land-warder noticed The return of the earlmen, as he erstwhile had seen them; 5 Nowise with insult he greeted the strangers From the naze of the cliff, but rode on to meet them; Said the bright-armored visitors[1] vesselward traveled [65] Welcome to Weders. The wide-bosomed craft then Lay on the sand, laden with armor, 10 With horses and jewels, the ring-stemmèd sailer: The mast uptowered o'er the treasure of Hrothgar. {Beowulf gives the guard a handsome sword.} To the boat-ward a gold-bound brand he presented, That he was afterwards honored on the ale-bench more highly As the heirloom's owner. [2]Set he out on his vessel, 15 To drive on the deep, Dane-country left he. Along by the mast then a sea-garment fluttered, A rope-fastened sail. The sea-boat resounded, The wind o'er the waters the wave-floater nowise Kept from its journey; the sea-goer traveled, 20 The foamy-necked floated forth o'er the currents, The well-fashioned vessel o'er the ways of the ocean, {The Geats see their own land again.} Till they came within sight of the cliffs of the Geatmen, The well-known headlands. The wave-goer hastened Driven by breezes, stood on the shore. {The port-warden is anxiously looking for them.} 25 Prompt at the ocean, the port-ward was ready, Who long in the past outlooked in the distance,[3] At water's-edge waiting well-lovèd heroes; He bound to the bank then the broad-bosomed vessel Fast in its fetters, lest the force of the waters 30 Should be able to injure the ocean-wood winsome. Bade he up then take the treasure of princes, Plate-gold and fretwork; not far was it thence To go off in search of the giver of jewels: [66] Hrethel's son Higelac at home there remaineth,[4] 35 Himself with his comrades close to the sea-coast. The building was splendid, the king heroic, Great in his hall, Hygd very young was, {Hygd, the noble queen of Higelac, lavish of gifts.} Fine-mooded, clever, though few were the winters That the daughter of Hæreth had dwelt in the borough; 40 But she nowise was cringing nor niggard of presents, Of ornaments rare, to the race of the Geatmen. {Offa's consort, Thrytho, is contrasted with Hygd.} Thrytho nursed anger, excellent[5] folk-queen, Hot-burning hatred: no hero whatever 'Mong household companions, her husband excepted {She is a terror to all save her husband.} 45 Dared to adventure to look at the woman With eyes in the daytime;[6] but he knew that death-chains Hand-wreathed were wrought him: early thereafter, When the hand-strife was over, edges were ready, That fierce-raging sword-point had to force a decision, 50 Murder-bale show. Such no womanly custom For a lady to practise, though lovely her person, That a weaver-of-peace, on pretence of anger A belovèd liegeman of life should deprive. Soothly this hindered Heming's kinsman; 55 Other ale-drinking earlmen asserted That fearful folk-sorrows fewer she wrought them, Treacherous doings, since first she was given Adorned with gold to the war-hero youthful, For her origin honored, when Offa's great palace 60 O'er the fallow flood by her father's instructions She sought on her journey, where she afterwards fully, Famed for her virtue, her fate on the king's-seat [67] Enjoyed in her lifetime, love did she hold with The ruler of heroes, the best, it is told me, 65 Of all of the earthmen that oceans encompass, Of earl-kindreds endless; hence Offa was famous Far and widely, by gifts and by battles, Spear-valiant hero; the home of his fathers He governed with wisdom, whence Eomær did issue 70 For help unto heroes, Heming's kinsman, Grandson of Garmund, great in encounters. [1] For 'scawan' (1896), 'scaðan' has been proposed. Accepting this, we may render: _He said the bright-armored warriors were going to their vessel, welcome, etc_. (Cf. 1804.) [2] R. suggests, 'Gewát him on naca,' and renders: _The vessel set out, to drive on the sea, the Dane-country left_. 'On' bears the alliteration; cf. 'on hafu' (2524). This has some advantages over the H.-So. reading; viz. (1) It adds nothing to the text; (2) it makes 'naca' the subject, and thus brings the passage into keeping with the context, where the poet has exhausted his vocabulary in detailing the actions of the vessel.--B.'s emendation (cf. P. and B. XII. 97) is violent. [3] B. translates: _Who for a long time, ready at the coast, had looked out into the distance eagerly for the dear men_. This changes the syntax of 'léofra manna.' [4] For 'wunað' (v. 1924) several eminent critics suggest 'wunade' (=remained). This makes the passage much clearer. [5] Why should such a woman be described as an 'excellent' queen? C. suggests 'frécnu' = dangerous, bold. [6] For 'an dæges' various readings have been offered. If 'and-éges' be accepted, the sentence will read: _No hero ... dared look upon her, eye to eye_. If 'án-dæges' be adopted, translate: _Dared look upon her the whole day_. XXIX. BEOWULF AND HIGELAC. Then the brave one departed, his band along with him, {Beowulf and his party seek Higelac.} Seeking the sea-shore, the sea-marches treading, The wide-stretching shores. The world-candle glimmered, The sun from the southward; they proceeded then onward, 5 Early arriving where they heard that the troop-lord, Ongentheow's slayer, excellent, youthful Folk-prince and warrior was distributing jewels, Close in his castle. The coming of Beowulf Was announced in a message quickly to Higelac, 10 That the folk-troop's defender forth to the palace The linden-companion alive was advancing, Secure from the combat courtward a-going. The building was early inward made ready For the foot-going guests as the good one had ordered. {Beowulf sits by his liegelord.} 15 He sat by the man then who had lived through the struggle, Kinsman by kinsman, when the king of the people Had in lordly language saluted the dear one, {Queen Hygd receives the heroes.} In words that were formal. The daughter of Hæreth Coursed through the building, carrying mead-cups:[1] [68] 20 She loved the retainers, tendered the beakers To the high-minded Geatmen. Higelac 'gan then {Higelac is greatly interested in Beowulf's adventures.} Pleasantly plying his companion with questions In the high-towering palace. A curious interest Tormented his spirit, what meaning to see in 25 The Sea-Geats' adventures: "Beowulf worthy, {Give an account of thy adventures, Beowulf dear.} How throve your journeying, when thou thoughtest suddenly Far o'er the salt-streams to seek an encounter, A battle at Heorot? Hast bettered for Hrothgar, The famous folk-leader, his far-published sorrows 30 Any at all? In agony-billows {My suspense has been great.} I mused upon torture, distrusted the journey Of the belovèd liegeman; I long time did pray thee By no means to seek out the murderous spirit, To suffer the South-Danes themselves to decide on[2] 35 Grappling with Grendel. To God I am thankful To be suffered to see thee safe from thy journey." {Beowulf narrates his adventures.} Beowulf answered, bairn of old Ecgtheow: "'Tis hidden by no means, Higelac chieftain, From many of men, the meeting so famous, 40 What mournful moments of me and of Grendel Were passed in the place where he pressing affliction On the Victory-Scyldings scathefully brought, Anguish forever; that all I avengèd, So that any under heaven of the kinsmen of Grendel {Grendel's kindred have no cause to boast.} 45 Needeth not boast of that cry-in-the-morning, Who longest liveth of the loth-going kindred,[3] Encompassed by moorland. I came in my journey To the royal ring-hall, Hrothgar to greet there: {Hrothgar received me very cordially.} Soon did the famous scion of Healfdene, 50 When he understood fully the spirit that led me, Assign me a seat with the son of his bosom. [69] The troop was in joyance; mead-glee greater 'Neath arch of the ether not ever beheld I {The queen also showed up no little honor.} 'Mid hall-building holders. The highly-famed queen, 55 Peace-tie of peoples, oft passed through the building, Cheered the young troopers; she oft tendered a hero A beautiful ring-band, ere she went to her sitting. {Hrothgar's lovely daughter.} Oft the daughter of Hrothgar in view of the courtiers To the earls at the end the ale-vessel carried, 60 Whom Freaware I heard then hall-sitters title, When nail-adorned jewels she gave to the heroes: {She is betrothed to Ingeld, in order to unite the Danes and Heathobards.} Gold-bedecked, youthful, to the glad son of Froda Her faith has been plighted; the friend of the Scyldings, The guard of the kingdom, hath given his sanction,[4] 65 And counts it a vantage, for a part of the quarrels, A portion of hatred, to pay with the woman. [5]Somewhere not rarely, when the ruler has fallen, The life-taking lance relaxeth its fury For a brief breathing-spell, though the bride be charming! [1] 'Meodu-scencum' (1981) some would render '_with mead-pourers_.' Translate then: _The daughter of Hæreth went through the building accompanied by mead-pourers_. [2] See my note to 1599, supra, and B. in P. and B. XII. 97. [3] For 'fenne,' supplied by Grdtvg., B. suggests 'fácne' (cf. Jul. 350). Accepting this, translate: _Who longest lives of the hated race, steeped in treachery_. [4] See note to v. 1599 above. [5] This is perhaps the least understood sentence in the poem, almost every word being open to dispute. (1) The 'nó' of our text is an emendation, and is rejected by many scholars. (2) 'Seldan' is by some taken as an adv. (= _seldom_), and by others as a noun (= _page_, _companion_). (3) 'Léod-hryre,' some render '_fall of the people_'; others, '_fall of the prince_.' (4) 'Búgeð,' most scholars regard as the intrans. verb meaning '_bend_,' '_rest_'; but one great scholar has translated it '_shall kill_.' (5) 'Hwær,' Very recently, has been attacked, 'wære' being suggested. (6) As a corollary to the above, the same critic proposes to drop 'oft' out of the text.--t.B. suggests: Oft seldan wære after léodhryre: lýtle hwíle bongár búgeð, þéah séo brýd duge = _often has a treaty been (thus) struck, after a prince had fallen: (but only) a short time is the spear (then) wont to rest, however excellent the bride may be_. XXX. BEOWULF NARRATES HIS ADVENTURES TO HIGELAC. "It well may discomfit the prince of the Heathobards And each of the thanemen of earls that attend him, [70] When he goes to the building escorting the woman, That a noble-born Daneman the knights should be feasting: 5 There gleam on his person the leavings of elders Hard and ring-bright, Heathobards' treasure, While they wielded their arms, till they misled to the battle Their own dear lives and belovèd companions. He saith at the banquet who the collar beholdeth, 10 An ancient ash-warrior who earlmen's destruction Clearly recalleth (cruel his spirit), Sadly beginneth sounding the youthful Thane-champion's spirit through the thoughts of his bosom, War-grief to waken, and this word-answer speaketh: {Ingeld is stirred up to break the truce.} 15 'Art thou able, my friend, to know when thou seest it The brand which thy father bare to the conflict In his latest adventure, 'neath visor of helmet, The dearly-loved iron, where Danemen did slay him, And brave-mooded Scyldings, on the fall of the heroes, 20 (When vengeance was sleeping) the slaughter-place wielded? E'en now some man of the murderer's progeny Exulting in ornaments enters the building, Boasts of his blood-shedding, offbeareth the jewel Which thou shouldst wholly hold in possession!' 25 So he urgeth and mindeth on every occasion With woe-bringing words, till waxeth the season When the woman's thane for the works of his father, The bill having bitten, blood-gory sleepeth, Fated to perish; the other one thenceward 30 'Scapeth alive, the land knoweth thoroughly.[1] Then the oaths of the earlmen on each side are broken, When rancors unresting are raging in Ingeld And his wife-love waxeth less warm after sorrow. So the Heathobards' favor not faithful I reckon, 35 Their part in the treaty not true to the Danemen, Their friendship not fast. I further shall tell thee [71] {Having made these preliminary statements, I will now tell thee of Grendel, the monster.} More about Grendel, that thou fully mayst hear, Ornament-giver, what afterward came from The hand-rush of heroes. When heaven's bright jewel 40 O'er earthfields had glided, the stranger came raging, The horrible night-fiend, us for to visit, Where wholly unharmed the hall we were guarding. {Hondscio fell first} To Hondscio happened a hopeless contention, Death to the doomed one, dead he fell foremost, 45 Girded war-champion; to him Grendel became then, To the vassal distinguished, a tooth-weaponed murderer, The well-beloved henchman's body all swallowed. Not the earlier off empty of hand did The bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of evils, 50 Wish to escape from the gold-giver's palace, But sturdy of strength he strove to outdo me, Hand-ready grappled. A glove was suspended Spacious and wondrous, in art-fetters fastened, Which was fashioned entirely by touch of the craftman 55 From the dragon's skin by the devil's devices: He down in its depths would do me unsadly One among many, deed-doer raging, Though sinless he saw me; not so could it happen When I in my anger upright did stand. 60 'Tis too long to recount how requital I furnished For every evil to the earlmen's destroyer; {I reflected honor upon my people.} 'Twas there, my prince, that I proudly distinguished Thy land with my labors. He left and retreated, He lived his life a little while longer: 65 Yet his right-hand guarded his footstep in Heorot, And sad-mooded thence to the sea-bottom fell he, Mournful in mind. For the might-rush of battle {King Hrothgar lavished gifts upon me.} The friend of the Scyldings, with gold that was plated, With ornaments many, much requited me, 70 When daylight had dawned, and down to the banquet We had sat us together. There was chanting and joyance: The age-stricken Scylding asked many questions [72] And of old-times related; oft light-ringing harp-strings, Joy-telling wood, were touched by the brave one; 75 Now he uttered measures, mourning and truthful, Then the large-hearted land-king a legend of wonder Truthfully told us. Now troubled with years {The old king is sad over the loss of his youthful vigor.} The age-hoary warrior afterward began to Mourn for the might that marked him in youth-days; 80 His breast within boiled, when burdened with winters Much he remembered. From morning till night then We joyed us therein as etiquette suffered, Till the second night season came unto earth-folk. Then early thereafter, the mother of Grendel {Grendel's mother.} 85 Was ready for vengeance, wretched she journeyed; Her son had death ravished, the wrath of the Geatmen. The horrible woman avengèd her offspring, And with mighty mainstrength murdered a hero. {Æschere falls a prey to her vengeance.} There the spirit of Æschere, agèd adviser, 90 Was ready to vanish; nor when morn had lightened Were they anywise suffered to consume him with fire, Folk of the Danemen, the death-weakened hero, Nor the belovèd liegeman to lay on the pyre; {She suffered not his body to be burned, but ate it.} She the corpse had offcarried in the clutch of the foeman[2] 95 'Neath mountain-brook's flood. To Hrothgar 'twas saddest Of pains that ever had preyed on the chieftain; By the life of thee the land-prince then me[3] Besought very sadly, in sea-currents' eddies To display my prowess, to peril my safety, 100 Might-deeds accomplish; much did he promise. {I sought the creature in her den,} I found then the famous flood-current's cruel, Horrible depth-warder. A while unto us two [73] Hand was in common; the currents were seething With gore that was clotted, and Grendel's fierce mother's {and hewed her head off.} 105 Head I offhacked in the hall at the bottom With huge-reaching sword-edge, hardly I wrested My life from her clutches; not doomed was I then, {Jewels were freely bestowed upon me.} But the warden of earlmen afterward gave me Jewels in quantity, kinsman of Healfdene. [1] For 'lifigende' (2063), a mere conjecture, 'wígende' has been suggested. The line would then read: _Escapeth by fighting, knows the land thoroughly_. [2] For 'fæðmum,' Gr.'s conjecture, B. proposes 'færunga.' These three half-verses would then read: _She bore off the corpse of her foe suddenly under the mountain-torrent_. [3] The phrase 'þíne lýfe' (2132) was long rendered '_with thy (presupposed) permission_.' The verse would read: _The land-prince then sadly besought me, with thy (presupposed) permission, etc_. XXXI. GIFT-GIVING IS MUTUAL. "So the belovèd land-prince lived in decorum; I had missed no rewards, no meeds of my prowess, But he gave me jewels, regarding my wishes, Healfdene his bairn; I'll bring them to thee, then, {All my gifts I lay at thy feet.} 5 Atheling of earlmen, offer them gladly. And still unto thee is all my affection:[1] But few of my folk-kin find I surviving But thee, dear Higelac!" Bade he in then to carry[2] The boar-image, banner, battle-high helmet, 10 Iron-gray armor, the excellent weapon, {This armor I have belonged of yore to Heregar.} In song-measures said: "This suit-for-the-battle Hrothgar presented me, bade me expressly, Wise-mooded atheling, thereafter to tell thee[3] The whole of its history, said King Heregar owned it, 15 Dane-prince for long: yet he wished not to give then [74] The mail to his son, though dearly he loved him, Hereward the hardy. Hold all in joyance!" I heard that there followed hard on the jewels Two braces of stallions of striking resemblance, 20 Dappled and yellow; he granted him usance Of horses and treasures. So a kinsman should bear him, No web of treachery weave for another, Nor by cunning craftiness cause the destruction {Higelac loves his nephew Beowulf.} Of trusty companion. Most precious to Higelac, 25 The bold one in battle, was the bairn of his sister, And each unto other mindful of favors. {Beowulf gives Hygd the necklace that Wealhtheow had given him.} I am told that to Hygd he proffered the necklace, Wonder-gem rare that Wealhtheow gave him, The troop-leader's daughter, a trio of horses 30 Slender and saddle-bright; soon did the jewel Embellish her bosom, when the beer-feast was over. So Ecgtheow's bairn brave did prove him, {Beowulf is famous.} War-famous man, by deeds that were valiant, He lived in honor, belovèd companions 35 Slew not carousing; his mood was not cruel, But by hand-strength hugest of heroes then living The brave one retained the bountiful gift that The Lord had allowed him. Long was he wretched, So that sons of the Geatmen accounted him worthless, 40 And the lord of the liegemen loth was to do him Mickle of honor, when mead-cups were passing; They fully believed him idle and sluggish, {He is requited for the slights suffered in earlier days.} An indolent atheling: to the honor-blest man there Came requital for the cuts he had suffered. 45 The folk-troop's defender bade fetch to the building The heirloom of Hrethel, embellished with gold, {Higelac overwhelms the conqueror with gifts.} So the brave one enjoined it; there was jewel no richer In the form of a weapon 'mong Geats of that era; In Beowulf's keeping he placed it and gave him 50 Seven of thousands, manor and lordship. Common to both was land 'mong the people, [75] Estate and inherited rights and possessions, To the second one specially spacious dominions, To the one who was better. It afterward happened 55 In days that followed, befell the battle-thanes, {After Heardred's death, Beowulf becomes king.} After Higelac's death, and when Heardred was murdered With weapons of warfare 'neath well-covered targets, When valiant battlemen in victor-band sought him, War-Scylfing heroes harassed the nephew 60 Of Hereric in battle. To Beowulf's keeping Turned there in time extensive dominions: {He rules the Geats fifty years.} He fittingly ruled them a fifty of winters (He a man-ruler wise was, manor-ward old) till A certain one 'gan, on gloom-darkening nights, a {The fire-drake.} 65 Dragon, to govern, who guarded a treasure, A high-rising stone-cliff, on heath that was grayish: A path 'neath it lay, unknown unto mortals. Some one of earthmen entered the mountain, The heathenish hoard laid hold of with ardor; 70 *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * [1] This verse B. renders, '_Now serve I again thee alone as my gracious king_.' [2] For 'eafor' (2153), Kl. suggests 'ealdor.' Translate then: _Bade the prince then to bear in the banner, battle-high helmet, etc_. On the other hand, W. takes 'eaforhéafodsegn' as a compound, meaning 'helmet': _He bade them bear in the helmet, battle-high helm, gray armor, etc_. [3] The H.-So. rendering (ærest = _history, origin_; 'eft' for 'est'), though liable to objection, is perhaps the best offered. 'That I should very early tell thee of his favor, kindness' sounds well; but 'his' is badly placed to limit 'ést.'--Perhaps, 'eft' with verbs of saying may have the force of Lat. prefix 're,' and the H.-So. reading mean, 'that I should its origin rehearse to thee.' XXXII. THE HOARD AND THE DRAGON. *       *       *       *       *       *       * He sought of himself who sorely did harm him, But, for need very pressing, the servant of one of The sons of the heroes hate-blows evaded, 5 Seeking for shelter and the sin-driven warrior Took refuge within there. He early looked in it, *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * [76] *  *  *  *  *  * when the onset surprised him, {The hoard.} 10 He a gem-vessel saw there: many of suchlike Ancient ornaments in the earth-cave were lying, As in days of yore some one of men of Illustrious lineage, as a legacy monstrous, There had secreted them, careful and thoughtful, 15 Dear-valued jewels. Death had offsnatched them, In the days of the past, and the one man moreover Of the flower of the folk who fared there the longest, Was fain to defer it, friend-mourning warder, A little longer to be left in enjoyment 20 Of long-lasting treasure.[1] A barrow all-ready Stood on the plain the stream-currents nigh to, New by the ness-edge, unnethe of approaching: The keeper of rings carried within a [2]Ponderous deal of the treasure of nobles, 25 Of gold that was beaten, briefly he spake then:[3] {The ring-giver bewails the loss of retainers.} "Hold thou, O Earth, now heroes no more may, The earnings of earlmen. Lo! erst in thy bosom Worthy men won them; war-death hath ravished, Perilous life-bale, all my warriors, 30 Liegemen belovèd, who this life have forsaken, Who hall-pleasures saw. No sword-bearer have I, And no one to burnish the gold-plated vessel, The high-valued beaker: my heroes are vanished. The hardy helmet behung with gilding 35 Shall be reaved of its riches: the ring-cleansers slumber Who were charged to have ready visors-for-battle, And the burnie that bided in battle-encounter [77] O'er breaking of war-shields the bite of the edges Moulds with the hero. The ring-twisted armor, 40 Its lord being lifeless, no longer may journey Hanging by heroes; harp-joy is vanished, The rapture of glee-wood, no excellent falcon Swoops through the building, no swift-footed charger Grindeth the gravel. A grievous destruction 45 No few of the world-folk widely hath scattered!" So, woful of spirit one after all Lamented mournfully, moaning in sadness By day and by night, till death with its billows {The fire-dragon} Dashed on his spirit. Then the ancient dusk-scather 50 Found the great treasure standing all open, He who flaming and fiery flies to the barrows, Naked war-dragon, nightly escapeth Encompassed with fire; men under heaven Widely beheld him. 'Tis said that he looks for[4] 55 The hoard in the earth, where old he is guarding The heathenish treasure; he'll be nowise the better. {The dragon meets his match.} So three-hundred winters the waster of peoples Held upon earth that excellent hoard-hall, Till the forementioned earlman angered him bitterly: 60 The beat-plated beaker he bare to his chieftain And fullest remission for all his remissness Begged of his liegelord. Then the hoard[5] was discovered, The treasure was taken, his petition was granted {The hero plunders the dragon's den} The lorn-mooded liegeman. His lord regarded 65 The old-work of earth-folk--'twas the earliest occasion. When the dragon awoke, the strife was renewed there; He snuffed 'long the stone then, stout-hearted found he [78] The footprint of foeman; too far had he gone With cunning craftiness close to the head of 70 The fire-spewing dragon. So undoomed he may 'scape from Anguish and exile with ease who possesseth The favor of Heaven. The hoard-warden eagerly Searched o'er the ground then, would meet with the person That caused him sorrow while in slumber reclining: 75 Gleaming and wild he oft went round the cavern, All of it outward; not any of earthmen Was seen in that desert.[6] Yet he joyed in the battle, Rejoiced in the conflict: oft he turned to the barrow, Sought for the gem-cup;[7] this he soon perceived then {The dragon perceives that some one has disturbed his treasure.} 80 That some man or other had discovered the gold, The famous folk-treasure. Not fain did the hoard-ward Wait until evening; then the ward of the barrow Was angry in spirit, the loathèd one wished to Pay for the dear-valued drink-cup with fire. 85 Then the day was done as the dragon would have it, He no longer would wait on the wall, but departed {The dragon is infuriated.} Fire-impelled, flaming. Fearful the start was To earls in the land, as it early thereafter To their giver-of-gold was grievously ended. [1] For 'long-gestréona,' B. suggests 'láengestréona,' and renders, _Of fleeting treasures_. S. accepts H.'s 'long-gestréona,' but renders, _The treasure long in accumulating_. [2] For 'hard-fyrdne' (2246), B. first suggested 'hard-fyndne,' rendering: _A heap of treasures ... so great that its equal would be hard to find_. The same scholar suggests later 'hord-wynne dæl' = _A deal of treasure-joy_. [3] Some read 'fec-word' (2247), and render: _Banning words uttered_. [4] An earlier reading of H.'s gave the following meaning to this passage: _He is said to inhabit a mound under the earth, where he, etc._ The translation in the text is more authentic. [5] The repetition of 'hord' in this passage has led some scholars to suggest new readings to avoid the second 'hord.' This, however, is not under the main stress, and, it seems to me, might easily be accepted. [6] The reading of H.-So. is well defended in the notes to that volume. B. emends and renders: _Nor was there any man in that desert who rejoiced in conflict, in battle-work._ That is, the hoard-ward could not find any one who had disturbed his slumbers, for no warrior was there, t.B.'s emendation would give substantially the same translation. [7] 'Sinc-fæt' (2301): this word both here and in v. 2232, t.B. renders 'treasure.' XXXIII. BRAVE THOUGH AGED.--REMINISCENCES. {The dragon spits fire.} The stranger began then to vomit forth fire, To burn the great manor; the blaze then glimmered For anguish to earlmen, not anything living [79] Was the hateful air-goer willing to leave there. 5 The war of the worm widely was noticed, The feud of the foeman afar and anear, How the enemy injured the earls of the Geatmen, Harried with hatred: back he hied to the treasure, To the well-hidden cavern ere the coming of daylight. 10 He had circled with fire the folk of those regions, With brand and burning; in the barrow he trusted, In the wall and his war-might: the weening deceived him. {Beowulf hears of the havoc wrought by the dragon.} Then straight was the horror to Beowulf published, Early forsooth, that his own native homestead,[1] 15 The best of buildings, was burning and melting, Gift-seat of Geatmen. 'Twas a grief to the spirit Of the good-mooded hero, the greatest of sorrows: {He fears that Heaven is punishing him for some crime.} The wise one weened then that wielding his kingdom 'Gainst the ancient commandments, he had bitterly angered 20 The Lord everlasting: with lorn meditations His bosom welled inward, as was nowise his custom. The fire-spewing dragon fully had wasted The fastness of warriors, the water-land outward, The manor with fire. The folk-ruling hero, 25 Prince of the Weders, was planning to wreak him. The warmen's defender bade them to make him, Earlmen's atheling, an excellent war-shield {He orders an iron shield to be made from him, wood is useless.} Wholly of iron: fully he knew then That wood from the forest was helpless to aid him, 30 Shield against fire. The long-worthy ruler Must live the last of his limited earth-days, Of life in the world and the worm along with him, Though he long had been holding hoard-wealth in plenty. {He determines to fight alone.} Then the ring-prince disdained to seek with a war-band, 35 With army extensive, the air-going ranger; He felt no fear of the foeman's assaults and He counted for little the might of the dragon, [80] His power and prowess: for previously dared he {Beowulf's early triumphs referred to} A heap of hostility, hazarded dangers, 40 War-thane, when Hrothgar's palace he cleansèd, Conquering combatant, clutched in the battle The kinsmen of Grendel, of kindred detested.[2] {Higelac's death recalled.} 'Twas of hand-fights not least where Higelac was slaughtered, When the king of the Geatmen with clashings of battle, 45 Friend-lord of folks in Frisian dominions, Offspring of Hrethrel perished through sword-drink, With battle-swords beaten; thence Beowulf came then On self-help relying, swam through the waters; He bare on his arm, lone-going, thirty 50 Outfits of armor, when the ocean he mounted. The Hetwars by no means had need to be boastful Of their fighting afoot, who forward to meet him Carried their war-shields: not many returned from The brave-mooded battle-knight back to their homesteads. 55 Ecgtheow's bairn o'er the bight-courses swam then, Lone-goer lorn to his land-folk returning, Where Hygd to him tendered treasure and kingdom, {Heardred's lack of capacity to rule.} Rings and dominion: her son she not trusted, To be able to keep the kingdom devised him 60 'Gainst alien races, on the death of King Higelac. {Beowulf's tact and delicacy recalled.} Yet the sad ones succeeded not in persuading the atheling In any way ever, to act as a suzerain To Heardred, or promise to govern the kingdom; Yet with friendly counsel in the folk he sustained him, 65 Gracious, with honor, till he grew to be older, {Reference is here made to a visit which Beowulf receives from Eanmund and Eadgils, why they come is not known.} Wielded the Weders. Wide-fleeing outlaws, Ohthere's sons, sought him o'er the waters: They had stirred a revolt 'gainst the helm of the Scylfings, The best of the sea-kings, who in Swedish dominions 70 Distributed treasure, distinguished folk-leader. [81] 'Twas the end of his earth-days; injury fatal[3] By swing of the sword he received as a greeting, Offspring of Higelac; Ongentheow's bairn Later departed to visit his homestead, 75 When Heardred was dead; let Beowulf rule them, Govern the Geatmen: good was that folk-king. [1] 'Hám' (2326), the suggestion of B. is accepted by t.B. and other scholars. [2] For 'láðan cynnes' (2355), t.B. suggests 'láðan cynne,' apposition to 'mægum.' From syntactical and other considerations, this is a most excellent emendation. [3] Gr. read 'on feorme' (2386), rendering: _He there at the banquet a fatal wound received by blows of the sword._ XXXIV. BEOWULF SEEKS THE DRAGON.--BEOWULF'S REMINISCENCES. He planned requital for the folk-leader's ruin In days thereafter, to Eadgils the wretched Becoming an enemy. Ohthere's son then Went with a war-troop o'er the wide-stretching currents 5 With warriors and weapons: with woe-journeys cold he After avenged him, the king's life he took. {Beowulf has been preserved through many perils.} So he came off uninjured from all of his battles, Perilous fights, offspring of Ecgtheow, From his deeds of daring, till that day most momentous 10 When he fate-driven fared to fight with the dragon. {With eleven comrades, he seeks the dragon.} With eleven companions the prince of the Geatmen Went lowering with fury to look at the fire-drake: Inquiring he'd found how the feud had arisen, Hate to his heroes; the highly-famed gem-vessel 15 Was brought to his keeping through the hand of th' informer. {A guide leads the way, but} That in the throng was thirteenth of heroes, That caused the beginning of conflict so bitter, Captive and wretched, must sad-mooded thenceward {very reluctantly.} Point out the place: he passed then unwillingly 20 To the spot where he knew of the notable cavern, The cave under earth, not far from the ocean, The anger of eddies, which inward was full of Jewels and wires: a warden uncanny, [82] Warrior weaponed, wardered the treasure, 25 Old under earth; no easy possession For any of earth-folk access to get to. Then the battle-brave atheling sat on the naze-edge, While the gold-friend of Geatmen gracious saluted His fireside-companions: woe was his spirit, 30 Death-boding, wav'ring; Weird very near him, Who must seize the old hero, his soul-treasure look for, Dragging aloof his life from his body: Not flesh-hidden long was the folk-leader's spirit. Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son: {Beowulf's retrospect.} 35 "I survived in my youth-days many a conflict, Hours of onset: that all I remember. I was seven-winters old when the jewel-prince took me, High-lord of heroes, at the hands of my father, Hrethel the hero-king had me in keeping, {Hrethel took me when I was seven.} 40 Gave me treasure and feasting, our kinship remembered; Not ever was I _any_ less dear to him {He treated me as a son.} Knight in the boroughs, than the bairns of his household, Herebald and Hæthcyn and Higelac mine. To the eldest unjustly by acts of a kinsman 45 Was murder-bed strewn, since him Hæthcyn from horn-bow {One of the brothers accidentally kills another.} His sheltering chieftain shot with an arrow, Erred in his aim and injured his kinsman, One brother the other, with blood-sprinkled spear: {No fee could compound for such a calamity.} 'Twas a feeless fight, finished in malice, 50 Sad to his spirit; the folk-prince however Had to part from existence with vengeance untaken. {[A parallel case is supposed.]} So to hoar-headed hero 'tis heavily crushing[1] [83] To live to see his son as he rideth Young on the gallows: then measures he chanteth, 55 A song of sorrow, when his son is hanging For the raven's delight, and aged and hoary He is unable to offer any assistance. Every morning his offspring's departure Is constant recalled: he cares not to wait for 60 The birth of an heir in his borough-enclosures, Since that one through death-pain the deeds hath experienced. He heart-grieved beholds in the house of his son the Wine-building wasted, the wind-lodging places Reaved of their roaring; the riders are sleeping, 65 The knights in the grave; there's no sound of the harp-wood, Joy in the yards, as of yore were familiar. [1] 'Gomelum ceorle' (2445).--H. takes these words as referring to Hrethel; but the translator here departs from his editor by understanding the poet to refer to a hypothetical old man, introduced as an illustration of a father's sorrow. Hrethrel had certainly never seen a son of his ride on the gallows to feed the crows. The passage beginning 'swá bið géomorlic' seems to be an effort to reach a full simile, 'as ... so.' 'As it is mournful for an old man, etc. ... so the defence of the Weders (2463) bore heart-sorrow, etc.' The verses 2451 to 2463-1/2 would be parenthetical, the poet's feelings being so strong as to interrupt the simile. The punctuation of the fourth edition would be better--a comma after 'galgan' (2447). The translation may be indicated as follows: _(Just) as it is sad for an old man to see his son ride young on the gallows when he himself is uttering mournful measures, a sorrowful song, while his son hangs for a comfort to the raven, and he, old and infirm, cannot render him any kelp--(he is constantly reminded, etc., 2451-2463)--so the defence of the Weders, etc._ XXXV. REMINISCENCES (_continued_).--BEOWULF'S LAST BATTLE. "He seeks then his chamber, singeth a woe-song One for the other; all too extensive Seemed homesteads and plains. So the helm of the Weders {Hrethel grieves for Herebald.} Mindful of Herebald heart-sorrow carried, 5 Stirred with emotion, nowise was able To wreak his ruin on the ruthless destroyer: He was unable to follow the warrior with hatred, With deeds that were direful, though dear he not held him. [84] Then pressed by the pang this pain occasioned him, 10 He gave up glee, God-light elected; He left to his sons, as the man that is rich does, His land and fortress, when from life he departed. {Strife between Swedes and Geats.} Then was crime and hostility 'twixt Swedes and Geatmen, O'er wide-stretching water warring was mutual, 15 Burdensome hatred, when Hrethel had perished, And Ongentheow's offspring were active and valiant, Wished not to hold to peace oversea, but Round Hreosna-beorh often accomplished Cruelest massacre. This my kinsman avengèd, 20 The feud and fury, as 'tis found on inquiry, Though one of them paid it with forfeit of life-joys, {Hæthcyn's fall at Ravenswood.} With price that was hard: the struggle became then Fatal to Hæthcyn, lord of the Geatmen. Then I heard that at morning one brother the other 25 With edges of irons egged on to murder, Where Ongentheow maketh onset on Eofor: The helmet crashed, the hoary-haired Scylfing Sword-smitten fell, his hand then remembered Feud-hate sufficient, refused not the death-blow. {I requited him for the jewels he gave me.} 30 The gems that he gave me, with jewel-bright sword I 'Quited in contest, as occasion was offered: Land he allowed me, life-joy at homestead, Manor to live on. Little he needed From Gepids or Danes or in Sweden to look for 35 Trooper less true, with treasure to buy him; 'Mong foot-soldiers ever in front I would hie me, Alone in the vanguard, and evermore gladly Warfare shall wage, while this weapon endureth That late and early often did serve me {Beowulf refers to his having slain Dæghrefn.} 40 When I proved before heroes the slayer of Dæghrefn, Knight of the Hugmen: he by no means was suffered To the king of the Frisians to carry the jewels, The breast-decoration; but the banner-possessor Bowed in the battle, brave-mooded atheling. [85] 45 No weapon was slayer, but war-grapple broke then The surge of his spirit, his body destroying. Now shall weapon's edge make war for the treasure, And hand and firm-sword." Beowulf spake then, Boast-words uttered--the latest occasion: {He boasts of his youthful prowess, and declares himself still fearless.} 50 "I braved in my youth-days battles unnumbered; Still am I willing the struggle to look for, Fame-deeds perform, folk-warden prudent, If the hateful despoiler forth from his cavern Seeketh me out!" Each of the heroes, 55 Helm-bearers sturdy, he thereupon greeted {His last salutations.} Belovèd co-liegemen--his last salutation: "No brand would I bear, no blade for the dragon, Wist I a way my word-boast to 'complish[1] Else with the monster, as with Grendel I did it; 60 But fire in the battle hot I expect there, Furious flame-burning: so I fixed on my body Target and war-mail. The ward of the barrow[2] I'll not flee from a foot-length, the foeman uncanny. At the wall 'twill befall us as Fate decreeth, {Let Fate decide between us.} 65 Each one's Creator. I am eager in spirit, With the wingèd war-hero to away with all boasting. Bide on the barrow with burnies protected, {Wait ye here till the battle is over.} Earls in armor, which of _us_ two may better Bear his disaster, when the battle is over. 70 'Tis no matter of yours, and man cannot do it, But me and me only, to measure his strength with The monster of malice, might-deeds to 'complish. I with prowess shall gain the gold, or the battle, [86] Direful death-woe will drag off your ruler!" 75 The mighty champion rose by his shield then, Brave under helmet, in battle-mail went he 'Neath steep-rising stone-cliffs, the strength he relied on Of one man alone: no work for a coward. Then he saw by the wall who a great many battles 80 Had lived through, most worthy, when foot-troops collided, {The place of strife is described.} Stone-arches standing, stout-hearted champion, Saw a brook from the barrow bubbling out thenceward: The flood of the fountain was fuming with war-flame: Not nigh to the hoard, for season the briefest 85 Could he brave, without burning, the abyss that was yawning, The drake was so fiery. The prince of the Weders Caused then that words came from his bosom, So fierce was his fury; the firm-hearted shouted: His battle-clear voice came in resounding 90 'Neath the gray-colored stone. Stirred was his hatred, {Beowulf calls out under the stone arches.} The hoard-ward distinguished the speech of a man; Time was no longer to look out for friendship. The breath of the monster issued forth first, Vapory war-sweat, out of the stone-cave: {The terrible encounter.} 95 The earth re-echoed. The earl 'neath the barrow Lifted his shield, lord of the Geatmen, Tow'rd the terrible stranger: the ring-twisted creature's Heart was then ready to seek for a struggle. {Beowulf brandishes his sword,} The excellent battle-king first brandished his weapon, 100 The ancient heirloom, of edges unblunted,[3] To the death-planners twain was terror from other. {and stands against his shield.} The lord of the troopers intrepidly stood then 'Gainst his high-rising shield, when the dragon coiled him {The dragon coils himself.} Quickly together: in corslet he bided. [87] 105 He went then in blazes, bended and striding, Hasting him forward. His life and body The targe well protected, for time-period shorter Than wish demanded for the well-renowned leader, Where he then for the first day was forced to be victor, 110 Famous in battle, as Fate had not willed it. The lord of the Geatmen uplifted his hand then, Smiting the fire-drake with sword that was precious, That bright on the bone the blade-edge did weaken, Bit more feebly than his folk-leader needed, 115 Burdened with bale-griefs. Then the barrow-protector, {The dragon rages} When the sword-blow had fallen, was fierce in his spirit, Flinging his fires, flamings of battle Gleamed then afar: the gold-friend of Weders {Beowulf's sword fails him.} Boasted no conquests, his battle-sword failed him 120 Naked in conflict, as by no means it ought to, Long-trusty weapon. 'Twas no slight undertaking That Ecgtheow's famous offspring would leave The drake-cavern's bottom; he must live in some region Other than this, by the will of the dragon, 125 As each one of earthmen existence must forfeit. 'Twas early thereafter the excellent warriors {The combat is renewed.} Met with each other. Anew and afresh The hoard-ward took heart (gasps heaved then his bosom): {The great hero is reduced to extremities.} Sorrow he suffered encircled with fire 130 Who the people erst governed. His companions by no means Were banded about him, bairns of the princes, {His comrades flee!} With valorous spirit, but they sped to the forest, Seeking for safety. The soul-deeps of one were {Blood is thicker than water.} Ruffled by care: kin-love can never 135 Aught in him waver who well doth consider. [88] [1] The clause 2520(2)-2522(1), rendered by 'Wist I ... monster,' Gr., followed by S., translates substantially as follows: _If I knew how else I might combat the boastful defiance of the monster_.--The translation turns upon 'wiðgrípan,' a word not understood. [2] B. emends and translates: _I will not flee the space of a foot from the guard of the barrow, but there shall be to us a fight at the wall, as fate decrees, each one's Creator._ [3] The translation of this passage is based on 'unsláw' (2565), accepted by H.-So., in lieu of the long-standing 'ungléaw.' The former is taken as an adj. limiting 'sweord'; the latter as an adj. c. 'gúð-cyning': _The good war-king, rash with edges, brandished his sword, his old relic._ The latter gives a more rhetorical Anglo-Saxon (poetical) sentence. XXXVI. WIGLAF THE TRUSTY.--BEOWULF IS DESERTED BY FRIENDS AND BY SWORD. {Wiglaf remains true--the ideal Teutonic liegeman.} The son of Weohstan was Wiglaf entitled, Shield-warrior precious, prince of the Scylfings, Ælfhere's kinsman: he saw his dear liegelord Enduring the heat 'neath helmet and visor. 5 Then he minded the holding that erst he had given him, {Wiglaf recalls Beowulf's generosity.} The Wægmunding warriors' wealth-blessèd homestead, Each of the folk-rights his father had wielded; He was hot for the battle, his hand seized the target, The yellow-bark shield, he unsheathed his old weapon, 10 Which was known among earthmen as the relic of Eanmund, Ohthere's offspring, whom, exiled and friendless, Weohstan did slay with sword-edge in battle, And carried his kinsman the clear-shining helmet, The ring-made burnie, the old giant-weapon 15 That Onela gave him, his boon-fellow's armor, Ready war-trappings: he the feud did not mention, Though he'd fatally smitten the son of his brother. Many a half-year held he the treasures, The bill and the burnie, till his bairn became able, 20 Like his father before him, fame-deeds to 'complish; Then he gave him 'mong Geatmen a goodly array of Weeds for his warfare; he went from life then Old on his journey. 'Twas the earliest time then {This is Wiglaf's first battle as liegeman of Beowulf.} That the youthful champion might charge in the battle 25 Aiding his liegelord; his spirit was dauntless. Nor did kinsman's bequest quail at the battle: This the dragon discovered on their coming together. Wiglaf uttered many a right-saying, Said to his fellows, sad was his spirit: {Wiglaf appeals to the pride of the cowards.} 30 "I remember the time when, tasting the mead-cup, We promised in the hall the lord of us all [89] Who gave us these ring-treasures, that this battle-equipment, Swords and helmets, we'd certainly quite him, Should need of such aid ever befall him: {How we have forfeited our liegelord's confidence!} 35 In the war-band he chose us for this journey spontaneously, Stirred us to glory and gave me these jewels, Since he held and esteemed us trust-worthy spearmen, Hardy helm-bearers, though this hero-achievement Our lord intended alone to accomplish, 40 Ward of his people, for most of achievements, Doings audacious, he did among earth-folk. {Our lord is in sore need of us.} The day is now come when the ruler of earthmen Needeth the vigor of valiant heroes: Let us wend us towards him, the war-prince to succor, 45 While the heat yet rageth, horrible fire-fight. {I would rather die than go home with out my suzerain.} God wot in me, 'tis mickle the liefer The blaze should embrace my body and eat it With my treasure-bestower. Meseemeth not proper To bear our battle-shields back to our country, 50 'Less first we are able to fell and destroy the Long-hating foeman, to defend the life of {Surely he does not deserve to die alone.} The prince of the Weders. Well do I know 'tisn't Earned by his exploits, he only of Geatmen Sorrow should suffer, sink in the battle: 55 Brand and helmet to us both shall be common, [1]Shield-cover, burnie." Through the bale-smoke he stalked then, Went under helmet to the help of his chieftain, {Wiglaf reminds Beowulf of his youthful boasts.} Briefly discoursing: "Beowulf dear, Perform thou all fully, as thou formerly saidst, 60 In thy youthful years, that while yet thou livedst [90] Thou wouldst let thine honor not ever be lessened. Thy life thou shalt save, mighty in actions, Atheling undaunted, with all of thy vigor; {The monster advances on them.} I'll give thee assistance." The dragon came raging, 65 Wild-mooded stranger, when these words had been uttered ('Twas the second occasion), seeking his enemies, Men that were hated, with hot-gleaming fire-waves; With blaze-billows burned the board to its edges: The fight-armor failed then to furnish assistance 70 To the youthful spear-hero: but the young-agèd stripling Quickly advanced 'neath his kinsman's war-target, Since his own had been ground in the grip of the fire. {Beowulf strikes at the dragon.} Then the warrior-king was careful of glory, He soundly smote with sword-for-the-battle, 75 That it stood in the head by hatred driven; Nægling was shivered, the old and iron-made {His sword fails him.} Brand of Beowulf in battle deceived him. 'Twas denied him that edges of irons were able To help in the battle; the hand was too mighty 80 [2]Which every weapon, as I heard on inquiry, Outstruck in its stroke, when to struggle he carried The wonderful war-sword: it waxed him no better. {The dragon advances on Beowulf again.} Then the people-despoiler--third of his onsets-- Fierce-raging fire-drake, of feud-hate was mindful, 85 Charged on the strong one, when chance was afforded, Heated and war-grim, seized on his neck With teeth that were bitter; he bloody did wax with Soul-gore seething; sword-blood in waves boiled. [1] The passage '_Brand ... burnie_,' is much disputed. In the first place, some eminent critics assume a gap of at least two half-verses.--'Úrum' (2660), being a peculiar form, has been much discussed. 'Byrdu-scrúd' is also a crux. B. suggests 'býwdu-scrúd' = _splendid vestments_. Nor is 'bám' accepted by all, 'béon' being suggested. Whatever the individual words, the passage must mean, "_I intend to share with him my equipments of defence_." [2] B. would render: _Which, as I heard, excelled in stroke every sword that he carried to the strife, even the strongest (sword)._ For 'Þonne' he reads 'Þone,' rel. pr. [91] XXXVII. THE FATAL STRUGGLE.--BEOWULF'S LAST MOMENTS. {Wiglaf defends Beowulf.} Then I heard that at need of the king of the people The upstanding earlman exhibited prowess, Vigor and courage, as suited his nature; [1]He his head did not guard, but the high-minded liegeman's 5 Hand was consumed, when he succored his kinsman, So he struck the strife-bringing strange-comer lower, Earl-thane in armor, that _in_ went the weapon Gleaming and plated, that 'gan then the fire[2] {Beowulf draws his knife,} Later to lessen. The liegelord himself then 10 Retained his consciousness, brandished his war-knife, Battle-sharp, bitter, that he bare on his armor: {and cuts the dragon.} The Weder-lord cut the worm in the middle. They had felled the enemy (life drove out then[3] Puissant prowess), the pair had destroyed him, 15 Land-chiefs related: so a liegeman should prove him, A thaneman when needed. To the prince 'twas the last of His era of conquest by his own great achievements, [92] {Beowulf's wound swells and burns.} The latest of world-deeds. The wound then began Which the earth-dwelling dragon erstwhile had wrought him 20 To burn and to swell. He soon then discovered That bitterest bale-woe in his bosom was raging, Poison within. The atheling advanced then, {He sits down exhausted.} That along by the wall, he prudent of spirit Might sit on a settle; he saw the giant-work, 25 How arches of stone strengthened with pillars The earth-hall eternal inward supported. Then the long-worthy liegeman laved with his hand the {Wiglaf bathes his lord's head.} Far-famous chieftain, gory from sword-edge, Refreshing the face of his friend-lord and ruler, 30 Sated with battle, unbinding his helmet. Beowulf answered, of his injury spake he, His wound that was fatal (he was fully aware He had lived his allotted life-days enjoying The pleasures of earth; then past was entirely 35 His measure of days, death very near): {Beowulf regrets that he has no son.} "My son I would give now my battle-equipments, Had any of heirs been after me granted, Along of my body. This people I governed Fifty of winters: no king 'mong my neighbors 40 Dared to encounter me with comrades-in-battle, Try me with terror. The time to me ordered I bided at home, mine own kept fitly, Sought me no snares, swore me not many {I can rejoice in a well-spent life.} Oaths in injustice. Joy over all this 45 I'm able to have, though ill with my death-wounds; Hence the Ruler of Earthmen need not charge me With the killing of kinsmen, when cometh my life out Forth from my body. Fare thou with haste now {Bring me the hoard, Wiglaf, that my dying eyes may be refreshed by a sight of it.} To behold the hoard 'neath the hoar-grayish stone, 50 Well-lovèd Wiglaf, now the worm is a-lying, Sore-wounded sleepeth, disseized of his treasure. Go thou in haste that treasures of old I, Gold-wealth may gaze on, together see lying [93] The ether-bright jewels, be easier able, 55 Having the heap of hoard-gems, to yield my Life and the land-folk whom long I have governed." [1] B. renders: _He_ (_W_.) did not regard his (_the dragon's_) _head_ (since Beowulf had struck it without effect), _but struck the dragon a little lower down.--_One crux is to find out _whose head_ is meant; another is to bring out the antithesis between 'head' and 'hand.' [2] 'Þæt þæt fýr' (2702), S. emends to 'þá þæt fýr' = _when the fire began to grow less intense afterward_. This emendation relieves the passage of a plethora of conjunctive _þæt_'s. [3] For 'gefyldan' (2707), S. proposes 'gefylde.' The passage would read: _He felled the foe (life drove out strength), and they then both had destroyed him, chieftains related_. This gives Beowulf the credit of having felled the dragon; then they combine to annihilate him.--For 'ellen' (2707), Kl. suggests 'e(a)llne.'--The reading '_life drove out strength_' is very unsatisfactory and very peculiar. I would suggest as follows: Adopt S.'s emendation, remove H.'s parenthesis, read 'ferh-ellen wræc,' and translate: _He felled the foe, drove out his life-strength_ (that is, made him _hors de combat_), _and then they both, etc_. XXXVIII. WIGLAF PLUNDERS THE DRAGON'S DEN.--BEOWULF'S DEATH. {Wiglaf fulfils his lord's behest.} Then heard I that Wihstan's son very quickly, These words being uttered, heeded his liegelord Wounded and war-sick, went in his armor, His well-woven ring-mail, 'neath the roof of the barrow. 5 Then the trusty retainer treasure-gems many {The dragon's den.} Victorious saw, when the seat he came near to, Gold-treasure sparkling spread on the bottom, Wonder on the wall, and the worm-creature's cavern, The ancient dawn-flier's, vessels a-standing, 10 Cups of the ancients of cleansers bereavèd, Robbed of their ornaments: there were helmets in numbers, Old and rust-eaten, arm-bracelets many, Artfully woven. Wealth can easily, Gold on the sea-bottom, turn into vanity[1] 15 Each one of earthmen, arm him who pleaseth! And he saw there lying an all-golden banner High o'er the hoard, of hand-wonders greatest, Linkèd with lacets: a light from it sparkled, That the floor of the cavern he was able to look on, {The dragon is not there.} 20 To examine the jewels. Sight of the dragon [94] Not any was offered, but edge offcarried him. {Wiglaf bears the hoard away.} Then I heard that the hero the hoard-treasure plundered, The giant-work ancient reaved in the cavern, Bare on his bosom the beakers and platters, 25 As himself would fain have it, and took off the standard, The brightest of beacons;[2] the bill had erst injured (Its edge was of iron), the old-ruler's weapon, Him who long had watched as ward of the jewels, Who fire-terror carried hot for the treasure, 30 Rolling in battle, in middlemost darkness, Till murdered he perished. The messenger hastened, Not loth to return, hurried by jewels: Curiosity urged him if, excellent-mooded, Alive he should find the lord of the Weders 35 Mortally wounded, at the place where he left him. 'Mid the jewels he found then the famous old chieftain, His liegelord belovèd, at his life's-end gory: He thereupon 'gan to lave him with water, Till the point of his word piercèd his breast-hoard. 40 Beowulf spake (the gold-gems he noticed), {Beowulf is rejoiced to see the jewels.} The old one in sorrow: "For the jewels I look on Thanks do I utter for all to the Ruler, Wielder of Worship, with words of devotion, The Lord everlasting, that He let me such treasures 45 Gain for my people ere death overtook me. Since I've bartered the agèd life to me granted For treasure of jewels, attend ye henceforward {He desires to be held in memory by his people.} The wants of the war-thanes; I can wait here no longer. The battle-famed bid ye to build them a grave-hill, 50 Bright when I'm burned, at the brim-current's limit; As a memory-mark to the men I have governed, [95] Aloft it shall tower on Whale's-Ness uprising, That earls of the ocean hereafter may call it Beowulf's barrow, those who barks ever-dashing 55 From a distance shall drive o'er the darkness of waters." {The hero's last gift} The bold-mooded troop-lord took from his neck then The ring that was golden, gave to his liegeman, The youthful war-hero, his gold-flashing helmet, His collar and war-mail, bade him well to enjoy them: {and last words.} 60 "Thou art latest left of the line of our kindred, Of Wægmunding people: Weird hath offcarried All of my kinsmen to the Creator's glory, Earls in their vigor: I shall after them fare." 'Twas the aged liegelord's last-spoken word in 65 His musings of spirit, ere he mounted the fire, The battle-waves burning: from his bosom departed His soul to seek the sainted ones' glory. [1] The word 'oferhígian' (2767) being vague and little understood, two quite distinct translations of this passage have arisen. One takes 'oferhígian' as meaning 'to exceed,' and, inserting 'hord' after 'gehwone,' renders: _The treasure may easily, the gold in the ground, exceed in value every hoard of man, hide it who will._ The other takes 'oferhígian' as meaning 'to render arrogant,' and, giving the sentence a moralizing tone, renders substantially as in the body of this work. (Cf. 28_13 et seq.) [2] The passage beginning here is very much disputed. 'The bill of the old lord' is by some regarded as Beowulf's sword; by others, as that of the ancient possessor of the hoard. 'Ær gescód' (2778), translated in this work as verb and adverb, is by some regarded as a compound participial adj. = _sheathed in brass_. XXXIX. THE DEAD FOES.--WIGLAF'S BITTER TAUNTS. {Wiglaf is sorely grieved to see his lord look so un-warlike.} It had wofully chanced then the youthful retainer To behold on earth the most ardent-belovèd At his life-days' limit, lying there helpless. The slayer too lay there, of life all bereavèd, 5 Horrible earth-drake, harassed with sorrow: {The dragon has plundered his last hoard.} The round-twisted monster was permitted no longer To govern the ring-hoards, but edges of war-swords Mightily seized him, battle-sharp, sturdy Leavings of hammers, that still from his wounds 10 The flier-from-farland fell to the earth Hard by his hoard-house, hopped he at midnight Not e'er through the air, nor exulting in jewels Suffered them to see him: but he sank then to earthward Through the hero-chief's handwork. I heard sure it throve then [96] {Few warriors dared to face the monster.} 15 But few in the land of liegemen of valor, Though of every achievement bold he had proved him, To run 'gainst the breath of the venomous scather, Or the hall of the treasure to trouble with hand-blows, If he watching had found the ward of the hoard-hall 20 On the barrow abiding. Beowulf's part of The treasure of jewels was paid for with death; Each of the twain had attained to the end of Life so unlasting. Not long was the time till {The cowardly thanes come out of the thicket.} The tardy-at-battle returned from the thicket, 25 The timid truce-breakers ten all together, Who durst not before play with the lances In the prince of the people's pressing emergency; {They are ashamed of their desertion.} But blushing with shame, with shields they betook them, With arms and armor where the old one was lying: 30 They gazed upon Wiglaf. He was sitting exhausted, Foot-going fighter, not far from the shoulders Of the lord of the people, would rouse him with water; No whit did it help him; though he hoped for it keenly, He was able on earth not at all in the leader 35 Life to retain, and nowise to alter The will of the Wielder; the World-Ruler's power[1] Would govern the actions of each one of heroes, {Wiglaf is ready to excoriate them.} As yet He is doing. From the young one forthwith then Could grim-worded greeting be got for him quickly 40 Whose courage had failed him. Wiglaf discoursed then, Weohstan his son, sad-mooded hero, {He begins to taunt them.} Looked on the hated: "He who soothness will utter Can say that the liegelord who gave you the jewels, The ornament-armor wherein ye are standing, 45 When on ale-bench often he offered to hall-men Helmet and burnie, the prince to his liegemen, As best upon earth he was able to find him,-- [97] {Surely our lord wasted his armor on poltroons.} That he wildly wasted his war-gear undoubtedly When battle o'ertook him.[2] The troop-king no need had 50 To glory in comrades; yet God permitted him, {He, however, got along without you} Victory-Wielder, with weapon unaided Himself to avenge, when vigor was needed. I life-protection but little was able To give him in battle, and I 'gan, notwithstanding, {With some aid, I could have saved our liegelord} 55 Helping my kinsman (my strength overtaxing): He waxed the weaker when with weapon I smote on My mortal opponent, the fire less strongly Flamed from his bosom. Too few of protectors Came round the king at the critical moment. {Gift-giving is over with your people: the ring-lord is dead.} 60 Now must ornament-taking and weapon-bestowing, Home-joyance all, cease for your kindred, Food for the people; each of your warriors Must needs be bereavèd of rights that he holdeth In landed possessions, when faraway nobles 65 Shall learn of your leaving your lord so basely, {What is life without honor?} The dastardly deed. Death is more pleasant To every earlman than infamous life is!" [1] For 'dædum rædan' (2859) B. suggests 'déað árædan,' and renders: _The might (or judgment) of God would determine death for every man, as he still does._ [2] Some critics, H. himself in earlier editions, put the clause, 'When ... him' (A.-S. 'þá ... beget') with the following sentence; that is, they make it dependent upon 'þorfte' (2875) instead of upon 'forwurpe' (2873). XL. THE MESSENGER OF DEATH. {Wiglaf sends the news of Beowulf's death to liegemen near by.} Then he charged that the battle be announced at the hedge Up o'er the cliff-edge, where the earl-troopers bided The whole of the morning, mood-wretched sat them, Bearers of battle-shields, both things expecting, 5 The end of his lifetime and the coming again of The liegelord belovèd. Little reserved he Of news that was known, who the ness-cliff did travel, But he truly discoursed to all that could hear him: [98] {The messenger speaks.} "Now the free-giving friend-lord of the folk of the Weders, 10 The folk-prince of Geatmen, is fast in his death-bed, By the deeds of the dragon in death-bed abideth; Along with him lieth his life-taking foeman Slain with knife-wounds: he was wholly unable To injure at all the ill-planning monster {Wiglaf sits by our dead lord.} 15 With bite of his sword-edge. Wiglaf is sitting, Offspring of Wihstan, up over Beowulf, Earl o'er another whose end-day hath reached him, Head-watch holdeth o'er heroes unliving,[1] {Our lord's death will lead to attacks from our old foes.} For friend and for foeman. The folk now expecteth 20 A season of strife when the death of the folk-king To Frankmen and Frisians in far-lands is published. The war-hatred waxed warm 'gainst the Hugmen, {Higelac's death recalled.} When Higelac came with an army of vessels Faring to Friesland, where the Frankmen in battle 25 Humbled him and bravely with overmight 'complished That the mail-clad warrior must sink in the battle, Fell 'mid his folk-troop: no fret-gems presented The atheling to earlmen; aye was denied us Merewing's mercy. The men of the Swedelands 30 For truce or for truth trust I but little; But widely 'twas known that near Ravenswood Ongentheow {Hæthcyn's fall referred to.} Sundered Hæthcyn the Hrethling from life-joys, When for pride overweening the War-Scylfings first did Seek the Geatmen with savage intentions. 35 Early did Ohthere's age-laden father, Old and terrible, give blow in requital, Killing the sea-king, the queen-mother rescued, The old one his consort deprived of her gold, Onela's mother and Ohthere's also, [99] 40 And then followed the feud-nursing foemen till hardly, Reaved of their ruler, they Ravenswood entered. Then with vast-numbered forces he assaulted the remnant, Weary with wounds, woe often promised The livelong night to the sad-hearted war-troop: 45 Said he at morning would kill them with edges of weapons, Some on the gallows for glee to the fowls. Aid came after to the anxious-in-spirit At dawn of the day, after Higelac's bugle And trumpet-sound heard they, when the good one proceeded 50 And faring followed the flower of the troopers. [1] 'Hige-méðum' (2910) is glossed by H. as dat. plu. (= for the dead). S. proposes 'hige-méðe,' nom. sing. limiting Wigláf; i.e. _W., mood-weary, holds head-watch o'er friend and foe_.--B. suggests taking the word as dat. inst. plu. of an abstract noun in -'u.' The translation would be substantially the same as S.'s. XLI. THE MESSENGER'S RETROSPECT. {The messenger continues, and refers to the feuds of Swedes and Geats.} "The blood-stainèd trace of Swedes and Geatmen, The death-rush of warmen, widely was noticed, How the folks with each other feud did awaken. The worthy one went then[1] with well-beloved comrades, 5 Old and dejected to go to the fastness, Ongentheo earl upward then turned him; Of Higelac's battle he'd heard on inquiry, The exultant one's prowess, despaired of resistance, With earls of the ocean to be able to struggle, 10 'Gainst sea-going sailors to save the hoard-treasure, His wife and his children; he fled after thenceward Old 'neath the earth-wall. Then was offered pursuance To the braves of the Swedemen, the banner[2] to Higelac. [100] They fared then forth o'er the field-of-protection, 15 When the Hrethling heroes hedgeward had thronged them. Then with edges of irons was Ongentheow driven, The gray-haired to tarry, that the troop-ruler had to Suffer the power solely of Eofor: {Wulf wounds Ongentheow.} Wulf then wildly with weapon assaulted him, 20 Wonred his son, that for swinge of the edges The blood from his body burst out in currents, Forth 'neath his hair. He feared not however, Gray-headed Scylfing, but speedily quited {Ongentheow gives a stout blow in return.} The wasting wound-stroke with worse exchange, 25 When the king of the thane-troop thither did turn him: The wise-mooded son of Wonred was powerless To give a return-blow to the age-hoary man, But his head-shielding helmet first hewed he to pieces, That flecked with gore perforce he did totter, 30 Fell to the earth; not fey was he yet then, But up did he spring though an edge-wound had reached him. {Eofor smites Ongentheow fiercely.} Then Higelac's vassal, valiant and dauntless, When his brother lay dead, made his broad-bladed weapon, Giant-sword ancient, defence of the giants, 35 Bound o'er the shield-wall; the folk-prince succumbed then, {Ongentheow is slain.} Shepherd of people, was pierced to the vitals. There were many attendants who bound up his kinsman, Carried him quickly when occasion was granted That the place of the slain they were suffered to manage. 40 This pending, one hero plundered the other, His armor of iron from Ongentheow ravished, His hard-sword hilted and helmet together; {Eofor takes the old king's war-gear to Higelac.} The old one's equipments he carried to Higelac. He the jewels received, and rewards 'mid the troopers 45 Graciously promised, and so did accomplish: The king of the Weders requited the war-rush, Hrethel's descendant, when home he repaired him, {Higelac rewards the brothers.} To Eofor and Wulf with wide-lavished treasures, To each of them granted a hundred of thousands [101] 50 In land and rings wrought out of wire: {His gifts were beyond cavil.} None upon mid-earth needed to twit him[3] With the gifts he gave them, when glory they conquered; {To Eofor he also gives his only daughter in marriage.} And to Eofor then gave he his one only daughter, The honor of home, as an earnest of favor. 55 That's the feud and hatred--as ween I 'twill happen-- The anger of earthmen, that earls of the Swedemen Will visit on us, when they hear that our leader Lifeless is lying, he who longtime protected His hoard and kingdom 'gainst hating assailers, 60 Who on the fall of the heroes defended of yore The deed-mighty Scyldings,[4] did for the troopers What best did avail them, and further moreover {It is time for us to pay the last marks of respect to our lord.} Hero-deeds 'complished. Now is haste most fitting, That the lord of liegemen we look upon yonder, 65 And _that_ one carry on journey to death-pyre Who ring-presents gave us. Not aught of it all Shall melt with the brave one--there's a mass of bright jewels, Gold beyond measure, grewsomely purchased And ending it all ornament-rings too 70 Bought with his life; these fire shall devour, Flame shall cover, no earlman shall wear A jewel-memento, nor beautiful virgin Have on her neck rings to adorn her, But wretched in spirit bereavèd of gold-gems 75 She shall oft with others be exiled and banished, Since the leader of liegemen hath laughter forsaken, [102] Mirth and merriment. Hence many a war-spear Cold from the morning shall be clutched in the fingers, Heaved in the hand, no harp-music's sound shall 80 Waken the warriors, but the wan-coated raven Fain over fey ones freely shall gabble, Shall say to the eagle how he sped in the eating, When, the wolf his companion, he plundered the slain." So the high-minded hero was rehearsing these stories 85 Loathsome to hear; he lied as to few of {The warriors go sadly to look at Beowulf's lifeless body.} Weirds and of words. All the war-troop arose then, 'Neath the Eagle's Cape sadly betook them, Weeping and woful, the wonder to look at. They saw on the sand then soulless a-lying, 90 His slaughter-bed holding, him who rings had given them In days that were done; then the death-bringing moment Was come to the good one, that the king very warlike, Wielder of Weders, with wonder-death perished. First they beheld there a creature more wondrous, {They also see the dragon.} 95 The worm on the field, in front of them lying, The foeman before them: the fire-spewing dragon, Ghostly and grisly guest in his terrors, Was scorched in the fire; as he lay there he measured Fifty of feet; came forth in the night-time[5] 100 To rejoice in the air, thereafter departing To visit his den; he in death was then fastened, He would joy in no other earth-hollowed caverns. There stood round about him beakers and vessels, Dishes were lying and dear-valued weapons, 105 With iron-rust eaten, as in earth's mighty bosom A thousand of winters there they had rested: {The hoard was under a magic spell.} That mighty bequest then with magic was guarded, Gold of the ancients, that earlman not any The ring-hall could touch, save Ruling-God only, [103] 110 Sooth-king of Vict'ries gave whom He wished to {God alone could give access to it.} [6](He is earth-folk's protector) to open the treasure, E'en to such among mortals as seemed to Him proper. [1] For 'góda,' which seems a surprising epithet for a Geat to apply to the "terrible" Ongentheow, B. suggests 'gomela.' The passage would then stand: '_The old one went then,' etc._ [2] For 'segn Higeláce,' K., Th., and B. propose 'segn Higeláces,' meaning: _Higelac's banner followed the Swedes (in pursuit)._--S. suggests 'sæcc Higeláces,' and renders: _Higelac's pursuit._--The H.-So. reading, as translated in our text, means that the banner of the enemy was captured and brought to Higelac as a trophy. [3] The rendering given in this translation represents the king as being generous beyond the possibility of reproach; but some authorities construe 'him' (2996) as plu., and understand the passage to mean that no one reproached the two brothers with having received more reward than they were entitled to. [4] The name 'Scyldingas' here (3006) has caused much discussion, and given rise to several theories, the most important of which are as follows: (1) After the downfall of Hrothgar's family, Beowulf was king of the Danes, or Scyldings. (2) For 'Scyldingas' read 'Scylfingas'--that is, after killing Eadgils, the Scylfing prince, Beowulf conquered his land, and held it in subjection. (3) M. considers 3006 a thoughtless repetition of 2053. (Cf. H.-So.) [5] B. takes 'nihtes' and 'hwílum' (3045) as separate adverbial cases, and renders: _Joy in the air had he of yore by night, etc_. He thinks that the idea of vanished time ought to be expressed. [6] The parenthesis is by some emended so as to read: (1) (_He_ (i.e. _God_) _is the hope of men_); (2) (_he is the hope of heroes_). Gr.'s reading has no parenthesis, but says: ... _could touch, unless God himself, true king of victories, gave to whom he would to open the treasure, the secret place of enchanters, etc_. The last is rejected on many grounds. XLII. WIGLAF'S SAD STORY.--THE HOARD CARRIED OFF. Then 'twas seen that the journey prospered him little Who wrongly within had the ornaments hidden[1] Down 'neath the wall. The warden erst slaughtered Some few of the folk-troop: the feud then thereafter 5 Was hotly avengèd. 'Tis a wonder where,[2] When the strength-famous trooper has attained to the end of Life-days allotted, then no longer the man may Remain with his kinsmen where mead-cups are flowing. So to Beowulf happened when the ward of the barrow, 10 Assaults, he sought for: himself had no knowledge How his leaving this life was likely to happen. So to doomsday, famous folk-leaders down did Call it with curses--who 'complished it there-- [104] That that man should be ever of ill-deeds convicted, 15 Confined in foul-places, fastened in hell-bonds, Punished with plagues, who this place should e'er ravage.[3] He cared not for gold: rather the Wielder's Favor preferred he first to get sight of.[4] {Wiglaf addresses his comrades.} Wiglaf discoursed then, Wihstan his son: 20 "Oft many an earlman on one man's account must Sorrow endure, as to us it hath happened. The liegelord belovèd we could little prevail on, Kingdom's keeper, counsel to follow, Not to go to the guardian of the gold-hoard, but let him 25 Lie where he long was, live in his dwelling Till the end of the world. Met we a destiny Hard to endure: the hoard has been looked at, Been gained very grimly; too grievous the fate that[5] The prince of the people pricked to come thither. 30 _I_ was therein and all of it looked at, The building's equipments, since access was given me, Not kindly at all entrance permitted {He tells them of Beowulf's last moments.} Within under earth-wall. Hastily seized I And held in my hands a huge-weighing burden 35 Of hoard-treasures costly, hither out bare them To my liegelord belovèd: life was yet in him, And consciousness also; the old one discoursed then Much and mournfully, commanded to greet you, {Beowulf's dying request.} Bade that remembering the deeds of your friend-lord 40 Ye build on the fire-hill of corpses a lofty Burial-barrow, broad and far-famous, As 'mid world-dwelling warriors he was widely most honored While he reveled in riches. Let us rouse us and hasten [105] Again to see and seek for the treasure, 45 The wonder 'neath wall. The way I will show you, That close ye may look at ring-gems sufficient And gold in abundance. Let the bier with promptness Fully be fashioned, when forth we shall come, And lift we our lord, then, where long he shall tarry, 50 Well-beloved warrior, 'neath the Wielder's protection." {Wiglaf charges them to build a funeral-pyre.} Then the son of Wihstan bade orders be given, Mood-valiant man, to many of heroes, Holders of homesteads, that they hither from far, [6]Leaders of liegemen, should look for the good one 55 With wood for his pyre: "The flame shall now swallow (The wan fire shall wax[7]) the warriors' leader Who the rain of the iron often abided, When, sturdily hurled, the storm of the arrows Leapt o'er linden-wall, the lance rendered service, 60 Furnished with feathers followed the arrow." Now the wise-mooded son of Wihstan did summon The best of the braves from the band of the ruler {He takes seven thanes, and enters the den.} Seven together; 'neath the enemy's roof he Went with the seven; one of the heroes 65 Who fared at the front, a fire-blazing torch-light Bare in his hand. No lot then decided Who that hoard should havoc, when hero-earls saw it Lying in the cavern uncared-for entirely, Rusting to ruin: they rued then but little 70 That they hastily hence hauled out the treasure, {They push the dragon over the wall.} The dear-valued jewels; the dragon eke pushed they, The worm o'er the wall, let the wave-currents take him, [106] The waters enwind the ward of the treasures. {The hoard is laid on a wain.} There wounden gold on a wain was uploaded, 75 A mass unmeasured, the men-leader off then, The hero hoary, to Whale's-Ness was carried. [1] For 'gehýdde,' B. suggests 'gehýðde': the passage would stand as above except the change of 'hidden' (v. 2) to 'plundered.' The reference, however, would be to the thief, not to the dragon. [2] The passage 'Wundur ... búan' (3063-3066), M. took to be a question asking whether it was strange that a man should die when his appointed time had come.--B. sees a corruption, and makes emendations introducing the idea that a brave man should not die from sickness or from old age, but should find death in the performance of some deed of daring.--S. sees an indirect question introduced by 'hwár' and dependent upon 'wundur': _A secret is it when the hero is to die, etc_.--Why may the two clauses not be parallel, and the whole passage an Old English cry of '_How wonderful is death!'?_--S.'s is the best yet offered, if 'wundor' means 'mystery.' [3] For 'strude' in H.-So., S. suggests 'stride.' This would require 'ravage' (v. 16) to be changed to 'tread.' [4] 'He cared ... sight of' (17, 18), S. emends so as to read as follows: _He (Beowulf) had not before seen the favor of the avaricious possessor._ [5] B. renders: _That which drew the king thither_ (i.e. _the treasure_) _was granted us, but in such a way that it overcomes us._ [6] 'Folc-ágende' (3114) B. takes as dat. sing. with 'gódum,' and refers it to Beowulf; that is, _Should bring fire-wood to the place where the good folk-ruler lay_. [7] C. proposes to take 'weaxan' = L. 'vescor,' and translate _devour_. This gives a parallel to 'fretan' above. The parenthesis would be discarded and the passage read: _Now shall the fire consume, the wan-flame devour, the prince of warriors, etc_. XLIII. THE BURNING OF BEOWULF. {Beowulf's pyre.} The folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knights' targets, And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; 5 Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain, Their liegelord beloved, laid in the middle. {The funeral-flame.} Soldiers began then to make on the barrow The largest of dead-fires: dark o'er the vapor The smoke-cloud ascended, the sad-roaring fire, 10 Mingled with weeping (the wind-roar subsided) Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces, Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin; And mournful measures the much-grieving widow 15 *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * *       *       *       *       *       *       * 20 *       *       *       *       *       *       * {The Weders carry out their lord's last request.} The men of the Weders made accordingly A hill on the height, high and extensive, Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance, And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was, 25 In ten-days' space, with a wall surrounded it, As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. They placed in the barrow rings and jewels, [107] {Rings and gems are laid in the barrow.} All such ornaments as erst in the treasure War-mooded men had won in possession: 30 The earnings of earlmen to earth they entrusted, The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle, Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people, {They mourn for their lord, and sing his praises.} 35 More would they mourn, lament for their ruler, Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure, Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his Liegelord in words and love him in spirit, 40 When forth from his body he fares to destruction. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond-loving vassals, the fall of their lord, {An ideal king.} Said he was kindest of kings under heaven, Gentlest of men, most winning of manner, 45 Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor. [109] ADDENDA. Several discrepancies and other oversights have been noticed in the H.-So. glossary. Of these a good part were avoided by Harrison and Sharp, the American editors of Beowulf, in their last edition, 1888. The rest will, I hope, be noticed in their fourth edition. As, however, this book may fall into the hands of some who have no copy of the American edition, it seems best to notice all the principal oversights of the German editors. ~From hám~ (194).--Notes and glossary conflict; the latter not having been altered to suit the conclusions accepted in the former. ~Þær gelýfan sceal dryhtnes dóme~ (440).--Under 'dóm' H. says 'the might of the Lord'; while under 'gelýfan' he says 'the judgment of the Lord.' ~Eal bencþelu~ (486).--Under 'benc-þelu' H. says _nom. plu._; while under 'eal' he says _nom. sing._ ~Heatho-ræmas~ (519).--Under 'ætberan' H. translates 'to the Heathoremes'; while under 'Heatho-ræmas' he says 'Heathoræmas reaches Breca in the swimming-match with Beowulf.' Harrison and Sharp (3d edition, 1888) avoid the discrepancy. ~Fáh féond-scaða~ (554).--Under 'féond-scaða' H. says 'a gleaming sea-monster'; under 'fáh' he says 'hostile.' ~Onfeng hraðe inwit-þancum~ (749).--Under 'onfón' H. says 'he _received_ the maliciously-disposed one'; under 'inwit-þanc' he says 'he _grasped_,' etc. ~Níð-wundor séon~ (1366).--Under 'níð-wundor' H. calls this word itself _nom. sing._; under 'séon' he translates it as accus. sing., understanding 'man' as subject of 'séon.' H. and S. (3d edition) make the correction. ~Forgeaf hilde-bille~ (1521).--H., under the second word, calls it instr. dat.; while under 'forgifan' he makes it the dat. of indir. obj. H. and S. (3d edition) make the change. ~Brád~ and ~brún-ecg~ (1547).--Under 'brád' H. says 'das breite Hüftmesser mit bronzener Klinge'; under 'brún-ecg' he says 'ihr breites Hüftmesser mit blitzender Klinge.' [110] ~Yðelíce~ (1557).--Under this word H. makes it modify 'ástód.' If this be right, the punctuation of the fifth edition is wrong. See H. and S., appendix. ~Sélran gesóhte~ (1840).--Under 'sél' and 'gesécan' H. calls these two words accus. plu.; but this is clearly an error, as both are nom. plu., pred. nom. H. and S. correct under 'sél.' ~Wið sylfne~ (1978).--Under 'wið' and 'gesittan' H. says 'wið = near, by'; under 'self' he says 'opposite.' ~þéow~ (2225) is omitted from the glossary. ~For duguðum~ (2502).--Under 'duguð' H. translates this phrase, 'in Tüchtigkeit'; under 'for,' by 'vor der edlen Kriegerschaar.' ~þær~ (2574).--Under 'wealdan' H. translates _þær_ by 'wo'; under 'mótan,' by 'da.' H. and S. suggest 'if' in both passages. ~Wunde~ (2726).--Under 'wund' H. says 'dative,' and under 'wæl-bléate' he says 'accus.' It is without doubt accus., parallel with 'benne.' ~Strengum gebæded~ (3118).--Under 'strengo' H. says 'Strengum' = mit Macht; under 'gebæded' he translates 'von den Sehnen.' H. and S. correct this discrepancy by rejecting the second reading. ~Bronda be láfe~ (3162).--A recent emendation. The fourth edition had 'bronda betost.' In the fifth edition the editor neglects to change the glossary to suit the new emendation. See 'bewyrcan.' 
20431	----	Transcriber's note: In the printed book, line numbering was determined by the physical length of a line. Sometimes the numbered line was one or even two lines above or below the nearest multiple of 10. Where a stanza ended on a multiple of 10, the first line of the following stanza was numbered instead. Line numbers have been regularized for this e-text. THE TALE OF BEOWULF Sometime King of the Folk of the Weder Geats Translated by WILLIAM MORRIS and A. J. WYATT Longmans, Green, and Co. 39 Paternoster Row, London New York and Bombay MCMIV Bibliographical Note First printed at the Kelmscott Press, January 1895 Ordinary Edition . . . . . . . . . . . August 1898 Reprinted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . August 1904 ARGUMENT Hrothgar, king of the Danes, lives happily and peacefully, and bethinks him to build a glorious hall called Hart. But a little after, one Grendel, of the kindred of the evil wights that are come of Cain, hears the merry noise of Hart and cannot abide it; so he enters thereinto by night, and slays and carries off and devours thirty of Hrothgar's thanes. Thereby he makes Hart waste for twelve years, and the tidings of this mishap are borne wide about lands. Then comes to the helping of Hrothgar Beowulf, the son of Ecgtheow, a thane of King Hygelac of the Geats, with fourteen fellows. They are met on the shore by the land-warder, and by him shown to Hart and the stead of Hrothgar, who receives them gladly, and to whom Beowulf tells his errand, that he will help him against Grendel. They feast in the hall, and one Unferth, son of Ecglaf, taunts Beowulf through jealousy that he was outdone by Breca in swimming. Beowulf tells the true tale thereof. And a little after, at nightfall, Hrothgar and his folk leave the hall Hart, and it is given in charge to Beowulf, who with his Geats abides there the coming of Grendel. Soon comes Grendel to the hall, and slays a man of the Geats, hight Handshoe, and then grapples with Beowulf, who will use no weapon against him: Grendel feels himself over-mastered and makes for the door, and gets out, but leaves his hand and arm behind him with Beowulf: men on the wall hear the great noise of this battle and the wailing of Grendel. In the morning the Danes rejoice, and follow the bloody slot of Grendel, and return to Hart racing and telling old tales, as of Sigemund and the Worm. Then come the king and his thanes to look on the token of victory, Grendel's hand and arm, which Beowulf has let fasten: to the hall-gable. The king praises Beowulf and rewards him, and they feast in Hart, and the tale of Finn and Hengest is told. Then Hrothgar leaves Hart, and so does Beowulf also with his Geats, but the Danes keep guard there. In the night comes in Grendel's Mother, and catches up Aeschere, a thane of Hrothgar, and carries him off to her lair. In the morning is Beowulf fetched to Hrothgar, who tells him of this new grief and craves his help. Then they follow up the slot and come to a great water-side, and find thereby Aeschere's head, and the place is known for the lair of those two: monsters are playing in the deep, and Beowulf shoots one of them to death. Then Beowulf dights him and leaps into the water, and is a day's while reaching the bottom. There he is straightway caught hold of by Grendel's Mother, who bears him into her hall. When he gets free he falls on her, but the edge of the sword Hrunting (lent to him by Unferth) fails him, and she casts him to the ground and draws her sax to slay him; but he rises up, and sees an old sword of the giants hanging on the wall; he takes it and smites off her head therewith. He sees Grendel lying dead, and his head also he strikes off; but the blade of the sword is molten in his venomous blood. Then Beowulf strikes upward, taking with him the head of Grendel and the hilts of the sword. When he comes to the shore he finds his Geats there alone; for the Danes fled when they saw the blood floating in the water. They go up to Hrothgar's stead, and four men must needs bear the head. They come to Hrothgar, and Beowulf gives him the hilts and tells him what he has done. Much praise is given to Beowulf; and they feast together. On the morrow Beowulf bids farewell to Hrothgar, more gifts are given, and messages are sent to Hygelac: Beowulf departs with the full love of Hrothgar. The Geats come to their ship and reward the ship-warder, and put off and sail to their own land. Beowulf comes to Hygelac's house. Hygelac is told of, and his wife Hygd, and her good conditions, against whom is set as a warning the evil Queen Thrytho. Beowulf tells all the tale of his doings in full to Hygelac, and gives him his gifts, and the precious-gemmed collar to Hygd. Here is told of Beowulf, and how he was contemned in his youth, and is now grown so renowned. Time wears; Hygelac is slain in battle; Heardred, his son, reigns in his stead, he is slain by the Swedes, and Beowulf is made king. When he is grown old, and has been king for fifty years, come new tidings. A great dragon finds on the sea-shore a mound wherein is stored the treasure of ancient folk departed. The said dragon abides there, and broods the gold for 300 years. Now a certain thrall, who had misdone against his lord and was fleeing from his wrath, haps on the said treasure and takes a cup thence, which he brings to his lord to appease his wrath. The Worm waketh, and findeth his treasure lessened, but can find no man who hath done the deed. Therefore he turns on the folk, and wars on them, and burns Beowulf's house. Now Beowulf will go and meet the Worm. He has an iron shield made, and sets forth with eleven men and the thrall the thirteenth. He comes to the ness, and speaks to his men, telling them of his past days, and gives them his last greeting: then he cries out a challenge to the Worm, who comes forth, and the battle begins: Beowulf's sword will not bite on the Worm. Wiglaf eggs on the others to come to Beowulf's help, and goes himself straightway, and offers himself to Beowulf; the Worm comes on again, and Beowulf breaks his sword Nægling on him, and the Worm wounds Beowulf. Wiglaf smites the Worm in the belly; Beowulf draws his ax, and between them they slay the Worm. Beowulf now feels his wounds, and knows that he is hurt deadly; he sits down by the wall, and Wiglaf bathes his wounds. Beowulf speaks, tells how he would give his armour to his son if he had one; thanks God that he has not sworn falsely or done guilefully; and prays Wiglaf to bear out the treasure that he may see it before he dies. Wiglaf fetches out the treasure, and again bathes Beowulf's wounds; Beowulf speaks again, rejoices over the sight of the treasure; gives to Wiglaf his ring and his armour, and bids the manner of his bale-fire. With that he passes away. Now the dastards come thereto and find Wiglaf vainly bathing his dead lord. He casteth shame upon them with great wrath. Thence he sends a messenger to the barriers of the town, who comes to the host, and tells them of the death of Beowulf. He tells withal of the old feud betwixt the Geats and the Swedes, and how these, when they hear of the death of the king, will be upon them. The warriors go to look on Beowulf, and find him and the Worm lying dead together. Wiglaf chooses out seven of them to go void the treasure-house, after having bidden them gather wood for the bale-fire. They shove the Worm over the cliff into the sea, and bear off the treasure in wains. Then they bring Beowulf's corpse to bale, and they kindle it; a woman called the wife of aforetime, it may be Hygd, widow of Hygelac, bemoans him: and twelve children of the athelings ride round the bale, and bemoan Beowulf and praise him: and thus ends the poem. THE STORY OF BEOWULF I. AND FIRST OF THE KINDRED OF HROTHGAR. What! we of the Spear-Danes of yore days, so was it That we learn'd of the fair fame of kings of the folks And the athelings a-faring in framing of valour. Oft then Scyld the Sheaf-son from the hosts of the scathers, From kindreds a many the mead-settles tore; It was then the earl fear'd them, sithence was he first Found bare and all-lacking; so solace he bided, Wax'd under the welkin in worship to thrive, Until it was so that the round-about sitters All over the whale-road must hearken his will 10 And yield him the tribute. A good king was that, By whom then thereafter a son was begotten, A youngling in garth, whom the great God sent thither To foster the folk; and their crime-need he felt The load that lay on them while lordless they lived For a long while and long. He therefore, the Life-lord, The Wielder of glory, world's worship he gave him: Brim Beowulf waxed, and wide the weal upsprang Of the offspring of Scyld in the parts of the Scede-lands. Such wise shall a youngling with wealth be a-working 20 With goodly fee-gifts toward the friends of his father, That after in eld-days shall ever bide with him, Fair fellows well-willing when wendeth the war-tide, Their lief lord a-serving. By praise-deeds it shall be That in each and all kindreds a man shall have thriving. Then went his ways Scyld when the shapen while was, All hardy to wend him to the lord and his warding: Out then did they bear him to the side of the sea-flood, The dear fellows of him, as he himself pray'd them While yet his word wielded the friend of the Scyldings, 30 The dear lord of the land; a long while had he own'd it. With stem all be-ringed at the hythe stood the ship, All icy and out-fain, the Atheling's ferry. There then did they lay him, the lord well beloved, The gold-rings' bestower, within the ship's barm, The mighty by mast. Much there was the treasure, From far ways forsooth had the fret-work been led: Never heard I of keel that was comelier dighted With weapons of war, and with weed of the battle, With bills and with byrnies. There lay in his barm 40 Much wealth of the treasure that with him should be, And he into the flood's might afar to depart. No lesser a whit were the wealth-goods they dight him Of the goods of the folk, than did they who aforetime, When was the beginning, first sent him away Alone o'er the billows, and he but a youngling. Moreover they set him up there a sign golden High up overhead, and let the holm bear him, Gave all to the Spearman. Sad mind they had in them, And mourning their mood was. Now never knew men, 50 For sooth how to say it, rede-masters in hall, Or heroes 'neath heaven, to whose hands came the lading. II. CONCERNING HROTHGAR, AND HOW HE BUILT THE HOUSE CALLED HART. ALSO GRENDEL IS TOLD OF. In the burgs then was biding Beowulf the Scylding, Dear King of the people, for long was he dwelling Far-famed of folks (his father turn'd elsewhere, From his stead the Chief wended) till awoke to him after Healfdene the high, and long while he held it, Ancient and war-eager, o'er the glad Scyldings: Of his body four bairns are forth to him rimed; Into the world woke the leader of war-hosts 60 Heorogar; eke Hrothgar, and Halga the good; Heard I that Elan queen was she of Ongentheow, That Scylding of battle, the bed-mate behalsed. Then was unto Hrothgar the war-speed given, Such worship of war that his kin and well-willers Well hearken'd his will till the younglings were waxen, A kin-host a many. Then into his mind ran That he would be building for him now a hall-house, That men should be making a mead-hall more mighty Than the children of ages had ever heard tell of: 70 And there within eke should he be out-dealing To young and to old all things God had given, Save the share of the folk and the life-days of men. Then heard I that widely the work was a-banning To kindreds a many the Middle-garth over To fret o'er that folk-stead. So befell to him timely Right soon among men that made was it yarely The most of hall-houses, and Hart its name shap'd he, Who wielded his word full widely around. His behest he belied not; it was he dealt the rings, 80 The wealth at the high-tide. Then up rose the hall-house, High up and horn-gabled. Hot surges it bided Of fire-flame the loathly, nor long was it thenceforth Ere sorely the edge-hate 'twixt Son and Wife's Father After the slaughter-strife there should awaken. Then the ghost heavy-strong bore with it hardly E'en for a while of time, bider in darkness, That there on each day of days heard he the mirth-tide Loud in the hall-house. There was the harp's voice, And clear song of shaper. Said he who could it 90 To tell the first fashion of men from aforetime; Quoth how the Almighty One made the Earth's fashion, The fair field and bright midst the bow of the Waters, And with victory beglory'd set Sun and Moon, Bright beams to enlighten the biders on land: And how he adorned all parts of the earth With limbs and with leaves; and life withal shaped For the kindred of each thing that quick on earth wendeth. So liv'd on all happy the host of the kinsmen In game and in glee, until one wight began, 100 A fiend out of hell-pit, the framing of evil, And Grendel forsooth the grim guest was hight, The mighty mark-strider, the holder of moorland, The fen and the fastness. The stead of the fifel That wight all unhappy a while of time warded, Sithence that the Shaper him had for-written. On the kindred of Cain the Lord living ever Awreaked the murder of the slaying of Abel. In that feud he rejoic'd not, but afar him He banish'd, The Maker, from mankind for the crime he had wrought. 110 But offspring uncouth thence were they awoken Eotens and elf-wights, and ogres of ocean, And therewith the Giants, who won war against God A long while; but He gave them their wages therefor. III. HOW GRENDEL FELL UPON HART AND WASTED IT. Now went he a-spying, when come was the night-tide, The house on high builded, and how there the Ring-Danes Their beer-drinking over had boune them to bed; And therein he found them, the atheling fellows, Asleep after feasting. Then sorrow they knew not Nor the woe of mankind: but the wight of wealth's waning, 120 The grim and the greedy, soon yare was he gotten, All furious and fierce, and he raught up from resting A thirty of thanes, and thence aback got him Right fain of his gettings, and homeward to fare, Fulfilled of slaughter his stead to go look on. Thereafter at dawning, when day was yet early, The war-craft of Grendel to men grew unhidden, And after his meal was the weeping uphoven, Mickle voice of the morning-tide: there the Prince mighty, The Atheling exceeding good, unblithe he sat, 130 Tholing the heavy woe; thane-sorrow dreed he Since the slot of the loathly wight there they had look'd on, The ghost all accursed. O'er grisly the strife was, So loathly and longsome. No longer the frist was But after the wearing of one night; then fram'd he Murder-bales more yet, and nowise he mourned The feud and the crime; over fast therein was he. Then easy to find was the man who would elsewhere Seek out for himself a rest was more roomsome, Beds end-long the bowers, when beacon'd to him was, 140 And soothly out told by manifest token, The hate of the hell-thane. He held himself sithence Further and faster who from the fiend gat him. In such wise he rul'd it and wrought against right, But one against all, until idle was standing The best of hall-houses; and mickle the while was, Twelve winter-tides' wearing; and trouble he tholed, That friend of the Scyldings, of woes every one And wide-spreading sorrows: for sithence it fell That unto men's children unbidden 'twas known 150 Full sadly in singing, that Grendel won war 'Gainst Hrothgar a while of time, hate-envy waging, And crime-guilts and feud for seasons no few, And strife without stinting. For the sake of no kindness Unto any of men of the main-host of Dane-folk Would he thrust off the life-bale, or by fee-gild allay it, Nor was there a wise man that needed to ween The bright boot to have at the hand of the slayer. The monster the fell one afflicted them sorely, That death-shadow darksome the doughty and youthful 160 Enfettered, ensnared; night by night was he faring The moorlands the misty. But never know men Of spell-workers of Hell to and fro where they wander. So crime-guilts a many the foeman of mankind, The fell alone-farer, fram'd oft and full often, Cruel hard shames and wrongful, and Hart he abode in, The treasure-stain'd hall, in the dark of the night-tide; But never the gift-stool therein might he greet, The treasure before the Creator he trow'd not. Mickle wrack was it soothly for the friend of the Scyldings, 170 Yea heart and mood breaking. Now sat there a many Of the mighty in rune, and won them the rede Of what thing for the strong-soul'd were best of all things Which yet they might frame 'gainst the fear and the horror. And whiles they behight them at the shrines of the heathen To worship the idols; and pray'd they in words, That he, the ghost-slayer, would frame for them helping 'Gainst the folk-threats and evil So far'd they their wont, The hope of the heathen; nor hell they remember'd In mood and in mind. And the Maker they knew not, 180 The Doomer of deeds: nor of God the Lord wist they, Nor the Helm of the Heavens knew aught how to hery, The Wielder of Glory. Woe worth unto that man Who through hatred the baneful his soul shall shove into The fire's embrace; nought of fostering weens he, Nor of changing one whit. But well is he soothly That after the death-day shall seek to the Lord, In the breast of the Father all peace ever craving. IV. NOW COMES BEOWULF ECGTHEOW'S SON TO THE LAND OF THE DANES, AND THE WALL-WARDEN SPEAKETH WITH HIM. So care that was time-long the kinsman of Healfdene Still seeth'd without ceasing, nor might the wise warrior 190 Wend otherwhere woe, for o'er strong was the strife All loathly so longsome late laid on the people, Need-wrack and grim nithing, of night-bales the greatest. Now that from his home heard the Hygelac's thane, Good midst of the Geat-folk; of Grendel's deeds heard he. But he was of mankind of might and main mightiest In the day that we tell of, the day of this life, All noble, strong-waxen. He bade a wave-wearer Right good to be gear'd him, and quoth he that the war-king Over the swan-road he would be seeking, 200 The folk-lord far-famed, since lack of men had he. Forsooth of that faring the carles wiser-fashion'd Laid little blame on him, though lief to them was he; The heart-hardy whetted they, heeded the omen. There had the good one, e'en he of the Geat-folk, Champions out-chosen of them that he keenest Might find for his needs; and he then the fifteenth, Sought to the sound-wood. A swain thereon show'd him, A sea-crafty man, all the make of the land-marks. Wore then a while, on the waves was the floater, 210 The boat under the berg, and yare then the warriors Strode up on the stem; the streams were a-winding The sea 'gainst the sands. Upbore the swains then Up into the bark's barm the bright-fretted weapons, The war-array stately; then out the lads shov'd her, The folk on the welcome way shov'd out the wood-bound. Then by the wind driven out o'er the wave-holm Far'd the foamy-neck'd floater most like to a fowl, Till when was the same tide of the second day's wearing The wound-about-stemm'd one had waded her way, 220 So that then they that sail'd her had sight of the land, Bleak shine of the sea-cliffs, bergs steep up above, Sea-nesses wide reaching; the sound was won over, The sea-way was ended: then up ashore swiftly The band of the Weder-folk up on earth wended; They bound up the sea-wood, their sarks on them rattled, Their weed of the battle, and God there they thanked For that easy the wave-ways were waxen unto them. But now from the wall saw the Scylding-folks' warder, E'en he whom the holm-cliffs should ever be holding, 230 Men bear o'er the gangway the bright shields a-shining, Folk-host gear all ready. Then mind-longing wore him, And stirr'd up his mood to wot who were the men-folk. So shoreward down far'd he his fair steed a-riding, Hrothgar's Thane, and full strongly then set he a-quaking The stark wood in his hands, and in council-speech speer'd he: What men be ye then of them that have war-gear, With byrnies bewarded, who the keel high up-builded Over the Lake-street thus have come leading. Hither o'er holm-ways hieing in ring-stem? 240 End-sitter was I, a-holding the sea-ward, That the land of the Dane-folk none of the loathly Faring with ship-horde ever might scathe it. None yet have been seeking more openly hither Of shield-havers than ye, and ye of the leave-word Of the framers of war naught at all wotting, Or the manners of kinsmen. But no man of earls greater Saw I ever on earth than one of you yonder, The warrior in war-gear: no hall-man, so ween I, Is that weapon-beworthy'd, but his visage belie him, 250 The sight seen once only. Now I must be wotting The spring of your kindred ere further ye cast ye, And let loose your false spies in the Dane-land a-faring Yet further afield. So now, ye far-dwellers, Ye wenders o'er sea-flood, this word do ye hearken Of my one-folded thought: and haste is the handiest To do me to wit of whence is your coming. V. HERE BEOWULF MAKES ANSWER TO THE LAND-WARDEN, WHO SHOWETH HIM THE WAY TO THE KING'S ABODE. He then that was chiefest in thus wise he answer'd, The war-fellows' leader unlock'd he the word-hoard: We be a people of the Weder-Geats' man-kin 260 And of Hygelac be we the hearth-fellows soothly. My father before me of folks was well-famed Van-leader and atheling, Ecgtheow he hight. Many winters abode he, and on the way wended An old man from the garths, and him well remembers Every wise man well nigh wide yond o'er the earth. Through our lief mood and friendly the lord that is thine, Even Healfdene's son, are we now come a-seeking, Thy warder of folk. Learn us well with thy leading, For we have to the mighty an errand full mickle, 270 To the lord of the Dane-folk: naught dark shall it be, That ween I full surely. If it be so thou wottest, As soothly for our parts we now have heard say, That one midst of the Scyldings, who of scathers I wot not, A deed-hater secret, in the dark of the night-tide Setteth forth through the terror the malice untold of, The shame-wrong and slaughter. I therefore to Hrothgar Through my mind fashion'd roomsome the rede may now learn him, How he, old-wise and good, may get the fiend under, If once more from him awayward may turn 280 The business of bales, and the boot come again, And the weltering of care wax cooler once more; Or for ever sithence time of stress he shall thole, The need and the wronging, the while yet there abideth On the high stead aloft the best of all houses. Then spake out the warden on steed there a-sitting, The servant all un-fear'd: It shall be of either That the shield-warrior sharp the sundering wotteth, Of words and of works, if he think thereof well. I hear it thus said that this host here is friendly 290 To the lord of the Scyldings; forth fare ye then, bearing Your weed and your weapons, of the way will I wise you; Likewise mine own kinsmen I will now be bidding Against every foeman your floater before us, Your craft but new-tarred, the keel on the sand, With honour to hold, until back shall be bearing Over the lake-streams this one, the lief man, The wood of the wounden-neck back unto Wedermark. Unto such shall be granted amongst the good-doers To win the way out all whole from the war-race. 300 Then boun they to faring, the bark biding quiet; Hung upon hawser the wide-fathom'd ship Fast at her anchor. Forth shone the boar-shapes Over the check-guards golden adorned, Fair-shifting, fire-hard; ward held the farrow. Snorted the war-moody, hasten'd the warriors And trod down together until the hall timbered, Stately and gold-bestain'd, gat they to look on, That was the all-mightiest unto earth's dwellers Of halls 'neath the heavens, wherein bode the mighty; 310 Glisten'd the gleam thereof o'er lands a many. Unto them then the war-deer the court of the proud one Full clearly betaught it, that they therewithal Might wend their ways thither. Then he of the warriors Round wended his steed, and spake a word backward: Time now for my faring; but the Father All-wielder May He with all helping henceforward so hold you All whole in your wayfaring. Will I to sea-side Against the wroth folk to hold warding ever. VI. BEOWULF AND THE GEATS COME INTO HART. Stone-diverse the street was, straight uplong the path led 320 The warriors together. There shone the war-byrny The hard and the hand-lock'd; the ring-iron sheer Sang over their war-gear, when they to the hall first In their gear the all-fearful had gat them to ganging. So then the sea-weary their wide shields set down, Their war-rounds the mighty, against the hall's wall. Then bow'd they to bench, and rang there the byrnies, The war-weed of warriors, and up-stood the spears, The war-gear of the sea-folk all gather'd together. The ash-holt grey-headed; that host of the iron 330 With weapons was worshipful. There then a proud chief Of those lads of the battle speer'd after their line: Whence ferry ye then the shields golden-faced, The grey sarks therewith, and the helms all bevisor'd, And a heap of the war-shafts? Now am I of Hrothgar The man and the messenger: ne'er saw I of aliens So many of men more might-like of mood. I ween that for pride-sake, no wise for wrack-wending But for high might of mind, ye to Hrothgar have sought. Unto him then the heart-hardy answer'd and spake, 340 The proud earl of the Weders the word gave aback, The hardy neath helm: Now of Hygelac are we The board-fellows; Beowulf e'en is my name, And word will I say unto Healfdene's son, To the mighty, the folk-lord, what errand is mine, Yea unto thy lord, if to us he will grant it That him, who so good is, anon we may greet. Spake Wulfgar the word, a lord of the Wendels, And the mood of his heart of a many was kenned, His war and his wisdom: I therefore the Danes' friend 350 Will lightly be asking, of the lord of the Scyldings, The dealer of rings, since the boon thou art bidding, The mighty folk-lord, concerning thine errand, And swiftly the answer shall do thee to wit Which the good one to give thee aback may deem meetest. Then turn'd he in haste to where Hrothgar was sitting Right old and all hoary mid the host of his earl-folk: Went the valour-stark; stood he the shoulders before Of the Dane-lord: well could he the doughty ones' custom. So Wulfgar spake forth to his lord the well-friendly: 360 Hither are ferry'd now, come from afar off O'er the field of the ocean, a folk of the Geats; These men of the battle e'en Beowulf name they Their elder and chiefest, and to thee are they bidding That they, O dear lord, with thee may be dealing In word against word. Now win them no naysay Of thy speech again-given, O Hrothgar the glad-man: For they in their war-gear, methinketh, be worthy Of good deeming of earls; and forsooth naught but doughty Is he who hath led o'er the warriors hither. 370 VII. BEOWULF SPEAKETH WITH HROTHGAR, AND TELLETH HOW HE WILL MEET GRENDEL. Word then gave out Hrothgar the helm of the Scyldings: I knew him in sooth when he was but a youngling, And his father, the old man, was Ecgtheow hight; Unto whom at his home gave Hrethel the Geat-lord His one only daughter; and now hath his offspring All hardy come hither a lief lord to seek him. For that word they spake then, the sea-faring men, E'en they who the gift-seat for the Geat-folk had ferry'd, Brought thither for thanks, that of thirty of menfolk The craft of might hath he within his own handgrip, 380 That war-strong of men. Now him holy God For kind help hath sent off here even to us, We men of the West Danes, as now I have weening, 'Gainst the terror of Grendel. So I to that good one For his mighty mood-daring shall the dear treasure bid. Haste now and be speedy, and bid them in straightway, The kindred-band gather'd together, to see us, And in words say thou eke that they be well comen To the folk of the Danes. To the door of the hall then Went Wulfgar, and words withinward he flitted: 390 He bade me to say you, my lord of fair battle, The elder of East-Danes, that he your blood knoweth, And that unto him are ye the sea-surges over, Ye lads hardy-hearted, well come to land hither; And now may ye wend you all in war-raiment Under the battle-mask Hrothgar to see. But here let your battle-boards yet be abiding, With your war-weed and slaughter-shafts, issue of words. Then rose up the rich one, much warriors around him, Chosen heap of the thanes, but there some abided 400 The war-gear to hold, as the wight one was bidding. Swift went they together, as the warrior there led them, Under Hart's roof: went the stout-hearted, The hardy neath helm, till he stood by the high-seat. Then Beowulf spake out, on him shone the byrny, His war-net besown by the wiles of the smith: Hail to thee, Hrothgar! I am of Hygelac Kinsman and folk-thane; fair deeds have I many Begun in my youth-tide, and this matter of Grendel On the turf of mine own land undarkly I knew. 410 'Tis the seafarers' say that standeth this hall, The best house forsooth, for each one of warriors All idle and useless, after the even-light Under the heaven-loft hidden becometh. Then lightly they learn'd me, my people, this lore, E'en the best that there be of the wise of the churls, O Hrothgar the kingly, that thee should I seek to, Whereas of the might of my craft were they cunning; For they saw me when came I from out of my wargear, Blood-stain'd from the foe whenas five had I bounden, 420 Quell'd the kin of the eotens, and in the wave slain The nicors by night-tide: strait need then I bore, Wreak'd the grief of the Weders, the woe they had gotten; I ground down the wrathful; and now against Grendel I here with the dread one alone shall be dooming, In Thing with the giant. I now then with thee, O lord of the bright Danes, will fall to my bidding, O berg of Scyldings, and bid thee one boon, Which, O refuge of warriors, gainsay me not now, Since, O free friend of folks, from afar have I come, 430 That I alone, I and my band of the earls, This hard heap of men, may cleanse Hart of ill. This eke have I heard say, that he, the fell monster, In his wan-heed recks nothing of weapons of war; Forgo I this therefore (if so be that Hygelac Will still be my man-lord, and he blithe of mood) To bear the sword with me, or bear the broad shield, Yellow-round to the battle; but with naught save the hand-grip With the foe shall I grapple, and grope for the life The loathly with loathly. There he shall believe 440 In the doom of the Lord whom death then shall take. Now ween I that he, if he may wield matters, E'en there in the war-hall the folk of the Geats Shall eat up unafear'd, as oft he hath done it With the might of the Hrethmen: no need for thee therefore My head to be hiding; for me will he have With gore all bestain'd, if the death of men get me; He will bear off my bloody corpse minded to taste it; Unmournfully then will the Lone-goer eat it, Will blood-mark the moor-ways; for the meat of my body 450 Naught needest thou henceforth in any wise grieve thee. But send thou to Hygelac, if the war have me, The best of all war-shrouds that now my breast wardeth, The goodliest of railings, the good gift of Hrethel, The hand-work of Weland. Weird wends as she willeth. VIII. HROTHGAR ANSWERETH BEOWULF AND BIDDETH HIM SIT TO THE FEAST. Spake out then Hrothgar the helm of the Scyldings: Thou Beowulf, friend mine, for battle that wardeth And for help that is kindly hast sought to us hither. Fought down thy father the most of all feuds; To Heatholaf was he forsooth for a hand-bane 460 Amidst of the Wylfings. The folk of the Weders Him for the war-dread that while might not hold. So thence did he seek to the folk of the South-Danes O'er the waves' wallow, to the Scyldings be-worshipped. Then first was I wielding the weal of the Dane-folk, That time was I holding in youth-tide the gem-rich Hoard-burg of the heroes. Dead then was Heorogar, Mine elder of brethren; unliving was he, The Healfdene's bairn that was better than I. That feud then thereafter with fee did I settle; 470 I sent to the Wylfing folk over the waters' back Treasures of old time; he swore the oaths to me. Sorrow is in my mind that needs must I say it To any of grooms, of Grendel what hath he Of shaming in Hart, and he with his hate-wiles Of sudden harms framed; the host of my hall-floor, The war-heap, is waned; Weird swept them away Into horror of Grendel. It is God now that may lightly The scather the doltish from deeds thrust aside. Full oft have they boasted with beer well bedrunken, 480 My men of the battle all over the ale-stoup, That they in the beer-hall would yet be abiding The onset of Grendel with the terror of edges. But then was this mead-hall in the tide of the morning, This warrior-hall, gore-stain'd when day at last gleamed, All the boards of the benches with blood besteam'd over, The hall laid with sword-gore: of lieges less had I Of dear and of doughty, for them death had gotten. Now sit thou to feast and unbind thy mood freely, Thy war-fame unto men as the mind of thee whetteth. 490 Then was for the Geat-folk and them all together There in the beer-hall a bench bedight roomsome, There the stout-hearted hied them to sitting Proud in their might: a thane minded the service, Who in hand upbare an ale-stoup adorned, Skinked the sheer mead; whiles sang the shaper Clear out in Hart-hall; joy was of warriors, Men doughty no little of Danes and of Weders. IX. UNFERTH CONTENDETH IN WORDS WITH BEOWULF. Spake out then Unferth that bairn was of Ecglaf, And he sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings, 500 He unbound the battle-rune; was Beowulf's faring, Of him the proud mere-farer, mickle unliking, Whereas he begrudg'd it of any man other That he glories more mighty the middle-garth over Should hold under heaven than he himself held: Art thou that Beowulf who won strife with Breca On the wide sea contending in swimming, When ye two for pride's sake search'd out the floods And for a dolt's cry into deep water Thrust both your life-days? No man the twain of you, 510 Lief or loth were he, might lay wyte to stay you Your sorrowful journey, when on the sea row'd ye; Then when the ocean-stream ye with your arms deck'd, Meted the mere-streets, there your hands brandish'd! O'er the Spearman ye glided; the sea with waves welter'd, The surge of the winter. Ye twain in the waves' might For a seven nights swink'd. He outdid thee in swimming, And the more was his might; but him in the morn-tide To the Heatho-Remes' land the holm bore ashore. And thence away sought he to his dear land and lovely, 520 The lief to his people sought the land of the Brondings, The fair burg peace-warding, where he the folk owned, The burg and the gold rings. What to theeward he boasted, Beanstan's son, for thee soothly he brought it about. Now ween I for thee things worser than erewhile, Though thou in the war-race wert everywhere doughty, In the grim war, if thou herein Grendel darest Night-long for a while of time nigh to abide. Then Beowulf spake out, the Ecgtheow's bairn: What! thou no few of things, O Unferth my friend, 530 And thou drunken with beer, about Breca hast spoken, Saidest out of his journey; so the sooth now I tell: To wit, that the more might ever I owned, Hard wearing on wave more than any man else. We twain then, we quoth it, while yet we were younglings, And we boasted between us, the twain of us being yet In our youth-days, that we out onto the Spearman Our lives would adventure; and e'en so we wrought It. We had a sword naked, when on the sound row'd we, Hard in hand, as we twain against the whale-fishes 540 Had mind to be warding us. No whit from me In the waves of the sea-flood afar might he float The hastier in holm, nor would I from him hie me. Then we two together, we were in the sea For a five nights, till us twain the flood drave asunder, The weltering of waves. Then the coldest of weathers In the dusking of night and the wind from the northward Battle-grim turn'd against us, rough grown were the billows. Of the mere-fishes then was the mood all up-stirred; There me 'gainst the loathly the body-sark mine, 550 The hard and the hand-lock'd, was framing me help, My battle-rail braided, it lay on my breast Gear'd graithly with gold. But me to the ground tugg'd A foe and fiend-scather; fast he had me In hold That grim one in grip: yet to me was it given. That the wretch there, the monster, with point might I reach, With my bill of the battle, and the war-race off bore The mighty mere-beast through the hand that was mine. X. BEOWULF MAKES AN END OF HIS TALE OF THE SWIMMING. WEALHTHEOW, HROTHGAR'S QUEEN, GREETS HIM; AND HROTHGAR DELIVERS TO HIM THE WARDING OF THE HALL. Thus oft and oft over the doers of evil They threatened me hard; thane-service I did them 560 With the dear sword of mine, as forsooth it was meet, That nowise of their fill did they win them the joy The evil fordoers in swallowing me down, Sitting round at the feast nigh the ground of the sea. Yea rather, a morning-tide, mangled by sword-edge Along the waves' leaving up there did they lie Lull'd asleep with the sword, so that never sithence About the deep floods for the farers o'er ocean The way have they letted. Came the light from the eastward, The bright beacon of God, and grew the seas calm, 570 So that the sea-nesses now might I look on, The windy walls. Thuswise Weird oft will be saving The earl that is unfey, when his valour availeth. Whatever, it happ'd me that I with the sword slew Nicors nine. Never heard I of fighting a night-tide 'Neath the vault of the heavens was harder than that, Nor yet on the sea-streams of woefuller wight. Whatever, forth won I with life from the foes' clutch All of wayfaring weary. But me the sea upbore, The flood downlong the tide with the weltering of waters, 580 All onto the Finnland. No whit of thee ever Mid such strife of the battle-gear have I heard say, Such terrors of bills. Nor never yet Breca In the play of the battle, nor both you, nor either, So dearly the deeds have framed forsooth With the bright flashing swords; though of this naught I boast me. But thou of thy brethren the banesman becamest, Yea thine head-kin forsooth, for which in hell shalt thou Dree weird of damnation, though doughty thy wit be; For unto thee say I forsooth, son of Ecglaf, 590 That so many deeds never Grendel had done, That monster the loathly, against thine own lord, The shaming in Hart-hall, if suchwise thy mind were, And thy soul e'en as battle-fierce, such as thou sayest. But he, he hath fram'd it that the feud he may heed not, The fearful edge-onset that is of thy folk, Nor sore need be fearful of the Victory-Scyldings. The need-pledges taketh he, no man he spareth Of the folk of the Danes, driveth war as he lusteth, Slayeth and feasteth unweening of strife 600 With them of the Spear-Danes. But I, I shall show it, The Geats' wightness and might ere the time weareth old, Shall bide him in war-tide. Then let him go who may go High-hearted to mead, sithence when the morn-light O'er the children of men of the second day hence, The sun clad in heaven's air, shines from the southward. Then merry of heart was the meter of treasures, The hoary-man'd war-renown'd, help now he trow'd in; The lord of the Bright-Danes on Beowulf hearken'd, The folk-shepherd knew him, his fast-ready mind. 610 There was laughter of heroes, and high the din rang And winsome the words were. Went Wealhtheow forth, The Queen she of Hrothgar, of courtesies mindful, The gold-array'd greeted the grooms in the hall, The free and frank woman the beaker there wended, And first to the East-Dane-folk's fatherland's warder, And bade him be blithe at the drinking of beer, To his people beloved, and lustily took he The feast and the hall-cup, that victory-fam'd King. Then round about went she, the Dame of the Helmings, 620 And to doughty and youngsome, each deal of the folk there, Gave cups of the treasure, till now it betid That to Beowulf duly the Queen the ring-dighted, Of mind high uplifted, the mead-beaker bare. Then she greeted the Geat-lord, and gave God the thank, She, the wisefast In words, that the will had wax'd in her In one man of the earls to have trusting and troth For comfort from crimes. But the cup then he took, The slaughter-fierce warrior, from Wealhtheow the Queen. And then rim'd he the word, making ready for war, 630 And Beowulf spake forth, the Ecgtheow's bairn: E'en that in mind had I when up on holm strode I, And in sea-boat sat down with a band of my men, That for once and for all the will of your people Would I set me to work, or on slaughter-field cringe Fast in grip of the fiend; yea and now shall I frame The valour of earl-folk, or else be abiding The day of mine end, here down in the mead-hall. To the wife those his words well liking they were, The big word of the Geat; and the gold-adorn'd wended, 640 The frank and free Queen to sit by her lord. And thereafter within the high hall was as erst The proud word outspoken and bliss on the people, Was the sound of the victory-folk, till on a sudden The Healfdene's son would now be a-seeking His rest of the even: wotted he for the Evil Within the high hall was the Hild-play bedight, Sithence that the sun-light no more should they see, When night should be darkening, and down over all The shapes of the shadow-helms should be a-striding 650 Wan under the welkin. Uprose then all war-folk; Then greeted the glad-minded one man the other, Hrothgar to Beowulf, bidding him hail, And the wine-hall to wield, and withal quoth the word: Never to any man erst have I given, Since the hand and the shield's round aloft might I heave, This high hall of the Dane-folk, save now unto thee. Have now and hold the best of all houses, Mind thee of fame, show the might of thy valour! Wake the wroth one: no lack shall there be to thy willing 660 If that wight work thou win and life therewithal. XI. NOW IS BEOWULF LEFT IN THE HALL ALONE WITH HIS MEN. Then wended him Hrothgar with the band of his warriors, The high-ward of the Scyldings from out of the hall, For then would the war-lord go seek unto Wealhtheow The Queen for a bed-mate. The glory of king-folk Against Grendel had set, as men have heard say, A hall-ward who held him a service apart In the house of the Dane-lord, for eoten-ward held he. Forsooth he, the Geat-lord, full gladly he trowed In the might of his mood and the grace of the Maker. 670 Therewith he did off him his byrny of iron And the helm from his head, and his dighted sword gave, The best of all irons, to the thane that abode him, And bade him to hold that harness of battle. Bespake then the good one, a big word he gave out, Beowulf the Geat, ere on the bed strode he: Nowise in war I deem me more lowly In the works of the battle than Grendel, I ween; So not with the sword shall I lull him to slumber, Or take his life thuswise, though to me were it easy; 680 Of that good wise he wots not, to get the stroke on me, To hew on my shield, for as stark as he shall be In the works of the foeman. So we twain a night-tide Shall forgo the sword, if he dare yet to seek The war without weapons. Sithence the wise God, The Lord that is holy, on which hand soever The glory may doom as due to him seemeth. Bowed down then the war-deer, the cheek-bolster took The face of the earl; and about him a many Of sea-warriors bold to their hall-slumber bow'd them; 690 No one of them thought that thence away should he Seek ever again to his home the beloved, His folk or his free burg, where erst he was fed; For of men had they learn'd that o'er mickle a many In that wine-hall aforetime the fell death had gotten Of the folk of the Danes; but the Lord to them gave it, To the folk of the Weders, the web of war-speeding, Help fair and good comfort, e'en so that their foeman Through the craft of one man all they overcame, By the self-might of one. So is manifest truth 700 That God the Almighty the kindred of men Hath wielded wide ever. Now by wan night there came, There strode in the shade-goer; slept there the shooters, They who that horn-house should be a-holding, All men but one man: to men was that known, That them indeed might not, since will'd not the Maker, The scather unceasing drag off 'neath the shadow; But he ever watching in wrath 'gainst the wroth one Mood-swollen abided the battle-mote ever. XII. GRENDEL COMETH INTO HART: OF THE STRIFE BETWIXT HIM AND BEOWULF. Came then from the moor-land, all under the mist-bents, 710 Grendel a-going there, bearing God's anger. The scather the ill one was minded of mankind To have one in his toils from the high hall aloft. 'Neath the welkin he waded, to the place whence the wine-house, The gold-hall of men, most yarely he wist With gold-plates fair coloured; nor was it the first time That he unto Hrothgar's high home had betook him. Never he in his life-days, either erst or thereafter, Of warriors more hardy or hall-thanes had found. Came then to the house the wight on his ways, 720 Of all joys bereft; and soon sprang the door open, With fire-bands made fast, when with hand he had touch'd it; Brake the bale-heedy, he with wrath bollen, The mouth of the house there, and early thereafter On the shiny-fleck'd floor thereof trod forth the fiend; On went he then mood-wroth, and out from his eyes stood Likest to fire-flame light full unfair. In the high house beheld he a many of warriors, A host of men sib all sleeping together, Of man-warriors a heap; then laugh'd out his mood; 730 In mind deem'd he to sunder, or ever came day, The monster, the fell one, from each of the men there The life from the body; for befell him a boding Of fulfilment of feeding: but weird now it was not That he any more of mankind thenceforward Should eat, that night over. Huge evil beheld then The Hygelac's kinsman, and how the foul scather All with his fear-grips would fare there before him; How never the monster was minded to tarry, For speedily gat he, and at the first stour, 740 A warrior a-sleeping, and unaware slit him, Bit his bone-coffer, drank blood a-streaming, Great gobbets swallow'd in; thenceforth soon had he Of the unliving one every whit eaten To hands and feet even: then forth strode he nigher, And took hold with his hand upon him the highhearted. The warrior a-resting; reach'd out to himwards The fiend with his hand, gat fast on him rathely With thought of all evil, and besat him his arm. Then swiftly was finding the herdsman of fouldeeds 750 That forsooth he had met not in Middle-garth ever, In the parts of the earth, in any man else A hand-grip more mighty; then wax'd he of mood Heart-fearful, but none the more outward might he; Hence-eager his heart was to the darkness to hie him, And the devil-dray seek: not there was his service E'en such as he found in his life-days before. Then to heart laid the good one, the Hygelac's kinsman, His speech of the even-tide; uplong he stood And fast with him grappled, till bursted his fingers. 760 The eoten was out-fain, but on strode the earl. The mighty fiend minded was, whereso he might, To wind him about more widely away thence, And flee fenwards; he found then the might of his fingers In the grip of the fierce one; sorry faring was that Which he, the harm-scather, had taken to Hart. The warrior-hall dinn'd now; unto all Danes there waxed, To the castle-abiders, to each of the keen ones, To all earls, as an ale-dearth. Now angry were both Of the fierce mighty warriors, far rang out the hall-house; 770 Then mickle the wonder it was that the wine-hall Withstood the two war-deer, nor welter'd to earth The fair earthly dwelling; but all fast was it builded Within and without with the banding of iron By crafty thought smithy'd. But there from the sill bow'd Fell many a mead-bench, by hearsay of mine, With gold well adorned, where strove they the wrothful. Hereof never ween'd they, the wise of the Scyldings, That ever with might should any of men The excellent, bone-dight, break into pieces, 780 Or unlock with cunning, save the light fire's embracing In smoke should it swallow. So uprose the roar New and enough; now fell on the North-Danes Ill fear and the terror, on each and on all men, Of them who from wall-top hearken'd the weeping, Even God's foeman singing the fear-lay, The triumphless song, and the wound-bewailing Of the thrall of the Hell; for there now fast held him He who of men of main was the mightiest In that day which is told of, the day of this life. 790 XIII. BEOWULF HATH THE VICTORY: GRENDEL IS HURT DEADLY AND LEAVETH HAND AND ARM IN THE HALL. Naught would the earls' help for anything thenceforth That murder-comer yet quick let loose of, Nor his life-days forsooth to any of folk Told he for useful. Out then drew full many Of Beowult's earls the heir-loom of old days, For their lord and their master's fair life would hey ward, That mighty of princes, if so might they do it. For this did they know not when they the strife dreed, Those hardy-minded men of the battle, And on every half there thought to be hewing, 800 And search out his soul, that the ceaseless scather Not any on earth of the choice of all irons, Not one of the war-bills, would greet home for ever. For he had forsworn him from victory-weapons, And each one of edges. But his sundering of soul In the days that we tell of, the day of this life, Should be weary and woeful, the ghost wending elsewhere To the wielding of fiends to wend him afar. Then found he out this, he who mickle erst made Out of mirth of his mood unto children of men 810 And had fram'd many crimes, he the foeman of God, That the body of him would not bide to avail him, But the hardy of mood, even Hygelac's kinsman, Had him fast by the hand: now was each to the other All loathly while living: his body-sore bided The monster: was manifest now on his shoulder The unceasing wound, sprang the sinews asunder, The bone-lockers bursted. To Beowulf now Was the battle-fame given; should Grendel thenceforth Flee life-sick awayward and under the fen-bents 820 Seek his unmerry stead: now wist he more surely That ended his life was, and gone over for ever, His day-tale told out. But was for all Dane-folk After that slaughter-race all their will done. Then had he cleans'd for them, he the far-comer, Wise and stout-hearted, the high hall of Hrothgar, And say'd it from war. So the night-work he joy'd in And his doughty deed done. Yea, but he for the East-Danes That lord of the Geat-folk his boast's end had gotten, Withal their woes bygone all had he booted, 830 And the sorrow hate-fashion'd that afore they had dreed, And the hard need and bitter that erst they must bear, The sorrow unlittle. Sithence was clear token When the deer of the battle laid down there the hand The arm and the shoulder, and all there together Of the grip of that Grendel 'neath the great roof upbuilded. XIV. THE DANES REJOICE; THEY GO TO LOOK ON THE SLOT OF GRENDEL, AND COME BACK TO HART, AND ON THE WAY MAKE MERRY WITH RACING AND THE TELLING OF TALES. There was then on the morning, as I have heard tell it, Round the gift-hall a many of men of the warriors: Were faring folk-leaders from far and from near O'er the wide-away roads the wonder to look on, 840 The track of the loathly: his life-sundering nowise Was deem'd for a sorrow to any of men there Who gaz'd on the track of the gloryless wight; How he all a-weary of mood thence awayward, Brought to naught in the battle, to the mere of the nicors, Now fey and forth-fleeing, his life-steps had flitted. There all in the blood was the sea-brim a-welling, The dread swing of the waves was washing all mingled With hot blood; with the gore of the sword was it welling; The death-doom'd had dyed it, sithence he unmerry 850 In his fen-hold had laid down the last of his life, His soul of the heathen, and hell gat hold on him. Thence back again far'd they those fellows of old, With many a young one, from their wayfaring merry, Full proud from the mere-side on mares there a-riding The warriors on white steeds. There then was of Beowulf Set forth the might mighty; oft quoth it a many That nor northward nor southward beside the twin sea-floods, Over all the huge earth's face now never another, Never under the heaven's breadth, was there a better, 860 Nor of wielders of war-shields a worthier of kingship; But neither their friendly lord blam'd they one whit, Hrothgar the glad, for good of kings was he. There whiles the warriors far-famed let leap Their fair fallow horses and fare into flyting Where unto them the earth-ways for fair-fashion'd seemed, Through their choiceness well kenned; and whiles a king's thane, A warrior vaunt-laden, of lays grown bemindful, E'en he who all many of tales of the old days A multitude minded, found other words also 870 Sooth-bounden, and boldly the man thus began E'en Beowulf's wayfare well wisely to stir, With good speed to set forth the spells well areded And to shift about words. And well of all told he That he of Sigemund erst had heard say, Of the deeds of his might; and many things uncouth: Of the strife of the Wælsing and his wide wayfarings, Of those that men's children not well yet they wist, The feud and the crimes, save Fitela with him; Somewhat of such things yet would he say, 880 The eme to the nephew; e'en as they aye were In all strife soever fellows full needful; And full many had they of the kin of the eotens Laid low with the sword. And to Sigemund upsprang After his death-day fair doom unlittle Sithence that the war-hard the Worm there had quelled, The herd of the hoard; he under the hoar stone, The bairn of the Atheling, all alone dar'd it, That wight deed of deeds; with him Fitela was not. But howe'er, his hap was that the sword so through-waded 890 The Worm the all-wondrous, that in the wall stood The iron dear-wrought: and the drake died the murder. There had the warrior so won by wightness, That he of the ring-hoard the use might be having All at his own will. The sea-boat he loaded, And into the ship's barm bore the bright fretwork Wæls' son. In the hotness the Worm was to-molten. Now he of all wanderers was widely the greatest Through the peoples of man-kind, the warder of warriors, By mighty deeds; erst then and early he throve. 900 Now sithence the warfare of Heremod waned, His might and his valour, amidst of the eotens To the wielding of foemen straight was he betrayed, And speedily sent forth: by the surges of sorrow O'er-long was he lam'd, became he to his lieges, To all of the athelings, a life-care thenceforward. Withal oft bemoaned in times that were older The ways of that stout heart many a carle of the wisest. Who trow'd in him boldly for booting of bales, And had look'd that the king's bairn should ever be thriving, 910 His father's own lordship should take, hold the folk, The hoard and the ward-burg, and realm of the heroes, The own land of the Scyldings. To all men was Beowulf, The Hygelac's kinsman to the kindred of menfolk, More fair unto friends; but on Heremod crime fell. So whiles the men flyting the fallow street there With their mares were they meting. There then was the morn-light Thrust forth and hasten'd; went many a warrior All hardy of heart to the high hall aloft The rare wonder to see; and the King's self withal 920 From the bride-bower wended, the warder of ring-hoards, All glorious he trod and a mickle troop had he, He for choice ways beknown; and his Queen therewithal Meted the mead-path with a meyny of maidens. XV. KING HROTHGAR AND HIS THANES LOOK ON THE ARM OF GRENDEL. CONVERSE BETWIXT HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF CONCERNING THE BATTLE. Out then spake Hrothgar; for he to the hall went, By the staple a-standing the steep roof he saw Shining fair with the gold, and the hand there of Grendel: For this sight that I see to the All-wielder thanks Befall now forthwith, for foul evil I bided, All griefs from this Grendel; but God, glory's Herder, 930 Wonder on wonder ever can work. Unyore was it then when I for myself Might ween never more, wide all through my life-days, Of the booting of woes; when all blood-besprinkled The best of all houses stood sword-gory here; Wide then had the woe thrust off each of the wise Of them that were looking that never life-long That land-work of the folk they might ward from the loathly, From ill wights and devils. But now hath a warrior Through the might of the Lord a deed made thereunto 940 Which we, and all we together, in nowise By wisdom might work. What! well might be saying That maid whosoever this son brought to birth According to man's kind, if yet she be living, That the Maker of old time to her was all-gracious In the bearing of bairns. O Beowulf, I now Thee best of all men as a son unto me Will love in my heart, and hold thou henceforward Our kinship new-made now; nor to thee shall be lacking As to longings of world-goods whereof I have wielding; 950 Full oft I for lesser things guerdon have given, The worship of hoards, to a warrior was weaker, A worser in strife. Now thyself for thyself By deeds hast thou fram'd it that liveth thy fair fame For ever and ever. So may the All-wielder With good pay thee ever, as erst he hath done it. Then Beowulf spake out, the Ecgtheow's bairn: That work of much might with mickle of love We framed with fighting, and frowardly ventur'd The might of the uncouth; now I would that rather 960 Thou mightest have look'd on the very man there, The foe in his fret-gear all worn unto falling. There him in all haste with hard griping did I On the slaughter-bed deem it to bind him indeed, That he for my hand-grip should have to be lying All busy for life: but his body fled off. Him then, I might not (since would not the Maker) From his wayfaring sunder, nor naught so well sought I The life-foe; o'er-mickle of might was he yet, The foeman afoot: but his hand has he left us, 970 A life-ward, a-warding the ways of his wending, His arm and his shoulder therewith. Yet in nowise That wretch of the grooms any solace hath got him, Nor longer will live the loathly deed-doer, Beswinked with sins; for the sore hath him now In the grip of need grievous, in strait hold togather'd With bonds that be baleful: there shall he abide, That wight dyed with all evil-deeds, the doom mickle, For what wise to him the bright Maker will write it. Then a silenter man was the son there of Ecglaf 980 In the speech of the boasting of works of the battle, After when every atheling by craft of the earl Over the high roof had look'd on the hand there, Yea, the fiend's fingers before his own eyen, Each one of the nail-steads most like unto steel, Hand-spur of the heathen one; yea, the own claw Uncouth of the war-wight. But each one there quoth it, That no iron of the best, of the hardy of folk, Would touch him at all, which e'er of the monster The battle-hand bloody might bear away thence. 990 XVI. HROTHGAR GIVETH GIFTS TO BEOWULF. Then was speedily bidden that Hart be withinward By hand of man well adorn'd; was there a many Of warriors and wives, who straightway that wine-house The guest-house, bedight them: there gold-shotten shone The webs over the walls, many wonders to look on For men every one who on such things will stare. Was that building the bright all broken about All withinward, though fast in the bands of the iron; Asunder the hinges rent, only the roof there Was saved all sound, when the monster of evil 1000 The guilty of crime-deeds had gat him to flight Never hoping for life. Nay, lightly now may not That matter be fled from, frame it whoso may frame it. But by strife man shall win of the bearers of souls, Of the children of men, compelled by need, The abiders on earth, the place made all ready, The stead where his body laid fast on his death-bed Shall sleep after feast. Now time and place was it When unto the hall went that Healfdene's son, And the King himself therein the feast should be sharing; 1010 Never heard I of men-folk in fellowship more About their wealth-giver so well themselves bearing. Then bow'd unto bench there the abounders in riches And were fain of their fill. Full fairly there took A many of mead-cups the kin of those men, The sturdy of heart in the hall high aloft, Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Hart there withinward Of friends was fulfilled; naught there that was guilesome The folk of the Scyldings for yet awhile framed. Gave then to Beowulf Healfdene's bairn 1020 A golden war-ensign, the victory's guerdon, A staff-banner fair-dight, a helm and a byrny: The great jewel-sword a many men saw them Bear forth to the hero. Then Beowulf took The cup on the floor, and nowise of that fee-gift Before the shaft-shooters the shame need he have. Never heard I how friendlier four of the treasures, All gear'd with the gold about, many men erewhile On the ale-bench have given to others of men. Round the roof of the helm, the burg of the head, 1030 A wale wound with wires held ward from without-ward, So that the file-leavings might not over fiercely, Were they never so shower-hard, scathe the shield-bold, When he 'gainst the angry in anger should get him. Therewith bade the earls' burg that eight of the horses With cheek-plates adorned be led down the floor In under the fences; on one thereof stood A saddle all craft-bedeck'd, seemly with treasure. That same was the war-seat of the high King full surely Whenas that the sword-play that Healfdene's son 1040 Would work; never failed in front of the war The wide-kenn'd one's war-might, whereas fell the slain. So to Beowulf thereon of either of both The Ingwines' high warder gave wielding to have, Both the war-steeds and weapons, and bade him well brook them. Thuswise and so manly the mighty of princes, Hoard-warden of heroes, the battle-race paid With mares and with gems, so as no man shall blame them, E'en he who will say sooth aright as it is. XVII. THEY FEAST IN HART. THE GLEEMAN SINGS OF FINN AND HENGEST. Then the lord of the earl-folk to every and each one 1050 Of them who with Beowulf the sea-ways had worn Then and there on the mead-bench did handsel them treasure, An heir-loom to wit; for him also he bade it That a were-gild be paid, whom Grendel aforetime By wickedness quell'd, as far more of them would he, Save from them God all-witting the weird away wended, And that man's mood withal. But the Maker all wielded Of the kindred of mankind, as yet now he doeth. Therefore through-witting will be the best everywhere And the forethought of mind. Many things must abide 1060 Of lief and of loth, he who here a long while In these days of the strife with the world shall be dealing. There song was and sound all gather'd together Of that Healfdene's warrior and wielder of battle, The wood of glee greeted, the lay wreaked often, Whenas the hall-game the minstrel of Hrothgar All down by the mead-bench tale must be making: By Finn's sons aforetime, when the fear gat them, The hero of Half-Danes, Hnaef of the Scyldings, On the slaughter-field Frisian needs must he fall. 1070 Forsooth never Hildeburh needed to hery The troth of the Eotens; she all unsinning Was lorne of her lief ones in that play of the linden, Her bairns and her brethren, by fate there they fell Spear-wounded. That was the all-woeful of women. Not unduly without cause the daughter of Hoc Mourn'd the Maker's own shaping, sithence came the morn When she under the heavens that tide came to see, Murder-bale of her kinsmen, where most had she erewhile? Of world's bliss. The war-tide took all men away 1080 Of Finn's thanes that were, save only a few; E'en so that he might not on the field of the meeting Hold Hengest a war-tide, or fight any whit, Nor yet snatch away thence by war the woe-leavings From the thane of the King; but terms now they bade him That for them other stead all for all should make room, A hall and high settle, whereof the half-wielding They with the Eotens' bairns henceforth might hold, And with fee-gifts moreover the son of Folkwalda Each day of the days the Danes should beworthy; 1090 The war-heap of Hengest with rings should he honour Even so greatly with treasure of treasures, Of gold all beplated, as he the kin Frisian Down in the beer-hall duly should dight. Troth then they struck there each of the two halves, A peace-troth full fast. There Finn unto Hengest Strongly, unstrifeful, with oath-swearing swore, That he the woe-leaving by the doom of the wise ones Should hold in ail honour, that never man henceforth With word or with work the troth should be breaking, 1100 Nor through craft of the guileful should undo it ever, Though their ring-giver's bane they must follow in rank All lordless, e'en so need is it to be: But if any of Frisians by over-bold speaking The murderful hatred should call unto mind, Then naught but the edge of the sword should avenge it. Then done was the oath there, and gold of the golden Heav'd up from the hoard. Of the bold Here-Scyldings All yare on the bale was the best battle-warrior; On the death-howe beholden was easily there 1110 The sark stain'd with war-sweat, the all-golden swine, The iron-hard boar; there was many an atheling With wounds all outworn; some on slaughter-field welter'd. But Hildeburh therewith on Hnæf's bale she bade them The own son of herself to set fast in the flame, His bone-vats to burn up and lay on the bale there: On his shoulder all woeful the woman lamented, Sang songs of bewailing, as the warrior strode upward, Wound up to the welkin that most of death-fires, Before the howe howled; there molten the heads were, 1120 The wound-gates burst open, there blood was out-springing From foe-bites of the body; the flame swallow'd all, The greediest of ghosts, of them that war gat him Of either of folks; shaken off was their life-breath. XVIII. THE ENDING OF THE TALE OF FINN. Departed the warriors their wicks to visit All forlorn of their friends now, Friesland to look on, Their homes and their high burg. Hengest a while yet Through the slaughter-dyed winter bode dwelling with Finn And all without strife: he remember'd his homeland, Though never he might o'er the mere be a-driving 1130 The high prow be-ringed: with storm the holm welter'd, Won war 'gainst the winds; winter locked the waves With bondage of ice, till again came another Of years into the garth, as yet it is ever, And the days which the season to watch never cease, The glory-bright weather; then gone was the winter, And fair was the earth's barm. Now hastened the exile. The guest from the garths; he on getting of vengeance Of harms thought more greatly than of the sea's highway, If he but a wrath-mote might yet be a-wending 1140 Where the bairns of the Eotens might he still remember. The ways of the world forwent he in nowise Then, whenas Hunlafing the light of the battle, The best of all bills, did into his breast, Whereof mid the Eotens were the edges well knowen. Withal to the bold-hearted Finn befell after Sword-bales the deadly at his very own dwelling, When the grim grip of war Guthlaf and Oslaf After the sea-fare lamented with sorrow And wyted him deal of their woes; nor then might he 1150 In his breast hold his wavering heart. Was the hall dight With the lives of slain foemen, and slain eke was Finn The King 'midst of his court-men; and there the Queen, taken, The shooters of the Scyldings ferry'd down to the sea-ships, And the house-wares and chattels the earth-king had had, E'en such as at Finn's home there might they find, Of collars and cunning gems. They on the sea-path The all-lordly wife to the Danes straightly wended, Led her home to their people. So sung was the lay, The song of the gleeman; then again arose game, 1160 The bench-voice wax'd brighter, gave forth the birlers Wine of the wonder-vats. Then came forth Wealhtheow Under gold ring a-going to where sat the two good ones, The uncle and nephew, yet of kindred unsunder'd, Each true to the other. Eke Unferth the spokesman Sat at feet of the Scyldings' lord; each of his heart trow'd That of mickle mood was he, though he to his kinsmen Were un-upright in edge-play. Spake the dame of the Scyldings: Now take thou this cup, my lord of the kingly, Bestower of treasures! Be thou in thy joyance, 1170 Thou gold-friend of men! and speak to these Geat-folk In mild words, as duly behoveth to do; Be glad toward the Geat-folk, and mindful of gifts; From anigh and from far peace hast thou as now. To me one hath said it, that thou for a son wouldst This warrior be holding. Lo! Hart now is cleansed, The ring-hall bright-beaming. Have joy while thou mayest In many a meed, and unto thy kinsmen Leave folk and dominion, when forth thou must fare To look on the Maker's own making. I know now 1180 My Hrothulf the gladsome, that he this young man Will hold in all honour if thou now before him, O friend of the Scyldings, shall fare from the world; I ween that good-will yet this man will be yielding To our offspring that after us be, if he mind him Of all that which we two, for good-will and for worship, Unto him erst a child yet have framed of kindness. Then along by the bench did she turn, where her boys were, Hrethric and Hrothmund, and the bairns of high warriors, The young ones together; and there sat the good one, 1190 Beowulf the Geat, betwixt the two brethren. XIX. MORE GIFTS ARE GIVEN TO BEOWULF. THE BRISING COLLAR TOLD OF. Borne to him then the cup was, and therewith friendly bidding In words was put forth; and gold about wounden All blithely they bade him bear; arm-gearings twain, Rail and rings, the most greatest of fashion of neck-rings Of them that on earth I have ever heard tell of: Not one under heaven wrought better was heard of Midst the hoard-gems of heroes, since bore away Hama To the bright burg and brave the neck-gear of the Brisings, The gem and the gem-chest: from the foeman's guile fled he 1200 Of Eormenric then, and chose rede everlasting. That ring Hygelac had, e'en he of the Geat-folk, The grandson of Swerting, the last time of all times When he under the war-sign his treasure defended, The slaughter-prey warded. Him weird bore away Sithence he for pride-sake the war-woe abided, The feud with the Frisians; the fretwork he flitted, The gem-stones much worthy, all over the waves' cup. The King the full mighty cring'd under the shield; Into grasp of the Franks the King's life was gotten 1210 With the gear of the breast and the ring altogether; It was worser war-wolves then reft gear from the slain After the war-shearing; there the Geats' war-folk Held the house of the dead men. The Hall took the voices; Spake out then Wealhtheow; before the host said she: Brook thou this roundel, lief Beowulf, henceforth, Dear youth, with all hail, and this rail be thou using, These gems of folk-treasures, and thrive thou well ever; Thy might then make manifest! Be to these lads here Kind of lore, and for that will I look to thy guerdon. 1220 Thou hast won by thy faring, that far and near henceforth, Through wide time to come, men will give thee the worship, As widely as ever the sea winds about The windy land-walls. Be the while thou art living An atheling wealthy, and well do I will thee Of good of the treasures; be thou to my son In deed ever friendly, and uphold thy joyance! Lo! each of the earls here to the other is trusty, And mild of his mood and to man-lord full faithful, Kind friends all the thanes are, the folk ever yare. 1230 Ye well drunk of folk-grooms, now do ye my biddings. To her settle then far'd she; was the feast of the choicest, The men drank the wine nothing wotting of weird, The grim shaping of old, e'en as forth it had gone To a many of earls; sithence came the even, And Hrothgar departed to his chamber on high, The rich to his rest; and aright the house warded Earls untold of number, as oft did they erewhile. The bench-boards they bar'd them, and there they spread over With beds and with bolsters. Of the beer-skinkers one 1240 Who fain was and fey bow'd adown to his floor-rest. At their heads then they rested their rounds of the battle, Their board-woods bright-shining. There on the bench was, Over the atheling, easy to look on The battle-steep war-helm, the byrny be-ringed, The wood of the onset, all-glorious. Their wont was That oft and oft were they all yare for the war-tide, Both at home and in hosting, were it one were it either, And for every such tide as their liege lord unto The need were befallen: right good was that folk. 1250 XX. GRENDEL'S DAM BREAKS INTO HART AND BEARS OFF AESCHERE. So sank they to slumber; but one paid full sorely For his rest of the even, as to them fell full often Sithence that the gold-hall Grendel had guarded, And won deed of unright, until that the end came And death after sinning: but clear was it shown now, Wide wotted of men, that e'en yet was a wreaker Living after the loathly, a long while of time After the battle-care, Grendel's own mother; The woman, the monster-wife, minded her woe, She who needs must in horror of waters be wonning, 1260 The streams all a-cold, sithence Cain was become For an edge-bane forsooth to his very own brother, The own son of his father. Forth bann'd then he fared, All marked by murder, from man's joy to flee, And dwelt in the waste-land. Thence woke there a many Ghosts shapen of old time, of whom one was Grendel, The fierce wolf, the hateful, who found him at Hart A man there a-watching, abiding the war-tide; Where to him the fell ogre to hand-grips befell; Howe'er he him minded of the strength of his might, 1270 The great gift set fast in him given of God, And trowed in grace by the All-wielder given, His fostering, his staying; so the fiend he o'ercame And bow'd down the Hell's ghost, that all humble he wended Fordone of all mirth death's house to go look on, That fiend of all mankind. But yet was his mother, The greedy, the glum-moody, fain to be going A sorrowful journey her son's death to wreak. So came she to Hart whereas now the Ring-Danes Were sleeping adown the hall; soon there befell 1280 Change of days to the earl-folk, when in she came thrusting, Grendel's mother: and soothly was minish'd the terror By even so much as the craft-work of maidens, The war-terror of wife, is beside the man weapon'd, When the sword all hard bounden, by hammers to-beaten, The sword all sweat-stain'd, through the swine o'er the war-helm With edges full doughty down rightly sheareth. But therewith in the hall was tugg'd out the hard edge, The sword o'er the settles, and wide shields a many Heaved fast in the hand: no one the helm heeded, 1290 Nor the byrny wide-wrought, when the wild fear fell on them. In haste was she then, and out would she thenceforth For the saving her life, whenas she should be found there. But one of the athelings she speedily handled And caught up full fast, and fenward so fared. But he was unto Hrothgar the liefest of heroes Of the sort of the fellows; betwixt the two sea-floods A mighty shield-warrior, whom she at rest brake up, A war-wight well famed. There Beowulf was not; Another house soothly had erewhile been dighted 1300 After gift of that treasure to that great one of Geats. Uprose cry then in Hart, all 'mid gore had she taken The hand, the well-known, and now care wrought anew In the wicks was arisen. Naught well was the bargain That on both halves they needs must be buying that tide With the life-days of friends. Then the lord king, the wise, The hoary of war-folk, was harmed of mood When his elder of thanes and he now unliving, The dearest of all, he knew to be dead. To the bower full swiftly was Beowulf brought now, 1310 The man victory-dower'd; together with day-dawn Went he, one of the earls, that champion beworthy'd, Himself with his fellows, where the wise was abiding To wot if the All-wielder ever will to him After the tale of woe happy change work. Then went down the floor he the war-worthy With the host of his hand, while high dinn'd the hall-wood, Till he there the wise one with words had well greeted, The lord of the Ingwines, and ask'd had the night been. Since sore he was summon'd, a night of sweet easement. 1320 XXI. HROTHGAR LAMENTS THE SLAYING OF AESCHERE, AND TELLS OF GRENDEL'S MOTHER AND HER DEN. Spake out then Hrothgar the helm of the Scyldings: Ask no more after bliss; for new-made now is sorrow For the folk of the Danes; for Aeschere is dead, He who was Yrmenlaf's elder of brethren, My wise man of runes, my bearer of redes, Mine own shoulder-fellow, when we in the war-tide Warded our heads and the host on the host fell, And the boars were a-crashing; e'en such should an earl be, An atheling exceeding good, e'en as was Aeschere. Now in Hart hath befallen for a hand-bane unto him 1330 A slaughter-ghost wandering; naught wot I whither The fell one, the carrion-proud, far'd hath her back-fare, By her fill made all famous. That feud hath she wreaked Wherein yesternight gone by Grendel thou quelledst Through thy hardihood fierce with grips hard enow. For that he over-long the lief people of me Made to wane and undid. In the war then he cringed, Being forfeit of life. But now came another, An ill-scather mighty, her son to awreak; And further hath she now the feud set on foot, 1340 As may well be deemed of many a thane, Who after the wealth-giver weepeth in mind, A hard bale of heart. Now the hand lieth low Which well-nigh for every joy once did avail you. The dwellers in land here, my people indeed, The wise-of-rede hall-folk, have I heard say e'en this: That they have set eyes on two such-like erewhile, Two mickle mark-striders the moorland a-holding, Ghosts come from elsewhere, but of them one there was, As full certainly might they then know it to be, 1350 In the likeness of woman; and the other shap'd loathly All after man's image trod the tracks of the exile, Save that more was he shapen than any man other; And in days gone away now they named him Grendel, The dwellers in fold; they wot not if a father Unto him was born ever in the days of erewhile Of dark ghosts. They dwell in a dim hidden land, The wolf-bents they bide in, on the nesses the windy, The perilous fen-paths where the stream of the fell-side Midst the mists of the nesses wends netherward ever, 1360 The flood under earth. Naught far away hence, But a mile-mark forsooth, there standeth the mere, And over it ever hang groves all berimed, The wood fast by the roots over-helmeth the water. But each night may one a dread wonder there see, A fire in the flood. But none liveth so wise Of the bairns of mankind, that the bottom may know. Although the heath-stepper beswinked by hounds, The hart strong of horns, that holt-wood should seek to Driven fleeing from far, he shall sooner leave life, 1370 Leave life-breath on the bank, or ever will he Therein hide his head. No hallow'd stead is it: Thence the blending of water-waves ever upriseth Wan up to the welkin, whenso the wind stirreth Weather-storms loathly, until the lift darkens And weepeth the heavens. Now along the rede wendeth Of thee again only. Of that earth yet thou know'st not, The fearful of steads, wherein thou mayst find That much-sinning wight; seek then if thou dare, And thee for that feud will I guerdon with fee, 1380 The treasures of old time, as erst did I do, With the gold all-bewounden, if away thence thou get thee. XXII. THEY FOLLOW GRENDEL'S DAM TO HER LAIR. Spake out then Beowulf the Ecgtheow's bairn: O wise of men, mourn not; for to each man 'tis better That his friend he awreak than weep overmuch. Lo! each of us soothly abideth the ending Of the life of the world. Then let him work who work may High deeds ere the death: to the doughty of war-lads When he is unliving shall it best be hereafter. Rise up, warder of kingdom! and swiftly now wend we 1390 The Grendel Kinswoman's late goings to look on; And this I behote thee, that to holm shall she flee not, Nor into earth's fathom, nor into the fell-holt, Nor the grounds of the ocean, go whereas she will go. For this one of days patience dree thou a while then Of each one of thy woes, as I ween it of thee. Then leapt up the old man, and lightly gave God thank, That mighty of Lords, for the word which the man spake. And for Hrothgar straightway then was bitted a horse, A wave-maned steed: and the wise of the princes 1400 Went stately his ways; and stepp'd out the man-troop, The linden-board bearers. Now lightly the tracks were All through the woodland ways wide to be seen there, Her goings o'er ground; she had gotten her forthright Over the mirk-moor: bore she of kindred thanes The best that there was, all bare of his soul, Of them that with Hrothgar heeded the home. Overwent then that bairn of the athelings Steep bents of the stones, and stridings full narrow, Strait paths nothing pass'd over, ways all uncouth, 1410 Sheer nesses to wit, many houses of nicors. He one of the few was going before Of the wise of the men the meadow to look on, Until suddenly there the trees of the mountains Over the hoar-stone found he a-leaning, A wood without gladness: the water stood under Dreary and troubled. Unto all the Danes was it, To the friends of the Scyldings, most grievous in mood To many of thanes such a thing to be tholing, Sore evil to each one of earls, for of Aeschere 1420 The head did they find e'en there on the holm-cliff; The flood with gore welled (the folk looking on it), With hot blood. But whiles then the horn fell to singing A song of war eager. There sat down the band; They saw down the water a many of worm-kind, Sea-drakes seldom seen a-kenning the sound; Likewise on the ness-bents nicors a-lying, Who oft on the undern-tide wont are to hold them A course full of sorrow all over the sail-road. Now the worms and the wild-deer away did they speed 1430 Bitter and wrath-swollen all as they heard it, The war-horn a-wailing: but one the Geats' warden With his bow of the shafts from his life-days there sunder'd, From his strife of the waves; so that stood in his life-parts The hard arrow of war; and he in the holm was The slower in swimming as death away swept him. So swiftly in sea-waves with boar-spears forsooth Sharp-hook'd and hard-press'd was he thereupon, Set on with fierce battle, and on to the ness tugg'd, The wondrous wave-bearer; and men were beholding 1440 The grisly guest, Beowulf therewith he gear'd him With weed of the earls: nowise of life reck'd he: Needs must his war-byrny, braided by hands, Wide, many-colour'd by cunning, the sound seek, E'en that which his bone-coffer knew how to ward, So that the war-grip his heart ne'er a while, The foe-snatch of the wrathful his life ne'er should scathe; Therewith the white war-helm warded his head, E'en that which should mingle with ground of the mere, And seek the sound-welter, with treasure beworthy'd, 1450 All girt with the lordly chains, as in days gone by The weapon-smith wrought it most wondrously done, Beset with the swine-shapes, so that sithence The brand or the battle-blades never might bite it. Nor forsooth was that littlest of all of his mainstays, Which to him in his need lent the spokesman of Hrothgar, E'en the battle-sword hafted that had to name Hrunting, That in fore days was one of the treasures of old, The edges of iron with the poison twigs o'er-stain'd, With battle-sweat harden'd; in the brunt never fail'd he 1460 Any one of the warriors whose hand wound about him, Who in grisly wayfarings durst ever to wend him To the folk-stead of foemen. Not the first of times was it That battle-work doughty it had to be doing. Forsooth naught remember'd that son there of Ecglaf, The crafty in mighty deeds, what ere he quoth All drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent To a doughtier sword-wolf: himself naught he durst it Under war of the waves there his life to adventure And warrior-ship work. So forwent he the glory, 1470 The fair fame of valour. Naught far'd so the other Syth he to the war-tide had gear'd him to wend. XXIII. BEOWULF REACHETH THE MERE-BOTTOM IN A DAY'S WHILE, AND CONTENDS WITH GRENDEL'S DAM. Out then spake Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn: Forsooth be thou mindful, O great son of Healfdene, O praise of the princes, now way-fain am I, O gold-friend of men, what we twain spake aforetime: If to me for thy need it might so befall That I cease from my life-days, thou shouldest be ever To me, forth away wended, in the stead of a father. Do thou then bear in hand these thanes of my kindred, 1480 My hand-fellows, if so be battle shall have me; Those same treasures withal, which thou gavest me erst, O Hrothgar the lief, unto Hygelac send thou; By that gold then shall wot the lord of the Geat-folk, Shall Hrethel's son see, when he stares on the treasure, That I in fair man-deeds a good one have found me, A ring-giver; while I might, joy made I thereof. And let thou then Unferth the ancient loom have, The wave-sword adorned, that man kenned widely, The blade of hard edges; for I now with Hrunting 1490 Will work me the glory, or else shall death get me. So after these words the Weder-Geats' chieftain With might of heart hasten'd; nor for answer then would he Aught tarry; the sea-welter straightway took hold on The warrior of men: wore the while of a daytide Or ever the ground-plain might he set eyes on. Soon did she find, she who the flood-ring Sword-ravening had held for an hundred of seasons, Greedy and grim, that there one man of grooms The abode of the alien-wights sought from above; 1500 Then toward him she grasp'd and gat hold on the warrior With fell clutch, but no sooner she scathed withinward The hale body; rings from without-ward it warded, That she could in no wise the war-skin clutch through, The fast locked limb-sark, with fingers all loathly. So bare then that sea-wolf when she came unto bottom The king of the rings to the court-hall adown In such wise that he might not, though hard-moody was he, Be wielding of weapons. But a many of wonders In sea-swimming swink'd him, and many a sea-deer 1510 With his war-tusks was breaking his sark of the battle; The fell wights him follow'd. 'Twas then the earl found it That in foe-hall there was he, I wot not of which, Where never the water might scathe him a whit, Nor because of the roof-hall might reach to him there The fear-grip of the flood. Now fire-light he saw, The bleak beam forsooth all brightly a-shining. Then the good one, he saw the wolf of the ground, The mere-wife the mighty, and main onset made he With his battle-bill; never his hand withheld sword-swing 1520 So that there on her head sang the ring-sword forsooth The song of war greedy. But then found the guest That the beam of the battle would bite not therewith, Or scathe life at all, but there failed the edge The king in his need. It had ere thol'd a many Of meetings of hand; oft it sheared the helm, The host-rail of the fey one; and then was the first time For that treasure dear lov'd that its might lay a-low. But therewithal steadfast, naught sluggish of valour, All mindful of high deeds was Hygelac's kinsman. 1530 Cast then the wounden blade bound with the gem-stones The warrior all angry, that it lay on the earth there, Stiff-wrought and steel-edged. In strength now he trusted, The hard hand-grip of might and main; so shall a man do When he in the war-tide yet looketh to winning The praise that is longsome, nor aught for life careth. Then fast by the shoulder, of the feud nothing recking, The lord of the War-Geats clutch'd Grendel's mother, Cast down the battle-hard, bollen with anger, That foe of the life, till she bow'd to the floor; 1540 But swiftly to him gave she back the hand-guerdon With hand-graspings grim, and griped against him; Then mood-weary stumbled the strongest of warriors, The foot-kemp, until that adown there he fell. Then she sat on the hall-guest and tugg'd out her sax, The broad and brown-edged, to wreak her her son, Her offspring her own. But lay yet on his shoulder The breast-net well braided, the berg of his life, That 'gainst point and 'gainst edge the entrance withstood. Gone amiss then forsooth had been Ecgtheow's son 1550 Underneath the wide ground there, the kemp of the Geats, Save to him his war-byrny had fram'd him a help, The hard host-net; and save that the Lord God the Holy Had wielded the war-gain, the Lord the All-wise; Save that the skies' Ruler had rightwisely doom'd it All easily. Sithence he stood up again. XXIV. BEOWULF SLAYETH GRENDEL'S DAM, SMITETH OFF GRENDEL'S HEAD, AND COMETH BACK WITH HIS THANES TO HART. Midst the war-gear he saw then a bill victory-wealthy, An old sword of eotens full doughty of edges, The worship of warriors. That was choice of all weapons, Save that more was it made than any man other 1560 In the battle-play ever might bear it afield, So goodly, all glorious, the work of the giants. Then the girdled hilt seiz'd he, the Wolf of the Scyldings, The rough and the sword-grim, and drew forth the ring-sword, Naught weening of life, and wrathful he smote then So that there on her halse the hard edge begripped, And brake through the bone-rings: the bill all through-waded Her flesh-sheathing fey; cring'd she down on the floor; The sword was war-sweaty, the man in his work joy'd. The bright beam shone forth, the light stood withinward, 1570 E'en as down from the heavens' clear high aloft shineth The sky's candle. He all along the house scanned; Then turn'd by the wall along, heav'd up his weapon Hard by the hilts the Hygelac's thane there, Ireful one-reded; naught worthless the edge was Unto the warrior; but rathely now would he To Grendel make payment of many war-onsets, Of them that he wrought on the folk of the West Danes Oftener by mickle than one time alone, Whenas he the hearthfellows of Hrothgar the King 1580 Slew in their slumber and fretted them sleeping, Men fifteen to wit of the folk of the Danes, And e'en such another deal ferry'd off outward, Loathly prey. Now he paid him his guerdon therefor, The fierce champion; so well, that abed there he saw Where Grendel war-weary was lying adown Forlorn of his life, as him ere had scathed The battle at Hart; sprang wide the body, Sithence after death he suffer'd the stroke, The hard swing of sword. Then he smote the head off him. 1590 Now soon were they seeing, those sage of the carles, E'en they who with Hrothgar gaz'd down on the holm, That the surge of the billows was blended about, The sea stain'd with blood. Therewith the hoar-blended, The old men, of the good one gat talking together That they of the Atheling ween'd never eft-soon That he, glad in his war-gain, should wend him a-seeking The mighty king, since unto many it seemed That him the mere-she-wolf had sunder'd and broken. Came then nones of the day, and the ness there they gave up, 1600 The Scyldings the brisk; and then busk'd him home thence-ward The gold-friend of men. But the guests, there they sat All sick of their mood, and star'd on the mere; They wist not, they ween'd not if him their own friend-lord Himself they should see. Now that sword began Because of the war-sweat into icicles war-made, The war-bill, to wane: that was one of the wonders That it melted away most like unto ice When the bond of the frost the Father lets loosen, Unwindeth the wave-ropes, e'en he that hath wielding 1610 Of times and of seasons, who is the sooth Shaper. In those wicks there he took not, the Weder-Geats' champion, Of treasure-wealth more, though he saw there a many, Than the off-smitten head and the sword-hilts together With treasure made shifting; for the sword-blade was molten, The sword broider'd was burn'd up, so hot was that blood, So poisonous the alien ghost there that had died. Now soon was a-swimming he who erst in the strife bode The war-onset of wrath ones; he div'd up through the water; And now were the wave-welters cleansed full well, 1620 Yea the dwellings full wide, where the ghost of elsewhither Let go of his life-days and the waning of living. Came then unto land the helm of the ship-lads Swimming stout-hearted, glad of his sea-spoil, The burden so mighty of that which he bore there. Yode then against him and gave thanks to God That fair heap of thanes, and were fain of their lord, For that hale and sound now they might see him with eyen; Then was from the bold one the helm and the byrny All speedily loosen'd. The lake now was laid, 1630 The water 'neath welkin with war-gore bestained. Forth then they far'd them alongst of the foot-tracks, Men fain of heart all, as they meted the earth-way, The street the well known; then those king-bold of men Away from the holm-cliff the head there they bore Uneasily ever to each one that bore it, The full stout-heart of men: it was four of them needs must On the stake of the slaughter with strong toil there ferry Unto the gold-hall the head of that Grendel; Until forthright in haste came into that hall, 1640 Fierce, keen in the hosting, a fourteen of men Of the Geat-folk a-ganging; and with them their lord, The moody amidst of the throng, trod the mead-plains; Came then in a-wending the foreman of thanes, The man keen of his deeds all beworshipp'd of doom, The hero, the battle-deer, Hrothgar to greet. Then was by the fell borne in onto the floor Grendel's head, whereas men were a-drinking in hall, Aweful before the earls, yea and the woman. The sight wondrous to see the warriors there look'd on. 1650 XXV. CONVERSE OF HROTHGAR WITH BEOWULF. Spake out then Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn: What! we the sea-spoils here to thee, son of Healfdene, High lord of the Scyldings, with lust have brought hither For a token of glory, e'en these thou beholdest. Now I all unsoftly with life I escaped, In war under the water dar'd I the work Full hard to be worked, and well-nigh there was The sundering of strife, save that me God had shielded. So it is that in battle naught might I with Hrunting One whit do the work, though the weapon be doughty; 1660 But to me then he granted, the Wielder of men, That on wall I beheld there all beauteous hanging An ancient sword, might-endow'd (often he leadeth right The friendless of men); so forth drew I that weapon. In that onset I slew there, as hap then appaid me, The herd of the house; then that bill of the host, The broider'd sword, burn'd up, and that blood sprang forth The hottest of battle-sweats; but the hilts thereof thenceforth From the foemen I ferry'd. I wreaked the foul deeds, The death-quelling of Danes, e'en as duly behoved. 1670 Now this I behote thee, that here in Hart mayst thou Sleep sorrowless henceforth with the host of thy men And the thanes every one that are of thy people Of doughty and young; that for them need thou dread not, O high lord of Scyldings, on that behalf soothly Life-bale for the earls as erst thou hast done. Then was the hilt golden to the ancient of warriors, The hoary of host-leaders, into hand given, The old work of giants; it turn'd to the owning, After fall of the Devils, of the lord of the Danes, 1680 That work of the wonder-smith, syth gave up the world The fierce-hearted groom, the foeman of God, The murder-beguilted, and there eke his mother; Unto the wielding of world-kings it turned, The best that there be betwixt of the sea-floods Of them that in Scaney dealt out the scat. Now spake out Hrothgar, as he look'd on the hilts there, The old heir-loom whereon was writ the beginning Of the strife of the old time, whenas the flood slew, The ocean a-gushing, that kin of the giants 1690 As fiercely they fared. That was a folk alien To the Lord everlasting; so to them a last guerdon Through the welling of waters the Wielder did give. So was on the sword-guards all of the sheer gold By dint of the rune-staves rightly bemarked, Set down and said for whom first was that sword wrought, And the choice of all irons erst had been done, Wreath-hilted and worm-adorn'd. Then spake the wise one, Healfdene's son, and all were gone silent: Lo that may he say, who the right and the soothfast 1700 Amid the folk frameth, and far back all remembers, The old country's warden, that as for this earl here Born better was he. Uprear'd is the fame-blast Through wide ways far yonder, O Beowulf, friend mine, Of thee o'er all peoples. Thou hold'st all with patience, Thy might with mood-wisdom; I shall make thee my love good, As we twain at first spake it. For a comfort thou shalt be Granted long while and long unto thy people, For a help unto heroes. Naught such became Heremod To Ecgwela's offspring, the honourful Scyldings; 1710 For their welfare naught wax'd he, but for felling in slaughter, For the quelling of death to the folk of the Danes. Mood-swollen he brake there his board-fellows soothly, His shoulder-friends, until he sunder'd him lonely, That mighty of princes, from the mirth of all men-folk. Though him God the mighty in the joyance of might, In main strength, exalted high over all-men, And framed him forth, yet fast in his heart grew A breast-hoard blood-fierce; none of fair rings he gave To the Danes as due doom would. Unmerry he dured 1720 So that yet of that strife the trouble he suffer'd. A folk-bale so longsome. By such do thou learn thee, Get thee hold of man-valour: this tale for thy teaching Old in winters I tell thee. 'Tis wonder to say it, How the high God almighty to the kindred of mankind Through his mind the wide-fashion'd deals wisdom about, Home and earlship; he owneth the wielding of all. At whiles unto love he letteth to turn The mood-thought of a man that Is mighty of kindred, And in his land giveth him joyance of earth, 1730 And to have and to hold the high ward-burg of men, And sets so 'neath his wielding the deals of the world, Dominion wide reaching, that he himself may not In all his unwisdom of the ending bethink him. He wonneth well-faring, nothing him wasteth Sickness nor eld, nor the foe-sorrow to him Dark in mind waxeth, nor strife any where, The edge-hate, appeareth; but all the world for him Wends as he willeth, and the worse naught he wotteth. XXVI. MORE CONVERSE OF HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF: THE GEATS MAKE THEM READY FOR DEPARTURE. Until that within him a deal of o'erthink-ing 1740 Waxeth and groweth while sleepeth the warder, The soul's herdsman; that slumber too fast is forsooth, Fast bounden by troubles, the banesman all nigh, E'en he that from arrow-bow evilly shooteth. Then he in his heart under helm is besmitten With a bitter shaft; not a whit then may he ward him From the wry wonder-biddings of the ghost the all-wicked. Too little he deems that which long he hath hold. Wrath-greedy he covets; nor e'en for boast-sake gives The rings fair beplated; and the forth-coming doom 1750 Forgetteth, forheedeth, for that God gave him erewhile, The Wielder of glory, a deal of the worship. At the ending-stave then it after befalleth That the shell of his body sinks fleeting away, And falleth all fey; and another one fetcheth, E'en one that undolefully dealeth the treasure, The earl's gains of aforetime, and fear never heedeth. From the bale-envy ward thee, lief Beowulf, therefore, Thou best of all men, and choose thee the better, The redes everlasting; to o'erthinkirig turn not, 1760 O mighty of champions! for now thy might breatheth For a short while of time; but eft-soon it shall be That sickness or edges from thy strength thee shall sunder, Or the hold of the fire, or the welling of floods, Or the grip of the sword-blade, or flight of the spear, Or eld the all-evil: or the beaming of eyen Shall fail and shall dim: then shall it be forthright That thee, lordly man, the death over-masters. E'en so I the Ring-Danes for an hundred of seasons Did wield under the welkin and lock'd them by war 1770 From many a kindred the Middle-Garth over With ash-spears and edges, in such wise that not ever Under the sky's run of my foemen I reckoned. What! to me in my land came a shifting of that, Came grief after game, sithence Grendel befell, My foeman of old, mine ingoer soothly. I from that onfall bore ever unceasing Mickle mood-care; herefor be thanks to the Maker, To the Lord everlasting, that in life I abided, Yea, that I on that head all sword-gory there, 1780 Now the old strife is over, with eyen should stare. Go fare thou to settle, the feast-joyance dree thou, O war-worshipp'd! unto us twain yet there will be Mickle treasure in common when come is the morning. Glad of mood then the Geat was, and speedy he gat him To go see the settle, as the sage one commanded. Then was after as erst, that they of the might-fame, The floor-sitters, fairly the feasting bedight them All newly. The helm of the night loured over Dark over the host-men. Uprose all the doughty, 1790 For he, the hoar-blended, would wend to his bed, That old man of the Scyldings. The Geat without measure, The mighty shield-warrior, now willed him rest. And soon now the hall-thane him of way-faring weary, From far away come, forth show'd him the road, E'en he who for courtesy cared for all things Of the needs of the thane, e'en such as on that day The farers o'er ocean would fainly have had. Rested then the wide-hearted; high up the house tower'd Wide-gaping all gold-dight; within slept the guest; 1800 Until the black raven, the blithe-hearted, boded The heavens' joy: then was come thither a-hastening The bright sun o'er the plains, and hastened the scathers, The athelings once more aback to their people All fain to be faring; and far away thence Would the comer high-hearted go visit his keel. Bade then the hard one Hrunting to bear, The Ecglaf's son bade to take him his sword, The iron well-lov'd; gave him thanks for the lending, Quoth he that the war-friend for worthy he told, 1810 Full of craft in the war; nor with word he aught The edge of the sword. Hah! the high-hearted warrior. So whenas all way-forward, yare in their war-gear, Were the warriors, the dear one then went to the Danes, To the high seat went the Atheling, whereas was the other; The battle-bold warrior gave greeting to Hrothgar. XXVII. BEOWULF BIDS HROTHGAR FAREWELL: THE GEATS FARE TO SHIP. Out then spake Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn: As now we sea-farers have will to be saying, We from afar come, that now are we fainest Of seeking to Hygelac. Here well erst were we 1820 Serv'd as our wills would, and well thine avail was. If I on the earth then, be it e'en but a little, Of the love of thy mood may yet more be an-earning, O lord of the men-folk, than heretofore might I, Of the works of the battle yare then soon shall I be. If I should be learning, I over the flood's run, That the sitters about thee beset thee with dread, Even thee hating as otherwhile did they; Then thousands to theeward of thanes shall I bring For the helping of heroes. Of Hygelac wot I, 1830 The lord of the Geat-folk, though he be but a youngling, That shepherd of folk, that me will he further By words and by works, that well may I ward thee, And unto thine helping the spear-holt may bear, A main-staying mighty, whenas men thou art needing. And if therewith Hrethric in the courts of the Geat-house, The King's bairn, take hosting, then may he a many Of friends find him soothly: far countries shall be Better sought to by him who for himself is doughty. Out then spake Hrothgar in answer to himward: 1840 Thy word-saying soothly the Lord of all wisdom Hath sent into thy mind; never heard I more sagely In a life that so young was a man word be laying; Strong of might and main art thou and sage of thy mood, Wise the words of thy framing. Tell I this for a weening, If it so come to pass that the spear yet shall take, Or the battle all sword-grim, the son of that Hrethel, Or sickness or iron thine Alderman have, Thy shepherd of folk, and thou fast to life hold thee, Then no better than thee may the Sea-Geats be having 1850 To choose for themselves, no one of the kings, Hoard-warden of heroes, if then thou wilt hold Thy kinsman's own kingdom. Me liketh thy mood-heart, The longer the better, O Beowulf the lief; In such wise hast thou fared, that unto the folks now, The folk of the Geats and the Gar-Danes withal, In common shall peace be, and strife rest appeased And the hatreds the doleful which erst they have dreed; Shall become, whiles I wield it, this wide realm of ours, Treasures common to either folk: many a one other 1860 With good things shall greet o'er the bath of the gannet; And the ring'd bark withal over sea shall be bringing The gifts and love-tokens. The twain folks I know Toward foeman toward friend fast-fashion'd together, In every way blameless as in the old wise. Then the refuge of warriors, he gave him withal, Gave Healfdene's son of treasures yet twelve; And he bade him with those gifts to go his own people To seek in all soundness, and swiftly come back. Then kissed the king, he of noble kin gotten, 1870 The lord of the Scyldings, that best of the thanes, By the halse then he took him; from him fell the tears From the blended of hoar hair. Of both things was there hoping To the old, the old wise one; yet most of the other, To wit, that they sithence each each might be seeing, The high-heart in council. To him so lief was he That he his breast-welling might nowise forbear, But there in his bosom, bound fast in his heart-bonds, After that dear man a longing dim-hidden Burn'd against blood-tie. So Beowulf thenceforth, 1880 The gold-proud of warriors, trod the mould grassy, Exulting in gold-store. The sea-ganger bided Its owning-lord whereas at anchor it rode. Then was there in going the gift of King Hrothgar Oft highly accounted; yea, that was a king In every wise blameless, till eld took from him eftsoon The joyance of might, as it oft scathes a many. XXVIII. BEOWULF COMES BACK TO HIS LAND. OF THE TALE OF THRYTHO. Came a many to flood then all mighty of mood, Of the bachelors were they, and ring-nets they bore, The limb-sarks belocked. The land-warden noted 1890 The earls' aback-faring, as erst he beheld them; Then nowise with harm from the nose of the cliff The guests there he greeted, but rode unto themward, And quoth that full welcome to the folk of the Weders The bright-coated warriors were wending to ship. Then was on the sand there the bark the wide-sided With war-weed beladen, the ring-stemm'd as she lay there With mares and with treasure; uptower'd the mast High over Hrothgar's wealth of the hoards. He then to the boat-warden handsel'd a gold-bounden 1900 Sword, so that sithence was he on mead-bench Worthy'd the more for that very same wealth, The heirloom. Sithence in the ship he departed To stir the deep water; the Dane-land he left. Then was by the mast there one of the sea-rails, A sail, with rope made fast; thunder'd the sound-wood. Not there the wave-floater did the wind o'er the billows Waft off from its ways; the sea-wender fared, Floated the foamy-neck'd forth o'er the waves, The bounden-stemm'd over the streams of the sea; 1910 Till the cliffs of the Geats there they gat them to wit, The nesses well kenned. Throng'd up the keel then Driven hard by the lift, and stood on the land. Then speedy at holm was the hythe-warden yare, E'en he who a long while after the lief men Eager at stream's side far off had looked. To the sand thereon bound he the wide-fathom'd ship With anchor-bands fast, lest from them the waves' might The wood that was winsome should drive thence awayward. Thereon bade he upbear the athelings' treasures, 1920 The fretwork and wrought gold. Not far from them thenceforth To seek to the giver of treasures it was, E'en Hygelac, Hrethel's son, where at home wonneth Himself and his fellows hard by the sea-wall. Brave was the builded house, bold king the lord was, High were the walls, Hygd very young, Wise and well-thriven, though few of winters Under the burg-locks had she abided, The daughter of Hæreth; naught was she dastard; Nowise niggard of gifts to the folk of the Geats, 1930 Of wealth of the treasures. But wrath Thrytho bore, The folk-queen the fierce, wrought the crime-deed full fearful. No one there durst it, the bold one, to dare, Of the comrades beloved, save only her lord, That on her by day with eyen he stare, But if to him death-bonds predestin'd he count on, Hand-wreathed; thereafter all rathely it was After the hand-grip the sword-blade appointed, That the cunning-wrought sword should show forth the deed, Make known the murder-bale. Naught is such queenlike 1940 For a woman to handle, though peerless she be, That a weaver of peace the life should waylay, For a shame that was lying, of a lief man of men; But the kinsman of Hemming, he hinder'd it surely. Yet the drinkers of ale otherwise said they; That folk-bales, which were lesser, she framed forsooth, Lesser enmity-malice, since thence erst she was Given gold-deck'd to the young one of champions, She the dear of her lineage, since Offa's floor Over the fallow flood by the lore of her father 1950 She sought in her wayfaring. Well was she sithence There on the man-throne mighty with good; Her shaping of life well brooked she living; High love she held toward the lord of the heroes; Of all kindred of men by the hearsay of me The best of all was he the twain seas beside, Of the measureless kindred; thereof Offa was For gifts and for war, the spear-keen of men, Full widely beworthy'd, with wisdom he held The land of his heritage. Thence awoke Eomær 1960 For a help unto heroes, the kinsman of Hemming, The grandson of Garmund, the crafty in war-strife. XXIX. BEOWULF TELLS HYGELAC OF HROTHGAR: ALSO OF FREAWARU HIS DAUGHTER. Went his ways then the hard one, and he with his hand-shoal, Himself over the sand the sea-plain a-treading, The warths wide away; shone the world's candle, The sun slop'd from the southward; so dreed they their journey, And went their ways stoutly unto where the earls' refuge, The banesman of Ongentheow all in his burgs there, The young king of war, the good, as they heard it. Was dealing the rings. Aright unto Hygelac 1970 Was Beowulf's speeding made knowen full swiftly, That there into the house-place that hedge of the warriors, His mate of the linden-board, living was come, Hale from the battle-play home to him houseward. Then rathe was beroomed, as the rich one was bidding, For the guests a-foot going the floor all withinward. Then sat in the face of him he from the fight sav'd, Kinsman by kinsman, whenas his man-lord In fair-sounding speech had greeted the faithful With mightyful words. With mead-skinking turned 1980 Through the high house adown the daughter of Hæreth: The people she loved: the wine-bucket bare she To the hands of the men. But now fell to Hygelac His very house-fellow in that hall the high To question full fairly, for wit-lust to-brake him, Of what like were the journeys the Sea-Geats had wended: How befell you the sea-lode, O Beowulf lief, When thou on a sudden bethoughtst thee afar Over the salt water the strife to be seeking, The battle in Hart? or for Hrothgar forsooth 1990 The wide-kenned woe some whit didst thou mend, For that mighty of lords? I therefore the mood-care In woe-wellings seethed; trow'd not in the wending Of thee the lief man. A long while did I pray thee That thou the death-guest there should greet not a whit; Wouldst let those same South-Danes their own selves to settle The war-tide with Grendel. Now to God say I thank That thee, and thee sound, now may I see. Out then spake Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn: All undark it is, O Hygelac lord, 2000 That meeting the mighty, to a many of men; Of what like was the meeting of Grendel and me On that field of the deed, where he many a deal For the Victory-Scyldings of sorrow had framed, And misery for ever; but all that I awreaked, So that needeth not boast any kinsman of Grendel Any one upon earth of that uproar of dawn-dusk, Nay not who lives longest of that kindred the loathly Encompass'd of fenland. Thither first did I come Unto that ring-hall Hrothgar to greet; 2010 Soon unto me the great Healfdene's son, So soon as my heart he was wotting forsooth. Right against his own son a settle there showed. All that throng was in joy, nor life-long saw I ever Under vault of the heavens amidst any hall-sitters More mirth of the mead. There the mighty Queen whiles, Peace-sib of the folk, went all over the floor, To the young sons bade heart up; oft she there the ring-wreath Gave unto a man ere to settle she wended. At whiles fore the doughty the daughter of Hrothgar 2020 To the earls at the end the ale-bucket bore; E'en she whom Freawaru the floor-sitters thereat Heard I to name; where she the nail'd treasure Gave to the warriors. She was behight then Youngling and gold-dight to the glad son of Froda. This hath seemed fair to the friend of the Scyldings, The herd of the realm, and good rede he accounts it, That he with that wife of death-feuds a deal And of strifes should allay. Oft unseldom eachwhere After a lord's fall e'en but for a little 2030 Bows down the bane-spear, though doughty the bride be. XXX. BEOWULF FOREBODES ILL FROM THE WEDDING OF FREAWARU: HE TELLS OF GRENDEL AND HIS DAM. Ill-liking this may be to the lord of the Heathobards, And to each of the thanes of that same people. When he with fair bride on the floor of hall wendeth, That the Dane's noble bairn his doughty should wait on, As on him glisten there the heirlooms of the aged, Hard and with rings bedight, Heathobards' treasure, Whileas the weapons yet they might wield; Till astray did they lead there at the lind-play Their own fellows belov'd and their very own lives. 2040 For then saith at the beer, he who seeth the ring, An ancient ash-warrior who mindeth of all The spear-death of men; grim is he of mind; Sad of mood he beginneth to tell the young champion. Through the thought of his heart his mind there to try, The war-bale to waken, and sayeth this word: Mayest thou, friend mine, wot of the war-sword, That which thy father bore in the fight Under the war-mask e'en on the last time, That the dear iron, whereas the Danes slew him, 2050 Wielded the death-field, since Withergyld lay, After fall of the heroes, the keen-hearted Scyldings? Now here of those banesmen the son, whoseso he be, All merry in fretwork forth on floor fareth; Of the murder he boasteth, and that jewel he beareth, E'en that which of right thou shouldest arede. Thus he mindeth and maketh word every of times, With sore words he telleth, until the time cometh That the thane of the fair bride for the deeds of his father After bite of the bill sleepeth all blood-stain'd, 2060 All forfeit of life; but thenceforth the other Escapeth alive; the land well he kenneth; Then will be broken on both sides forsooth The oath-swearing of earls, whenas unto Ingeld Well up the death-hatreds, and the wife-loves of him Because of the care-wellings cooler become. Therefore the Heathobards' faith I account not, Their deal of the folk-peace, unguileful to Danes, Their fast-bounden friendship. Henceforth must I speak on Again about Grendel, that thou get well to know it, 2070 O treasure-out-dealer, how sithence betided The hand-race of heroes: sithence heaven's gem All over the grounds glided, came the wroth guest, The dire night-angry one us to go look on, Whereas we all sound were warding the hall. There then for Handshoe was battle abiding, Life-bale to the fey; he first lay alow, The war-champion girded; unto him became Grendel, To the great thane of kindreds, a banesman of mouth, Of the man well-beloved the body he swallow'd; 2080 Nor the sooner therefor out empty-handed The bloody-tooth'd banesman, of bales all bemindful, Out from that gold-hall yet would he get him; But he, mighty of main, made trial of me, And gripp'd ready-handed. His glove hung aloft, Wondrous and wide, in wily bands fast, With cunning wiles was it begeared forsooth, With crafts of the devils and fells of the dragons; He me withinwards there, me the unsinning, The doer of big deeds would do me to be 2090 As one of the many; but naught so it might be, Sithence in mine anger upright I stood. 'Tis over-long telling how I to the folkscather For each one of evils out paid the hand-gild. There I, O my lord king, them thy leal people Worthy'd with works: but away he gat loosed Out thence for a little while, brooked yet life-joys; But his right hand held ward of his track howsoever, High upon Hart-hall, and thence away humble He sad of his mood to the mere-ground fell downward. 2100 Me for that slaughter-race the friend of the Scyldings With gold that beplated was mickle deal paid, With a many of treasures, sithence came the morning, And we to the feast-tide had sat us adown; Song was and glee there; the elder of Scyldings, Asking of many things, told of things o'erpast; Whiles hath the battle-deer there the harp's joy, The wood of mirth greeted; whiles the lay said he Soothfast and sorrowful; whiles a spell seldom told Told he by right, the king roomy-hearted; 2110 Whiles began afterward he by eld bounden, The aged hoar warrior, of his youth to bewail him, Its might of the battle; his breast well'd within him, When he, wont in winters, of many now minded. So we there withinward the livelong day's wearing Took pleasure amongst us, till came upon men Another of nights; then eftsoons again Was yare for the harm-wreak the mother of Grendel: All sorry she wended, for her son death had taken, The war-hate of the Weders: that monster of women 2120 Awreaked her bairn, and quelled a warrior In manner all mighty. Then was there from Aeschere, The wise man of old, life waning away; Nor him might they even when come was the morning, That death-weary wight, the folk of the Danes Burn up with the brand, nor lade on the bale The man well-belov'd, for his body she bare off In her fathom the fiendly all under the fell-stream. That was unto Hrothgar of sorrows the heaviest Of them which the folk-chieftain long had befallen. 2130 Then me did the lord king, and e'en by thy life, Mood-heavy beseech me that I in the holm-throng Should do after earlship, my life to adventure, And frame me main-greatness, and meed he behight me. Then I of the welling flood, which is well kenned, The grim and the grisly ground-herder did find. There to us for a while was the blending of hands; The holm welled with gore, and the head I becarved In that hall of the ground from the Mother of Grendel With the all-eked edges; unsoftly out thence 2140 My life forth I ferry'd, for not yet was I fey. But the earls' burg to me was giving thereafter Much sort of the treasures, e'en Healfdene's son. XXXI. BEOWULF GIVES HROTHGAR'S GIFTS TO HYGELAC, AND BY HIM IS REWARDED. OF THE DEATH OF HYGELAC AND OF HEARDRED HIS SON, AND HOW BEOWULF IS KING OF THE GEATS: THE WORM IS FIRST TOLD OF. So therewith the folk-king far'd, living full seemly; By those wages forsooth ne'er a whit had I lost, By the meed of my main, but to me treasure gave he, The Healfdene's son, to the doom of myself; Which to thee, king of bold ones, will I be a-bringing, And gladly will give thee; for of thee is all gotten Of favours along, and but little have I 2150 Of head-kinsmen forsooth, saving, Hygelac, thee. Then he bade them bear in the boar-shape, the head-sign, The battle-steep war-helm, the byrny all hoary, The sword stately-good, and spell after he said: This raiment of war Hrothgar gave to my hand, The wise of the kings, and therewithal bade me, That I first of all of his favour should flit thee; He quoth that first had it King Heorogar of old, The king of the Scyldings, a long while of time; But no sooner would he give it unto his son, 2160 Heoroward the well-whet, though kind to him were he, This weed of the breast. Do thou brook it full well. On these fretworks, so heard I, four horses therewith, All alike, close followed after the track, Steeds apple-fallow. Fair grace he gave him Of horses and treasures. E'en thus shall do kinsman, And nowise a wile-net shall weave for another With craft of the darkness, or do unto death His very hand-fellow. But now unto Hygelac The bold in the battle was his nephew full faithful, 2170 And either to other of good deeds was mindful. I heard that the neck-ring to Hygd did he give, E'en the wonder-gem well-wrought, that Wealh-theow gave him, The king's daughter; gave he three steeds therewithal Slender, and saddle-bright; sithence to her was, After the ring-gift, the breast well beworthy'd. Thus boldly he bore him, the Ecgtheow's bairn, The groom kenned in battle, in good deeds a-doing; After due doom he did, and ne'er slew he the drunken Hearth-fellows of him: naught rough was his heart; 2180 But of all men of mankind with the greatest of might The gift fully and fast set, which had God to him given, That war-deer did hold. Long was he contemned, While the bairns of the Geats naught told him for good, Nor him on the mead-bench worthy of mickle The lord of the war-hosts would be a-making. Weened they strongly that he were but slack then, An atheling unkeen; then came about change To the fame-happy man for every foul harm. Bade then the earls' burg in to be bringing, 2190 The king battle-famed, the leaving of Hrethel, All geared with gold; was not 'mid the Geats then A treasure-gem better of them of the sword-kind, That which then on Beowulf's harm there he laid; And gave to him there seven thousand in gift, A built house and king-stool; to both them together Was in that folkship land that was kindly, Father-right, home; to the other one rather A wide realm, to him who was there the better. But thereafter it went so in days later worn 2200 Through the din of the battle, sithence Hygelac lay low And unto Heardred swords of the battle Under the war-board were for a bane; When fell on him midst of this victory-folk The hard battle-wolves, the Scyldings of war, And by war overwhelmed the nephew of Hereric; That sithence unto Beowulf turned the broad realm All into his hand. Well then did he hold it For a fifty of winters; then was he an old king, An old fatherland's warder; until one began 2210 Through the dark of the night-tide, a drake, to hold sway. In a howe high aloft watched over an hoard, A stone-burg full steep; thereunder a path sty'd Unknown unto men, and therewithin wended Who of men do I know not; for his lust there took he, From the hoard of the heathen his hand took away A hall-bowl gem-flecked, nowise back did he give it Though the herd of the hoard him sleeping beguil'd he With thief-craft; and this then found out the king, The best of folk-heroes, that wrath-bollen was he. 2220 XXXII. HOW THE WORM CAME TO THE HOWE, AND HOW HE WAS ROBBED OF A CUP; AND HOW HE FELL ON THE FOLK. Not at all with self-wielding the craft of the worm-hoards He sought of his own will, who sore himself harmed; But for threat of oppression a thrall, of I wot not Which bairn of mankind, from blows wrathful fled, House-needy forsooth, and hied him therein, A man by guilt troubled. Then soon it betided That therein to the guest there stood grisly terror; However the wretched, of every hope waning * * * * * The ill-shapen wight, whenas the fear gat him, The treasure-vat saw; of such there was a many 2230 Up in that earth-house of treasures of old, As them in the yore-days, though what man I know not, The huge leavings and loom of a kindred of high ones, Well thinking of thoughts there had hidden away. Dear treasures. But all them had death borne away In the times of erewhile; and the one at the last Of the doughty of that folk that there longest lived, There waxed he friend-sad, yet ween'd he to tarry, That he for a little those treasures the longsome Might brook for himself. But a burg now all ready 2240 Wonn'd on the plain nigh the waves of the water, New by a ness, by narrow-crafts fasten'd; Within there then bare of the treasures of earls That herd of the rings a deal hard to carry, Of gold fair beplated, and few words he quoth: Hold thou, O earth, now, since heroes may hold not, The owning of earls. What! it erst within thee Good men did get to them; now war-death hath gotten, Life-bale the fearful, each man and every Of my folk; e'en of them who forwent the life: 2250 The hall-joy had they seen. No man to wear sword I own, none to brighten the beaker beplated, The dear drink-vat; the doughty have sought to else-whither. Now shall the hard war-helm bedight with the gold Be bereft of its plating; its polishers sleep, They that the battle-mask erewhile should burnish: Likewise the war-byrny, which abode in the battle O'er break of the war-boards the bite of the irons, Crumbles after the warrior; nor may the ring'd byrny After the war-leader fare wide afield 2260 On behalf of the heroes: nor joy of the harp is, No game of the glee-wood; no goodly hawk now Through the hall swingeth; no more the swift horse Beateth the burg-stead. Now hath bale-quelling A many of life-kin forth away sent. Suchwise sad-moody moaned in sorrow One after all, unblithely bemoaning By day and by night, till the welling of death Touch'd at his heart. The old twilight-scather Found the hoard's joyance standing all open, 2270 E'en he that, burning, seeketh to burgs, The evil drake, naked, that flieth a night-tide, With fire encompass'd; of him the earth-dwellers Are strongly adrad; wont is he to seek to The hoard in the earth, where he the gold heathen Winter-old wardeth; nor a whit him it betters. So then the folk-scather for three hundred winters Held in the earth a one of hoard-houses All-eked of craft, until him there anger'd A man in his mood, who bare to his man-lord 2280 A beaker beplated, and bade him peace-warding Of his lord: then was lightly the hoard searched over, And the ring-hoard off borne; and the boon it was granted To that wretched-wrought man. There then the lord saw That work of men foregone the first time of times. Then awaken'd the Worm, and anew the strife was; Along the stone stank he, the stout-hearted found The foot-track of the foe; he had stept forth o'er-far With dark craft, over-nigh to the head of the drake. So may the man unfey full easily outlive 2290 The woe and the wrack-journey, he whom the Wielder's Own grace is holding. Now sought the hoard-warden Eager over the ground; for the groom he would find Who unto him sleeping had wrought out the sore: Hot and rough-moody oft he turn'd round the howe All on the outward; but never was any man On the waste; but however in war he rejoiced, In battle-work. Whiles he turn'd back to his howe And sought to his treasure-vat; soon he found this, That one of the grooms had proven the gold, 2300 The high treasures; then the hoard-warden abided, But hardly forsooth, until come was the even, And all anger-bollen was then the burg-warden, And full much would the loath one with the fire-flame pay back For his drink-vat the dear. Then day was departed E'en at will to the Worm, and within wall no longer Would he bide, but awayward with burning he fared, All dight with the fire: it was fearful beginning To the folk in the land, and all swiftly it fell 2310 On their giver of treasure full grievously ended. XXXIII. THE WORM BURNS BEOWULF'S HOUSE, AND BEOWULF GETS READY TO GO AGAINST HIM. BEOWULF'S EARLY DEEDS IN BATTLE WITH THE HETWARE TOLD OF. Began then the guest to spew forth of gleeds, The bright dwellings to burn; stood the beam of the burning For a mischief to menfolk; now nothing that quick was The loathly lift-flier would leave there forsooth; The war of the Worm was wide to be seen there, The narrowing foe's hatred anigh and afar, How he, the fight-scather, the folk of the Geats Hated and harm'd; shot he back to the hoard, His dark lordly hall, ere yet was the day's while; The land-dwellers had he in the light low encompass'd 2320 With bale and with brand; in his burg yet he trusted, His war-might and his wall: but his weening bewray'd him. Then Beowulf was done to wit of the terror Full swiftly forsooth, that the house of himself, Best of buildings, was molten in wellings of fire, The gift-stool of the Geats. To the good one was that A grief unto heart; of mind-sorrows the greatest. Weened the wise one, that Him, e'en the Wielder, The Lord everlasting, against the old rights He had bitterly anger'd; the breast boil'd within him 2330 With dark thoughts, that to him were naught duly wonted. Now had the fire-drake the own fastness of folk, The water-land outward, that ward of the earth, With gleeds to ground wasted; so therefore the war-king, The lord of the Weder-folk, learned him vengeance. Then he bade be work'd for him, that fence of the warriors, And that all of iron, the lord of the earls, A war-board all glorious, for wissed he yarely That the holt-wood hereto might help him no whit, The linden 'gainst fire-flame. Of fleeting days now 2340 The Atheling exceeding good end should abide, The end of the world's life, and the Worm with him also, Though long he had holden the weal of the hoard. Forsooth scorned then the lord of the rings That he that wide-flier with war-band should seek, With a wide host; he fear'd not that war for himself, Nor for himself the Worm's war accounted one whit, His might and his valour, for that he erst a many Strait-daring of battles had bided, and liv'd, Clashings huge of the battle, sithence he of Hrothgar, 2350 He, the man victory-happy, had cleansed the hall, And in war-tide had gripped the kindred of Grendel, The loathly of kindreds; nor was that the least Of hand-meetings, wherein erst was Hygelac slain, Sithence the Geats' king in the onrush of battle, The lord-friend of the folks, down away in the Frieslands, The offspring of Hrethel, died, drunken of sword-drinks, All beaten of bill. Thence Beowulf came forth By his own craft forsooth, dreed the work of the swimming; He had on his arm, he all alone, thirty 2360 Of war-gears, when he to the holm went adown. Then nowise the Hetware needed to joy them Over the foot-war, wherein forth against him They bore the war-linden: few went back again From that wolf of the battle to wend to their homes. O'erswam then the waters' round Ecgtheow's son, Came all wretched and byrd-alone back to his people, Whereas offer'd him Hygd then the kingdom and hoard, The rings and the king-stool: trowed naught in the child, That he 'gainst folks outland the fatherland-seats 2370 Might can how to hold, now was Hygelac dead: Yet no sooner therefor might the poor folk prevail To gain from the Atheling in any of ways That he unto Heardred would be for a lord, Or eke that that kingdom henceforward should choose; Yet him midst of the folk with friend-lore he held, All kindly with honour till older he waxed And wielded the Weder-Geats. To him men-waifs thereafter Sought from over the sea, the sons they of Ohthere, For they erst had withstood the helm of the Scylfings, 2380 E'en him that was best of the kings of the sea, Of them that in Swede-realm dealt out the treasure, The mighty of princes. Unto him 'twas a life-mark; To him without food there was fated the life-wound, That Hygelac's son, by the swinging of swords; And him back departed Ongentheow's bairn, To go seek to his house, sithence Heardred lay dead, And let Beowulf hold the high seat of the king And wield there the Geats. Yea, good was that king. XXXIV. BEOWULF GOES AGAINST THE WORM. HE TELLS OF HEREBEALD AND HÆTHCYN. Of that fall of the folk-king he minded the payment 2390 In days that came after: unto Eadgils he was A friend to him wretched; with folk he upheld him Over the wide sea, that same son of Ohthere, With warriors and weapons. Sithence had he wreaking With cold journeys of care: from the king took he life. Now each one of hates thus had he outlived, And of perilous slaughters, that Ecgtheow's son, All works that be doughty, until that one day When he with the Worm should wend him to deal. So twelvesome he set forth all swollen with anger, 2400 The lord of the Geats, the drake to go look on. Aright had he learnt then whence risen the feud was, The bale-hate against men-folk: to his barm then had come The treasure-vat famous by the hand of the finder; He was in that troop of men the thirteenth Who the first of that battle had set upon foot, The thrall, the sad-minded; in shame must he thenceforth Wise the way to the plain; and against his will went he Thereunto, where the earth-hall the one there he wist, The howe under earth anigh the holm's welling, 2410 The wave-strife: there was it now full all within With gems and with wires; the monster, the warden, The yare war-wolf, he held him therein the hoard golden, The old under the earth: it was no easy cheaping To go and to gain for any of grooms. Sat then on the ness there the strife-hardy king While farewell he bade to his fellows of hearth, The gold-friend of the Geats; sad was gotten his soul, Wavering, death-minded; weird nigh beyond measure, Which him old of years gotten now needs must be greeting, 2420 Must seek his soul's hoard and asunder must deal His life from his body: no long while now was The life of the Atheling in flesh all bewounden. Now spake out Beowulf, Ecgtheow's bairn: Many a one in my youth of war-onsets I outliv'd, And the whiles of the battle: all that I remember. Seven winters had I when the wielder of treasures, The lord-friend of folk, from my father me took, Held me and had me Hrethel the king, Gave me treasure and feast, and remember'd the friendship. 2430 For life thence I was not to him a whit loather, A berne in his burgs than his bairns were, or each one, Herebeald, or Hæthcyn, or Hygelac mine. For the eldest there was in unseemly wise By the mere deed of kinsman a murder-bed strawen, Whenas him did Hæthcyn from out of his horn-bow, His lord and his friend, with shaft lay alow: His mark he miss'd shooting, and shot down his kinsman, One brother another with shaft all bebloody'd; That was fight feeless by fearful crime sinned, 2440 Soul-weary to heart, yet natheless then had The atheling from life all unwreak'd to be ceasing. So sad-like it is for a carle that is aged To be biding the while that his boy shall be riding Yet young on the gallows; then a lay should he utter, A sorrowful song whenas hangeth his son A gain unto ravens, and naught good of avail May he, old and exceeding old, anywise frame. Ever will he be minded on every each morning Of his son's faring otherwhere; nothing he heedeth 2450 Of abiding another withinward his burgs, An heritage-warder, then whenas the one By the very death's need hath found out the ill. Sorrow-careful he seeth within his son's bower The waste wine-hall, the resting-place now of the winds, All bereft of the revel; the riders are sleeping, The heroes in grave, and no voice of the harp is, No game in the garths such as erewhile was gotten. XXXV. BEOWULF TELLS OF PAST FEUDS, AND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOWS: HE FALLS ON THE WORM, AND THE BATTLE OF THEM BEGINS. Then to sleeping-stead wendeth he, singeth he sorrow, The one for the other; o'er-roomy all seem'd him 2460 The meads and the wick-stead. So the helm of the Weders For Herebeald's sake the sorrow of heart All welling yet bore, and in nowise might he On the banesman of that life the feud be a-booting; Nor ever the sooner that warrior might hate With deeds loathly, though he to him nothing was lief. He then with the sorrow wherewith that sore beset him Man's joy-tide gave up, and chose him God's light. To his offspring he left, e'en as wealthy man doeth, His land and his folk-burgs when he from life wended. 2470 Then sin was and striving of Swedes and of Geats, Over the wide water war-tide in common, The hard horde-hate to wit sithence Hrethel perish'd; And to them ever were the Ongentheow's sons Doughty and host-whetting, nowise then would friendship Hold over the waters; but round about Hreosnaburgh The fierce fray of foeman was oftentimes fram'd. Kin of friends that mine were, there they awreaked The feud and the evil deed, e'en as was famed; Although he, the other, with his own life he bought it, 2480 A cheaping full hard: unto Hæthcyn it was, To the lord of the Geat-folk, a life-fateful war. Learned I that the morrow one brother the other With the bills' edges wreaked the death on the banesman, Whereas Ongentheow is a-seeking of Eofor: Glode the war-helm asunder, the aged of Scylfings Fell, sword-bleak; e'en so remember'd the hand Feud enough; nor e'en then did the life-stroke withhold. I to him for the treasure which erewhile he gave me Repaid it in warring, as was to me granted, 2490 With my light-gleaming sword. To me gave he land, The hearth and the home-bliss: unto him was no need That unto the Gifthas or unto the Spear-Danes Or into the Swede-realm he needs must go seeking A worse wolf of war for a worth to be cheaping; For in the host ever would I be before him Alone in the fore-front, and so life-long shall I Be a-framing of strife, whileas tholeth the sword, Which early and late hath bestead me full often, Sithence was I by doughtiness unto Day-raven 2500 The hand-bane erst waxen, to the champion of Hug-folk; He nowise the fretwork to the king of the Frisians, The breast-worship to wit, might bring any more, But cringed in battle that herd of the banner, The Atheling in might: the edge naught was his bane, But for him did the war-grip the heart-wellings of him Break, the house of the bones. Now shall the bill's edge, The hand and hard sword, about the hoard battle. So word uttered Beowulf, spake out the boast word For the last while as now: Many wars dared I 2510 In the days of my youth, and now will I yet, The old warder of folk, seek to the feud, Full gloriously frame, if the scather of foul-deed From the hall of the earth me out shall be seeking. Greeted he then each one of the grooms, The keen wearers of helms, for the last while of whiles, His own fellows the dear: No sword would I fare with, No weapon against the Worm, wist I but how 'Gainst the monster of evil in otherwise might I Uphold me my boast, as erst did I with Grendel; 2520 But there fire of the war-tide full hot do I ween me, And the breath, and the venom; I shall bear on me therefore Both the board and the byrny; nor the burg's warden shall I Overflee for a foot's-breadth, but unto us twain It shall be at the wall as to us twain Weird willeth, The Maker of each man. Of mood am I eager; So that 'gainst that war-flier from boast I withhold me. Abide ye upon burg with your byrnies bewarded, Ye men in your battle-gear, which may the better After the slaughter-race save us from wounding 2530 Of the twain of us. Naught is it yours to take over, Nor the measure of any man save alone me, That he on the monster should mete out his might, Or work out the earlship: but I with my main might Shall gain me the gold, or else gets me the battle, The perilous life-bale, e'en me your own lord. Arose then by war-round the warrior renowned Hard under helm, and the sword-sark he bare Under the stone-cliffs: in the strength then he trowed Of one man alone; no dastard's way such is. 2540 Then he saw by the wall (e'en he, who so many, The good of man-bounties, of battles had out-liv'd, Of crashes of battle whenas hosts were blended) A stone-bow a-standing, and from out thence a stream Breaking forth from the burg; was that burn's outwelling All hot with the war-fire; and none nigh to the hoard then Might ever unburning any while bide, Live out through the deep for the flame of the drake. Out then from his breast, for as bollen as was he, Let the Weder-Geats' chief the words be out faring; 2550 The stout-hearted storm'd and the stave of him enter'd Battle-bright sounding in under the hoar stone. Then uproused was hate, and the hoard-warden wotted The speech of man's word, and no more while there was Friendship to fetch. Then forth came there first The breath of the evil beast out from the stone, The hot sweat of battle, and dinn'd then the earth. The warrior beneath the burg swung up his war-round Against that grisly guest, the lord of the Geats; Then the heart of the ring-bow'd grew eager therewith 2560 To seek to the strife. His sword ere had he drawn, That good lord of the battle, the leaving of old, The undull of edges: there was unto either Of the bale-minded ones the fear of the other. All steadfast of mind stood against his steep shield The lord of the friends, when the Worm was a-bowing Together all swiftly, in war-gear he bided; Then boune was the burning one, bow'd in his going, To the fate of him faring. The shield was well warding The life and the lyke of the mighty lord king 2570 For a lesser of whiles than his will would have had it, If he at that frist on the first of the day Was to wield him, as weird for him never will'd it, The high-day of battle. His hand he up braided, The lord of the Geats, and the grisly-fleck'd smote he With the leaving of Ing, in such wise that the edge fail'd, The brown blade on the bone, and less mightily bit Than the king of the nation had need in that stour, With troubles beset. But then the burg-warden After the war-swing all wood of his mood 2580 Cast forth the slaughter-flame, sprung thereon widely The battle-gleams: nowise of victory he boasted, The gold-friend of the Geats; his war-bill had falter'd, All naked in war, in such wise as it should not, The iron exceeding good. Naught was it easy For him there, the mighty-great offspring of Ecgtheow, That he now that earth-plain should give up for ever; But against his will needs must he dwell in the wick Of the otherwhere country; as ever must each man Let go of his loan-days. Not long was it thenceforth 2590 Ere the fell ones of fight fell together again. The hoard-warden up-hearten'd him, welled his breast With breathing anew. Then narrow need bore he, Encompass'd with fire, who erst the folk wielded; Nowise in a heap his hand-fellows there, The bairns of the athelings, stood all about him In valour of battle; but they to holt bow'd them; Their dear life they warded; but in one of them welled His soul with all sorrow. So sib-ship may never Turn aside any whit to the one that well thinketh. 2600 XXXVI. WIGLAF SON OF WEOHSTAN GOES TO THE HELP OF BEOWULF: NÆGLING, BEOWULF'S SWORD, IS BROKEN ON THE WORM. Wiglaf so hight he, the son of Weohstan, Lief linden-warrior, and lord of Scylfings, The kinsman of Aelfhere: and he saw his man-lord Under his host-mask tholing the heat; He had mind of the honour that to him gave he erewhile. The wick-stead the wealthy of them, the Wægmundings, And the folk-rights each one which his father had owned. Then he might not withhold him, his hand gripp'd the round, Yellow linden; he tugg'd out withal the old sword, That was known among men for the heirloom of Eanmund, 2610 Ohthere's son, unto whom in the strife did become, To the exile unfriended, Weohstan for the bane With the sword-edge, and unto his kinsmen bare off The helm the brown-brindled, the byrny beringed, And the old eoten-sword that erst Onela gave him; Were they his kinsman's weed of the war, Host-fight-gear all ready. Of the feud nothing spake he. Though he of his brother the bairn had o'er-thrown. But the host-gear befretted he held many seasons, The bill and the byrny, until his own boy might 2620 Do him the earlship as did his ere-father. Amidst of the Geats then he gave him the war-weed Of all kinds unnumber'd, whenas he from life wended Old on the forth-way. Then was the first time For that champion the young that he the war-race With his high lord the famed e'er he should frame: Naught melted his mood, naught the loom of his kinsman Weaken'd in war-tide; that found out the Worm When they two together had gotten to come. Now spake out Wiglaf many words rightwise, 2630 And said to his fellows: all sad was his soul: I remember that while when we gat us the mead, And whenas we behight to the high lord of us In the beer-hall, e'en he who gave us these rings, That we for the war-gear one while would pay, If unto him thislike need e'er should befall, For these helms and hard swords. So he chose us from host To this faring of war by his very own will, Of glories he minded us, and gave me these gems here, Whereas us of gar-warriors he counted for good, 2640 And bold bearers of helms. Though our lord e'en for us This work of all might was of mind all alone Himself to be framing, the herd of the folk, Whereas most of all men he hath mightiness framed. Of deeds of all daring, yet now is the day come Whereon to our man-lord behoveth the main Of good battle-warriors; so thereunto wend we, And help we the host-chief, whiles that the heat be, The gleed-terror grim. Now of me wotteth God That to me is much liefer that that, my lyke-body, 2650 With my giver of gold the gleed should engrip. Unmeet it methinketh that we shields should bear Back unto our own home, unless we may erst The foe fell adown and the life-days defend Of the king of the Weders. Well wot I hereof That his old deserts naught such were, that he only Of all doughty of Geats the grief should be bearing. Sink at strife. Unto us shall one sword be, one helm, One byrny and shield, to both of us common. Through the slaughter-reek waded he then, bare his war-helm 2660 To the finding his lord, and few words he quoth: O Beowulf the dear, now do thee all well, As thou in thy youthful life quothest of yore, That naught wouldst thou let, while still thou wert living, Thy glory fade out. Now shalt thou of deeds famed, The atheling of single heart, with all thy main deal For the warding thy life, and to stay thee I will. Then after these words all wroth came the Worm, The dire guest foesome, that second of whiles With fire-wellings flecked, his foes to go look on, 2670 The loath men. With flame was lightly then burnt up The board to the boss, and might not the byrny To the warrior the young frame any help yet. But so the young man under shield of his kinsman Went onward with valour, whenas his own was All undone with gleeds; then again the war-king Remember'd his glories, and smote with mainmight With his battle-bill, so that it stood in the head Need-driven by war-hate. Then asunder burst Nægling, Waxed weak in the war-tide, e'en Beowulf's sword, 2680 The old and grey-marked; to him was not given That to him any whit might the edges of irons Be helpful in battle; over-strong was the hand Which every of swords, by the hearsay of me, With its swing over-wrought, when he bare unto strife A wondrous hard weapon; naught it was to him better. Then was the folk-scather for the third of times yet, The fierce fire-drake, all mindful of feud; He rac'd on that strong one, when was room to him given, Hot and battle-grim; he all the halse of him gripped 2690 With bitter-keen bones; all bebloody'd he waxed With the gore of his soul. Well'd in waves then the war-sweat. XXXVII. THEY TWO SLAY THE WORM. BEOWULF IS WOUNDED DEADLY: HE BIDDETH WIGLAF BEAR OUT THE TREASURE. Then heard I that at need of the high king of folk The upright earl made well manifest might, His craft and his keenness as kind was to him; The head there he heeded not (but the hand burned Of that man of high mood when he helped his kinsman), Whereas he now the hate-guest smote yet a deal nether, That warrior in war-gear, whereby the sword dived, The plated, of fair hue, and thereby fell the flame 2700 To minish thereafter, and once more the king's self Wielded his wit, and his slaying-sax drew out, The bitter and battle-sharp, borne on his byrny; Asunder the Weder's helm smote the Worm midmost; They felled the fiend, and force drave the life out, And they twain together had gotten him ending, Those athelings sib. E'en such should a man be, A thane good at need. Now that to the king was The last victory-while, by the deeds of himself, Of his work of the world. Sithence fell the wound, 2710 That the earth-drake to him had wrought but erewhile. To swell and to sweal; and this soon he found out, That down in the breast of him bale-evil welled, The venom withinward; then the Atheling wended, So that he by the wall, bethinking him wisdom. Sat on seat there and saw on the works of the giants, How that the stone-bows fast stood on pillars, The earth-house everlasting upheld withinward. Then with his hand him the sword-gory, That great king his thane, the good beyond measure, 2720 His friend-lord with water washed full well, The sated of battle, and unspanned his war-helm. Forth then spake Beowulf, and over his wound said, His wound piteous deadly; wist he full well, That now of his day-whiles all had he dreed, Of the joy of the earth; all was shaken asunder The tale of his days; death without measure nigh: Unto my son now should I be giving My gear of the battle, if to me it were granted Any ward of the heritage after my days 2730 To my body belonging. This folk have I holden Fifty winters; forsooth was never a folk-king Of the sitters around, no one of them soothly, Who me with the war-friends durst wend him to greet And bear down with the terror. In home have I abided The shapings of whiles, and held mine own well. No wily hates sought I; for myself swore not many Of oaths in unright. For all this may I, Sick with the life-wounds, soothly have joy. Therefore naught need wyte me the Wielder of men 2740 With kin murder-bale, when breaketh asunder My life from my lyke. And now lightly go thou To look on the hoard under the hoar stone, Wiglaf mine lief, now that lieth the Worm And sleepeth sore wounded, beshorn of his treasure; And be hasty that I now the wealth of old time, The gold-having may look on, and yarely behold The bright cunning gems, that the softlier may I After the treasure-weal let go away My life, and the folk-ship that long I have held. 2750 XXXVIII. BEOWULF BEHOLDETH THE TREASURE AND PASSETH AWAY. Then heard I that swiftly the son of that Weohstan After this word-say his lord the sore wounded, Battle-sick, there obeyed, and bare forth his ring-net, His battle-sark woven, in under the burg-roof; Saw then victory-glad as by the seat went he, The kindred-thane moody, sun-jewels a many, Much glistering gold lying down on the ground, Many wonders on wall, and the den of the Worm, The old twilight-flier; there were flagons a-standing, The vats of men bygone, of brighteners bereft, 2760 And maim'd of adornment; was many an helm Rusty and old, and of arm-rings a many Full cunningly twined. All lightly may treasure, The gold in the ground, every one of mankind Befool with o'erweening, hide it who will. Likewise he saw standing a sign there all-golden High over the hoard, the most of hand-wonders, With limb-craft belocked, whence light a ray gleamed. Whereby the den's ground-plain gat he to look on, The fair works scan throughly. Not of the Worm there 2770 Was aught to be seen now, but the edge had undone him. Heard I then that in howe of the hoard was bereaving, The old work of the giants, but one man alone, Into his barm laded beakers and dishes At his very own doom; and the sign eke he took, The brightest of beacons. But the bill of the old lord (The edge was of iron) erewhile it scathed Him who of that treasure hand-bearer was A long while, and fared a-bearing the flame-dread Before the hoard hot, and welling of fierceness 2780 In the midnights, until that by murder he died. In haste was the messenger, eager of back-fare, Further'd with fretted gems. Him longing fordid To wot whether the bold man he quick there shall meet In that mead-stead, e'en he the king of the Weders, All sick of his might, whereas he erst Itft him. He fetching the treasure then found the king mighty, His own lord, yet there, and him ever all gory At end of his life; and he yet once again Fell the water to warp o'er him, till the word's point 2790 Brake through the breast-hoard, and Beowulf spake out. The aged, in grief as he gaz'd on the gold: Now I for these fretworks to the Lord of all thanking, To the King of all glory, in words am yet saying, To the Lord ever living, for that which I look on; Whereas such I might for the people of mine, Ere ever my death-day, get me to own. Now that for the treasure-hoard here have I sold My life and laid down the same, frame still then ever The folk-need, for here never longer I may be. 2800 So bid ye the war-mighty work me a howe Bright after the bale-fire at the sea's nose, Which for a remembrance to the people of me Aloft shall uplift him at Whale-ness for ever, That it the sea-goers sithence may hote Beowulf's Howe, e'en they that the high-ships Over the flood-mists drive from afar. Did off from his halse then a ring was all golden, The king the great-hearted, and gave to his thane, To the spear-warrior young his war-helm gold-brindled, 2810 The ring and the byrny, and bade him well brook them: Thou art the end-leaving of all of our kindred, The Wægmundings; Weird now hath swept all away Of my kinsmen, and unto the doom of the Maker The earls in their might; now after them shall I. That was to the aged lord youngest of words Of his breast-thoughts, ere ever he chose him the bale, The hot battle-wellings; from his heart now departed His soul, to seek out the doom of the soothfast. XXXIX. WIGLAF CASTETH SHAME ON THOSE FLEERS. But gone was it then with the unaged man 2820 Full hard that there he beheld on the earth The liefest of friends at the ending of life, Of bearing most piteous. And likewise lay his bane The Earth-drake, the loathly fear, reft of his life, By bale laid undone: the ring-hoards no longer The Worm, the crook-bowed, ever might wield; For soothly the edges of the irons him bare off, The hard battle-sharded leavings of hammers, So that the wide-flier stilled with wounding Fell onto earth anigh to his hoard-hall, 2830 Nor along the lift ever more playing he turned At middle-nights, proud of the owning of treasure, Show'd the face of him forth, but to earth there he fell Because of the host-leader's work of the hand. This forsooth on the land hath thriven to few, Of men might and main bearing, by hearsay of mine, Though in each of all deeds full daring he were, That against venom-scather's fell breathing he set on, Or the hall of his rings with hand be a-stirring, If so be that he waking the warder had found 2840 Abiding in burg. By Beowulf was His deal of the king-treasure paid for by death; There either had they fared on to the end Of this loaned life. Long it was not until Those laggards of battle the holt were a-leaving, Unwarlike troth-liars, the ten there together, Who durst not e'en now with darts to be playing E'en in their man-lord's most mickle need. But shamefully now their shields were they bearing, Their weed of the battle, there where lay the aged; 2850 They gazed on Wiglaf where weary'd he sat, The foot-champion, hard by his very lord's shoulder, And wak'd him with water: but no whit it sped him; Never might he on earth howsoe'er well he will'd it In that leader of spears hold the life any more, Nor the will of the Wielder change ever a whit; But still should God's doom of deeds rule the rede For each man of men, as yet ever it doth. Then from out of the youngling an answer full grim Easy got was for him who had lost heart erewhile, 2860 And word gave out Wiglaf, Weohstan's son The sorrowful-soul'd man: on those unlief he saw: Lo that may he say who sooth would be saying, That the man-lord who dealt you the gift of those dear things, The gear of the war-host wherein there ye stand, Whereas he on the ale-bench full oft was a-giving Unto the hall-sitters war-helm and byrny, The king to his thanes, e'en such as he choicest Anywhere, far or near, ever might find: That he utterly wrongsome those weeds of the war 2870 Had cast away, then when the war overtook him. Surely never the folk-king of his fellows in battle Had need to be boastful; howsoever God gave him, The Victory-wielder, that he himself wreaked him Alone with the edge, when to him need of might was. Unto him of life-warding but little might I Give there in the war-tide; and yet I began Above measure of my might my kinsman to help; Ever worse was the Worm then when I with sword Smote the life-foe, and ever the fire less strongly 2880 Welled out from his wit. Of warders o'er little Throng'd about the king when him the battle befell. Now shall taking of treasures and giving of swords And all joy of your country-home fail from your kindred, All hope wane away; of the land-right moreover May each of the men of that kinsman's burg ever Roam lacking; sithence that the athelings eft-soons From afar shall have heard of your faring in flight, Your gloryless deed. Yea, death shall be better For each of the earls than a life ever ill-fam'd. 2890 XL. WIGLAF SENDETH TIDING TO THE HOST: THE WORDS OF THE MESSENGER. Then he bade them that war-work give out at the barriers Up over the sea-cliff, whereas then the earl-host The morning-long day sat sad of their mood, The bearers of war-boards, in weening of both things, Either the end-day, or else the back-coming Of the lief man. Forsooth he little was silent Of the new-fallen tidings who over the ness rode, But soothly he said over all there a-sitting: Now is the will-giver of the folk of the Weders, The lord of the Geats, fast laid in the death-bed, 2900 In the slaughter-rest wonneth he by the Worm's doings. And beside him yet lieth his very life-winner All sick with the sax-wounds; with sword might he never On the monster, the fell one, in any of manners Work wounding at all. There yet sitteth Wiglaf, Weohstan's own boy, over Beowulf king, One earl over the other, over him the unliving; With heart-honours holdeth he head-ward withal Over lief, over loath. But to folk is a weening Of war-tide as now, so soon as unhidden 2910 To Franks and to Frisians the fall of the king Is become over widely. Once was the strife shapen Hard 'gainst the Hugs, sithence Hygelac came Faring with float-host to Frisian land, Whereas him the Hetware vanquish'd in war, With might gat the gain, with o'er-mickle main; The warrior bebyrny'd he needs must bow down: He fell in the host, and no fretted war-gear Gave that lord to the doughty, but to us was aye sithence The mercy ungranted that was of the Merwing. 2920 Nor do I from the Swede folk of peace or good faith Ween ever a whit. For widely 'twas wotted That Ongentheow erst had undone the life Of Hæthcyn the Hrethel's son hard by the Raven-wood, Then when in their pride the Scylfings of war Erst gat them to seek to the folk of the Geats. Unto him soon the old one, the father of Ohthere, The ancient and fearful gave back the hand-stroke, Brake up the sea-wise one, rescued his bride. The aged his spouse erst, bereft of the gold, 2930 Mother of Onela, yea and of Ohthere; And follow'd up thereon his foemen the deadly, Until they betook them and sorrowfully therewith Unto the Raven-holt, reft of their lord. With huge host then beset he the leaving of swords All weary with wounds, and woe he behight them, That lot of the wretched, the livelong night through; Quoth he that the morrow's morn with the swords' edges He would do them to death, hang some on the gallows For a game unto fowl. But again befell comfort 2940 To the sorry of mood with the morrow-day early; Whereas they of Hygelac's war-horn and trumpet The voice wotted, whenas the good king his ways came Faring on in the track of his folk's doughty men. XLI. MORE WORDS OF THE MESSENGER. HOW HE FEARS THE SWEDES WHEN THEY WOT OF BEOWULF DEAD. Was the track of the war-sweat of Swedes and of Geats, The men's slaughter-race, right wide to be seen, How those folks amongst them were waking the feud. Departed that good one, and went with his fellows, Old and exceeding sad, fastness to seek; The earl Ongentheow upward returned; 2950 Of Hygelac's battle-might oft had he heard, The war-craft of the proud one; in withstanding he trow'd not, That he to the sea-folk in fight might debate, Or against the sea-farers defend him his hoard, His bairns and his bride. He bow'd him aback thence, The old under the earth-wall. Then was the chase bidden To the Swede-folk, and Hygelac's sign was upreared, And the plain of the peace forth on o'er-pass'd they, After the Hrethlings onto the hedge throng'd. There then was Ongentheow by the swords' edges, 2960 The blent-hair'd, the hoary one, driven to biding, So that the folk-king fain must he take Sole doom of Eofor. Him in his wrath then Wulf the Wonreding reach'd with his weapon, So that from the stroke sprang the war-sweat in streams Forth from under his hair; yet naught fearsome was he, The aged, the Scylfing, but paid aback rathely With chaffer that worse was that war-crash of slaughter, Sithence the folk-king turned him thither; And nowise might the brisk one that son was of Wonred 2970 Unto the old carle give back the hand-slaying, For that he on Wulf's head the helm erst had sheared, So that all with the blood stained needs must he bow, And fell on the field; but not yet was he fey, But he warp'd himself up, though the wound had touch'd nigh. But thereon the hard Hygelac's thane there, Whenas down lay his brother, let the broad blade, The old sword of eotens, that helm giant-fashion'd Break over the board-wall, and down the king bowed, The herd of the folk unto fair life was smitten. 2980 There were many about there who bound up his kinsman, Upraised him swiftly when room there was made them, That the slaughter-stead there at the stour they might wield, That while when was reaving one warrior the other: From Ongentheow took he the iron-wrought byrny, The hard-hilted sword, with his helm all together: The hoary one's harness to Hygelac bare he; The fret war-gear then took he, and fairly behight him Before the folk due gifts, and even so did it; Gild he gave for that war-race, the lord of the Geats, 2990 The own son of Hrethel, when home was he come, To Eofor and Wulf gave he over-much treasure, To them either he gave an hundred of thousands, Land and lock'd rings. Of the gift none needed to wyte him Of mid earth, since the glory they gained by battle. Then to Eofor he gave his one only daughter, An home-worship soothly, for pledge of his good will. That is the feud and the foeship full soothly, The dead-hate of men, e'en as I have a weening, Wherefor the Swede people against us shall seek, 3000 Sithence they have learned that lieth our lord All lifeless; e'en he that erewhile hath held Against all the haters the hoard and the realm; Who after the heroes' fall held the fierce Scylfings, Framed the folk-rede, and further thereto Did earlship-deeds. Now is haste best of all That we now the folk-king should fare to be seeing, And then that we bring him who gave us the rings On his way to the bale: nor shall somewhat alone With the moody be molten; but manifold hoard is, 3010 Gold untold of by tale that grimly is cheapened, And now at the last by this one's own life Are rings bought, and all these the brand now shall fret, The flame thatch them over: no earl shall bear off One gem in remembrance; nor any fair maiden Shall have on her halse a ring-honour thereof, But in grief of mood henceforth, bereaved of gold, Shall oft, and not once alone, alien earth tread, Now that the host-learn'd hath laid aside laughter, The game and the glee-joy. Therefore shall the spear, 3020 Full many a morn-cold, of hands be bewounden, Uphoven in hand; and no swough of the harp Shall waken the warriors; but the wan raven rather Fain over the fey many tales shall tell forth, And say to the erne how it sped him at eating, While he with the wolf was a-spoiling the slain. So was the keen-whetted a-saying this while Spells of speech loathly; he lied not much Of weirds or of words. Then uprose all the war-band, And unblithe they wended under the Ernes-ness, 3030 All welling of tears, the wonder to look on. Found they then on the sand, now lacking of soul, Holding his bed, him that gave them the rings In time erewhile gone by. But then was the end-day Gone for the good one; since the king of the battle, The lord of the Weders, in wonder-death died. But erst there they saw a more seldom-seen sight, The Worm on the lea-land over against him Down lying there loathly; there was the fire-drake, The grim of the terrors, with gleeds all beswealed. 3040 He was of fifty feet of his measure Long of his lying. Lift-joyance held he In the whiles of the night, but down again wended To visit his den. Now fast was he in death, He had of the earth-dens the last end enjoyed. There by him now stood the beakers and bowls, There lay the dishes and dearly-wrought swords, Rusty, through-eaten they, as in earth's bosom A thousand of winters there they had wonned. For that heritage there was, all craftily eked, 3050 Gold of the yore men, in wizardry wounden; So that that ring-hall might none reach thereto, Not any of mankind but if God his own self, Sooth king of victories, gave unto whom he would (He is holder of men) to open that hoard, E'en to whichso of mankind should seem to him meet. XLII. THEY GO TO LOOK ON THE FIELD OF DEED. Then it was to be seen that throve not the way To him that unrightly had hidden within there The fair gear 'neath the wall. The warder erst slew Some few of folk, and the feud then became 3060 Wrothfully wreaked. A wonder whenas A valour-strong earl may reach on the ending Of the fashion of life, when he longer in nowise One man with his kinsmen may dwell in the mead-hall! So to Beowulf was it when the burg's ward he sought. For the hate of the weapons: he himself knew not Wherethrough forsooth his world's sundering should be. So until Doomsday they cursed it deeply, Those princes the dread, who erst there had done it, That that man should be of sins never sackless, 3070 A-hoppled in shrines, in hell-bonds fast set, With plague-spots be punish'd, who that plain should plunder. But naught gold-greedy was he, more gladly had he The grace of the Owner erst gotten to see. Now spake out Wiglaf, that son was of Weohstan: Oft shall many an earl for the will but of one Dree the wrack, as to us even now is befallen: Nowise might we learn the lief lord of us, The herd of the realm, any of rede, That he should not go greet that warder of gold, 3080 But let him live yet, whereas long he was lying, And wonne in his wicks until the world's ending; But he held to high weird and the hoard hath been seen, Grimly gotten: o'er hard forsooth was that giving, That the king of the folk e'en thither enticed. Lo! I was therein, and I look'd it all over, The gear of the house, when for me room was gotten, But I lightly in nowise had leave for the passage In under the earth-wall; in haste I gat hold Forsooth with my hands of a mickle main burden 3090 Of hoard-treasures, and hither then out did I bear them, Out unto my king, and then quick was he yet, Wise, and wit-holding: a many things spake he, That aged in grief-care, and bade me to greet you, And prayed ye would do e'en after your friend's deeds Aloft in the bale-stead a howe builded high, Most mickle and mighty, as he amongst men was The worthfullest warrior wide over the world, While he the burg-weal erewhile might brook. Then so let us hasten this second of whiles 3100 To see and to seek the throng of things strange, The wonder 'neath wall; I shall wise you the way, So that ye from a-near may look on enough Of rings and broad gold; and be the bier swiftly All yare thereunto, whenas out we shall fare. Then let us so ferry the lord that was ours, The lief man of men, to where long shall he In the All-Wielder's keeping full patiently wait. Bade then to bid the bairn of that Weohstan, The deer of the battle, to a many of warriors, 3110 The house-owning wights, that the wood of the bale They should ferry from far, e'en the folk-owning men, Toward the good one. And now shall the gleed fret away, The wan flame a-waxing, the strong one of warriors, Him who oft-times abided the shower of iron When the storm of the shafts driven on by the strings Shook over the shield-wall, and the shaft held its service, And eager with feather-gear follow'd the barb. Now then the wise one, that son was of Weohstan, Forth from the throng then call'd of the king's thanes 3120 A seven together, the best to be gotten, And himself went the eighth in under the foe-roof; One man of the battlers in hand there he bare A gleam of the fire, of the first went he inward. It was nowise allotted who that hoard should despoil, Sithence without warden some deal that there was The men now beheld in the hall there a-wonning, Lying there fleeting; little mourn'd any, That they in all haste outward should ferry The dear treasures. But forthwith the drake did they shove, 3130 The Worm, o'er the cliff-wall, and let the wave take him, The flood fathom about the fretted works' herd. There then was wounden gold on the wain laden Untold of each kind, and the Atheling borne, The hoary of warriors, out on to Whale-ness. XLIII. OF THE BURIAL OF BEOWULF. For him then they geared, the folk of the Geats, A pile on the earth all unweaklike that was, With war-helms behung, and with boards of the battle, And bright byrnies, e'en after the boon that he bade. Laid down then amidmost their king mighty-famous 3140 The warriors lamenting, the lief lord of them. Began on the burg of bale-fires the biggest The warriors to waken: the wood-reek went up Swart over the smoky glow, sound of the flame Bewound with the weeping (the wind-blending stilled), Until it at last the bone-house had broken Hot at the heart. All unglad of mind With mood-care they mourned their own liege lord's quelling. Likewise a sad lay the wife of aforetime For Beowulf the king, with her hair all upbounden, 3150 Sang sorrow-careful; said oft and over That harm-days for herself in hard wise she dreaded, The slaughter-falls many, much fear of the warrior, The shaming and bondage. Heaven swallow'd the reek. Wrought there and fashion'd the folk of the Weders A howe on the lithe, that high was and broad. Unto the wave-farers wide to be seen: Then it they betimber'd in time of ten days, The battle-strong's beacon; the brands' very-leavings They bewrought with a wall in the worthiest of ways, 3160 That men of all wisdom might find how to work. Into burg then they did the rings and bright sun-gems, And all such adornments as in the hoard there The war-minded men had taken e'en now; The earls' treasures let they the earth to be holding, Gold in the grit, wherein yet it liveth, As useless to men-folk as ever it erst was. Then round the howe rode the deer of the battle, The bairns of the athelings, twelve were they in all. Their care would they mourn, and bemoan them their king, 3170 The word-lay would they utter and over the man speak: They accounted his earlship and mighty deeds done, And doughtily deem'd them; as due as it is That each one his friend-lord with words should belaud, And love in his heart, whenas forth shall he Away from the body be fleeting at last. In such wise they grieved, the folk of the Geats, For the fall of their lord, e'en they his hearth-fellows; Quoth they that he was a world-king forsooth, The mildest of all men, unto men kindest, 3180 To his folk the most gentlest, most yearning of fame. PERSONS AND PLACES (_Numbers refer to Pages_) [Transcriber's Note: In this and the following section, page numbers in parentheses are accompanied by a line reference in brackets.] BEANSTAN, father of Breca (31 [524]). Beowulf the Dane (not Beowulf the Geat, the hero of the poem) was the grandfather of Hrothgar (2, 4 [18, 53]). Beowulf the Geat. _See_ the Argument. Breca (30 [506]), who contended with Beowulf in swimming, was a chief of the Brondings (31 [521]). Brisings' neck-gear (70 [1199]). "This necklace is the Brisinga-men, the costly necklace of Freyja, which she won from the dwarfs and which was stolen from her by Loki, as is told in the Edda" (Kemble). In our poem, it is said that Hama carried off this necklace when he fled from Eormenric, king of the Ostrogoths. DAYRAVEN (143 [2500]), a brave warrior of the Hugs, and probably the slayer of Hygelac, whom, in that case, Beowulf avenged. EADGILS, Eanmund (136, 137 [2379, 2391]), "sons of Ohthere," and nephews of the Swedish King Onela, by whom they were banished from their native land for rebellion. They took refuge at the court of the Geat King Heardred, and Onela, "Ongentheow's bairn," enraged at their finding an asylum with his hereditary foes, invaded Geatland, and slew Heardred. At a later time Beowulf, when king of the Geats, balanced the feud by supporting Eadgils in an invasion of Sweden, in which King Onela was slain. Eanmund (149 [2610]), while in exile at the court of the Geats, was slain by Weohstan, father of Wiglaf, and stripped of the armour given him by his uncle, the Swedish King Onela. Weohstan "spake not about the feud, although he had slain Onela's brother's son," probably because he was not proud of having slain an "exile unfriended" in a private quarrel. Ecglaf, father of Unferth, Hrothgar's spokesman (29 [499]). Ecgtheow (22 [373]), father of Beowulf the Geat, by the only daughter of Hrethel, king of the Geats. Having slain Heatholaf, a warrior of the Wylfings, Ecgtheow sought protection at the court of the Danish King Hrothgar, who accepted his fealty and settled the feud by a money-payment (27 [463]). Hence the heartiness of Beowulf's welcome at Hrothgar's hands. Ecgwela. The Scyldings or Danes are once called "Ecgwela's offspring" (99 [1710]). He may have been the founder of the older dynasty of Danish kings which ended with Heremod. Eofor (142, 167-9 [2485, 2963-2996]), a Geat warrior, brother of Wulf. He came to the aid of his brother in his single combat with the Swedish King Ongentheow, and slew the king, being rewarded by Hygelac with the hand of his only daughter. Eotens (61, 62, 66 [1072, 1088, 1141]) are the people of Finn, king of Friesland. In other passages, it is merely a name for a race of monsters. FINN (61-7 [1068-1156]). The somewhat obscure Finn episode in _Beowulf_ appears to be part of a Finn epic, of which only the merest fragment, called the _Fight at Finnsburg_, is extant. The following conjectured outline of the whole story is based on this fragment and on the Beowulf episode; Finn, king of the Frisians, had carried off Hildeburh, daughter of Hoc, probably with her consent. Her father, Hoc, seems to have pursued the fugitives, and to have been slain in the fight which ensued on his overtaking them. After the lapse of some twenty years Hoc's sons, Hnæf and Hengest, are old enough to undertake the duty of avenging their father's death. They make an inroad into Finn's country, and a battle takes place in which many warriors, among them Hnæf and a son of Finn, are killed. Peace is then solemnly concluded, and the slain warriors are burnt. As the year is too far advanced for Hengest to return home, he and those of his men who survive remain for the winter in the Frisian country with Finn. But Hengest's thoughts dwell constantly on the death of his brother Hnæf, and he would gladly welcome any excuse to break the peace which had been sworn by both parties. His ill-concealed desire for revenge is noticed by the Frisians, who anticipate it by themselves attacking Hengest and his men whilst they are sleeping in the hall. This is the night attack described in the _Fight at Finnsburg_. It would seem that after a brave and desperate resistance Hengest himself falls in this fight at the hands of the son of Hunlaf (66 [1143]), but two of his retainers, Guthlaf and Oslaf, succeed in cutting their way through their enemies and in escaping to their own land. They return with fresh troops, attack and slay Finn, and carry his queen Hildeburh back to the Daneland. Folkwalda (62 [1089]), father of Finn. Franks (70, 165 [1210, 2911]). Hygelac, king of the Geats, was defeated and slain early in the sixth century, in his historical invasion of the Netherlands, by a combined army of Frisians, Franks, and Hugs. Freawaru (116 [2022]), daughter of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow. Beowulf tells Hygelac that her father has betrothed her to Ingeld, prince of the Heathobards, in the hope of settling the feud between the two peoples. But he prophesies that the hope will prove vain: for an old Heathobard warrior, seeing a Danish chieftain accompany Freawaru to their court laden with Heathobard spoils, will incite the son of the former owner of the plundered treasure to revenge, until blood is shed, and the feud is renewed. That this was what afterwards befell, we learn from the Old English poem _Widsith_. _See also_ ll. 83-5. Friesland (65 [1126]), the land of the North Frisians. Frieslands (135 [2356]), Frisian land (165 [2914]), the home of the West Frisians. Frisians. Two tribes are to be distinguished: 1. The North Frisians (61, 63 [1070, 1093]), the people of Finn. 2. The West Frisians (143, 165 [2502, 2911]), who combined with the Franks and Hugs and defeated Hygelac, between 512 and 520 A.D. Froda (117 [2025]), father of Ingeld. _See_ Freawaru. GUTHLAF and Oslaf (66 [1148]). _See_ Finn. HÆRETH (112, 114 [1929, 1981]), father of Hygd, wife of Hygelac. Hæthcyn (139, 142, 165 [2433, 2481, 2924]), second son of Hrethel, king of the Geats, and thus elder brother of Hygelac. He accidentally killed his elder brother Herebeald with a bow-shot, to the inconsolable grief of Hrethel. He succeeded to the throne at his father's death, but fell in battle at Ravenwood (165 [2924]) by the hand of the Swedish King Ongentheow. Half-Danes (61 [1069]), the tribe to which Hnæf belongs. _See_ Finn. Hama (69 [1198]). _See_ Brisings. Healfdene (4 [57]), king of the Danes, son of Beowulf the Scylding, and father of Hrothgar, "Healfdene's son" (16 [268]). Heardred (126, 136-7 [2202, 2374-2387]), son of Hygelac and Hygd. While still under age he succeeds his father as king of the Geats, Beowulf, who has refused the throne himself, being his counsellor and protector. He is slain by "Ongentheow's bairn" (137 [2386]), Onela, king of the Swedes. Heathobards, Lombards, the tribe of Ingeld, the betrothed of Freawaru, Hrothgar's daughter (117 [2032]). Heatholaf (27 [460]). _See_ Ecgtheow. Helmings. "The Dame of the Helmings" (36 [620]) is Hrothgar's queen, Wealhtheow. Hemming. "The Kinsman of Hemming" is a name for Offa (112 [1944]) and for his son Eomær (113 [1961]). Hengest (62-5 [1083-1127]). _See_ Finn. Heorogar (5 [61]), elder brother of Hrothgar (27 [467]), did not leave his armour to his son Heoroward (124 [2158]); but Hrothgar gives it to Beowulf, and Beowulf gives it to Hygelac. Herebeald (139, 141 [2433, 2462]), eldest son of the Geat King Hrethel, was accidentally shot dead with an arrow by his brother Hæthcyn. Heremod (53, 99 [915, 1709]) is twice spoken of as a bad and cruel Danish king. In the end he is betrayed into the hands of his foes. Hereric may have been brother of Hygd, Hygelac's queen, for their son Heardred is spoken of as "the nephew of Hereric" (126 [2206]). Here-Scyldings (64 [1108]), Army-Scyldings, a name of the Danes. Hetware (135, 165 [2362, 2915]), the Hattuarii of the _Historia Francorum_ of Gregory of Tours and of the _Gesta Regum Francorum_, were the tribe against which Hygelac was raiding when he was defeated and slain by an army of Frisians, Franks, and Hugs. Hildeburh (61, 64 [1071, 1114]). _See_ Finn. Hnæf (61, 64 [1069, 1114]). _See_ Finn. Hoc (62 [1076]). _See_ Finn. Hrethel, a former king of the Geats; son of Swerting (70 [1202]), father of Hygelac and grandfather of Beowulf (22 [374]), to whom he left his coat of mail (26 [454]). He died of grief at the loss of his eldest son Herebeald (139-42) [2429-2473], who was accidentally slain by his brother Hæthcyn. [Transcriber's Note: Page 70 [l. 1202] text reads "Hygelac ... grandson of Swerting." Hrethel is not named.] Hrethlings (167 [2959]), the people of Hrethel, the Geats. Hrethmen (26 [445]), Triumph-men, the Danes. Hrethric (69, 106 [1189, 1836]), elder son of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow. Hrothgar. _See_ the Argument. Hrothulf (59, 68 [1017, 1181]), probably the son of Hrothgar's younger brother Halga (5 [61]). He lives at the Danish court. Wealhtheow hopes that, if he survives Hrothgar, he will be good to their children in return for their kindness to him. It would seem that this hope was not to be fulfilled ("yet of kindred unsunder'd," 67 [1164]). Hygd, daughter of Hæreth, wife of Hygelac, the king of the Geats, and mother of Heardred. She may well be "the wife of aforetime" (177 [3149]). Hygelac, third son of Hrethel (139 [2433]) and uncle to Beowulf, is the reigning king of the Geats during the greater part of the action of the poem. When his brother Hæthcyn was defeated and slain by Ongentheow at Ravenwood (165 [2923]), Hygelac quickly went in pursuit and put Ongentheow to flight; but although, as leader of the attack, he is called "the banesman of Ongentheow" (114 [1986]), the actual slayer was Eofor (142, 167 [2485, 2963]), whom Hygelac rewarded with the hand of his only daughter (169 [2996]). Hygelac came by his death between 512 and 520 A.D., in his historical invasion of the Netherlands, which is referred to in the poem four times (70, 135, 143, 165 [1207, 2356, 2502, 2911]). ING (147 [2576]). _See_ Ingwines. Ingeld (119 [2064]). _See_ Freawaru. Ingwines (60, 77 [1044, 1319]), "friends of Ing," the Danes. Ing, according to the Old English _Rune-Poem_, "was first seen by men amid the East Danes"; he has been identified with Frea. MERWING, The (165 [2920]), the Merovingian king of the Franks. OFFA (113 [1949]). _See_ Thrytho. Ohthere (136-7, 165 [2379-2393, 2927]), son of the Swedish King Ongentheow, and father of Eanmund and Eadgils (_q.v._). Onela, "Ongentheow's bairn" (137 [2386]) and elder brother of Ohthere, is king of Sweden ("the helm of the Scylfings," 136 [2380]) at the time of the rebellion of Eanmund and Eadgils. He invades the land of the Geats, which has harboured the rebels, slays Heardred, son of Hygelac, and then retreats before Beowulf. At a later time Beowulf avenges the death of Heardred by supporting Eadgils, "son of Ohthere" (137 [2393]), in an invasion of Sweden, in which Onela is slain. _See also_ Eadgils; and compare the slaying of Ali by Athils on the ice of Lake Wener in the Icelandic "Heimskringla." Ongentheow, father of Onela and Ohthere, was a former king of the Swedes. The earlier strife between the Swedes and the Geats, in which he is the chief figure, is fully related by the messenger (164 [2891]) who brings the tidings of Beowulf's death. In retaliation for the marauding invasions of Onela and Ohthere (142 [2474]), Hæthcyn invaded Sweden, and took Ongentheow's queen prisoner. Ongentheow in return invaded the land of her captor, whom he slew, and rescued his wife (165 [2923]); but in his hour of triumph he was attacked in his turn by Hygelac near Ravenwood, and fell by the hand of Eofor (168 [2960]). SCANEY (97 [1686]), Scede-lands (2 [19]), the most southern portion of the Scandinavian peninsula, belonging to the Danes; used in our poem for the whole Danish kingdom. Scyld (1 [4]), son of Sheaf, was the mythical founder of the royal Danish dynasty of Scyldings. Scyldings, descendants of Scyld, properly the name of the reigning Danish dynasty, is commonly extended to include the Danish people (3 [30]). Scylfing: "the Scylfing" (167 [2967]), "the aged of Scylfings" (142 [2486]), is Ongentheow. Scylfings (136 [2380]), the name of the reigning Swedish dynasty, was extended to the Swedish people in the same way as "Scyldings" to the Danes. Beowulf's kinsman Wiglaf is called "lord of Scylfings" (149 [2601]), and in another passage the name is apparently applied to the Geats (170 [3004]); this seems to point to a common ancestry of Swedes and Geats, or it may be that Beowulf's father Ecgtheow was a "Scylfing." THRYTHO (112 [1931]), wife of the Angle King Offa and mother of Eomær, is mentioned in contrast to Hygd, just as Heremod is a foil to Beowulf. She is at first the type of a cruel, unwomanly queen. But by her marriage with Offa, who seems to be her second husband, she is subdued and changed until her fame even adds glory to his. UNFERTH, son of Ecglaf, is the spokesman of Hrothgar, at whose feet he sits. He is of a jealous disposition, and is twice spoken of as the murderer of his own brothers (34, 67 [587, 1165]). Taunting Beowulf with defeat in his swimming-match with Breca, he is silenced by the hero's reply, and more effectually still by the issue of the struggle with Grendel (57 [980]). Afterwards, however, he lends his sword Hrunting for Beowulf's encounter with Grendel's mother (85, 104 [1465, 1808]). WÆGMUNDINGS (149, 160 [2605, 2803]), the family to which both Beowulf and Wiglaf belong. Their fathers, Ecgtheow and Weohstan, may have been sons of Wægmund. Wedermark (17 [298]), the land of the Weder-Geats, _i.e._ the Geats. Weders, Weder-Geats (13, 86, 122 [225, 1492, 2120]), Geats. Weland (26 [455]), the Völund of the Edda, the famous smith of Teutonic legend, was the maker of Beowulf's coat of mail. See the figured casket in the British Museum; and compare "Wayland Smith's Cave" near the White Horse, in Berkshire. Weohstan was the father of Beowulf's kinsman and faithful henchman Wiglaf, and the slayer of Eanmund (149 [2601]). Wonred, father of "Wulf the Wonreding" (167 [2964]), and of Eofor. Wulf (167 [2964]). _See_ Eofor. Wulfgar, "a lord of the Wendels" (20 [348]), is an official of Hrothgar's court, where he is the first to greet Beowulf and his Geats, and introduces them to Hrothgar. Wythergyld (118 [2051]) is a warrior of the Heathobards. THE MEANING OF SOME WORDS NOT COMMONLY USED NOW (_Numbers refer to Pages_) [Transcriber's Note: In this and the previous section, page numbers in parentheses are accompanied by a line reference in brackets.] _A-banning, the work was_ (5) [74], orders for the work were given. _Arede_ (119) [2056], possess. _Atheling_, prince, noble, noble warrior. _Barm_, lap, bosom. _Behalsed_ (5 [63]), embraced by the neck. _Berne_, man, warrior, hero. _Bestead_ (143 [2499]), served. _Beswealed_, scorched, burnt. _Beswinked_, sweated. _Birlers_, cup-bearers. _Board_, shield. _Bode_, announce. _Bollen_, swollen, angry. _Boot_ (9 [158]), compensation. _Boun_ (18 [301]), made ready. _Braided_ (147 [2574]), drew, lifted. _Brim_, sea. _Brook_, use, enjoy. _Burg_, fortified place, stronghold, mount, barrow; protection; protector; family (163 [2886]). _Byrny_, coat of mail. _Devil-dray_, nest of devils. Cf. _squirrel's-dray_, common in Berks; used by Cowper. _Dreary_, bloody. _Dree_, do, accomplish, suffer, enjoy, spend (155 [2725]). _Ealdor_, chief, lord. _Eme_, uncle. _Eoten_, giant, monster, enemy. _Fathom_, embrace. _Feeless_, not to be atoned for with money. _Ferry_, bring, carry. _Fifel_, monster. _Flyting_, contending, scolding. _Fold_, the earth. _Forheed_, disregard. _Forwritten_, proscribed. _Frist_, space of time, delay. _Gar_, spear. _Graithly_, readily, well. _Halse_, neck. _Hand-shoal_, band of warriors. _Hery_, praise. _Hild-play_, battle. _Holm_, ocean, sea. _Holm-throng_, eddy of the sea. _Holt_, wood. _Hote_, call. _Howe_, mound, burial-mound. _Hythe_, ferry, haven. _Kemp_, champion, fighter. _Lithe_, slope. _Loom_, heirloom. _Low_ (133 [2320]), flame. _Lyke_, body. _Moody_, brave, proud. _Nicors_, sea-monsters. _Nithing_ (12 [193]), spite, malice. _O'erthinking_, overweening, arrogance. _Rail, railings_, coat, armour. _Rimed_, counted, reckoned. _Sea-lode_, sea-voyage. _Sin_, malice, hatred, hostility. _Skinked_, poured out. _Slot_, track. _Staple_, threshold. _Stone-bow_, arch of stone. _Sty_, stride, ascend, descend. _Sweal_, burn. _Through-witting_, understanding. _Undern_, from 9 o'clock till 12 o'clock; "at undren and at middai," O.E. Miscellany. _Warths_, shores, still in use at Wick St. Lawrence, in Somerset. _Wick_, dwelling. _Wick-stead_, dwelling-place. _Wise_, direct, show. _Wit-lust_, curiosity. _Worth_, shall be. _Wreak_, utter. _Wyte_, blame, charge with. _Yare_, ready. _Yode_, went. * * * * * Errors and Inconsistencies List of Names Dayraven, Ravenwood _both names hyphenated in body text_ Freawaru _text reads "Ereawaru"_ Hrethel ... at the loss of his eldest son Herebeald (139-42) _text reads "-41"_ Wythergyld _name spelled "Withergyld" in body text_ Glossary _Arede_ (119) [2056], possess. _text reads "(118)"_ 
50742	----	THE STORY OF BEOWULF TRANSLATED FROM ANGLO-SAXON INTO MODERN ENGLISH PROSE BY ERNEST J. B. KIRTLAN B.A. (London), B.D. (St. Andrews) Author of a Translation of 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' DECORATED AND DESIGNED BY FREDERIC LAWRENCE With Introduction, Notes and Appendices NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS To THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER NOTE AS TO USE OF APPENDIX I have relegated to the Appendix all notes of any considerable length. The reader is advised to consult the Appendices wherever directed in the footnotes. He will then have a much clearer conception of the principal characters and events of the poem. INTRODUCTION 'Beowulf' may rightly be pronounced the great national epic of the Anglo-Saxon race. Not that it exalts the race so much as that it presents the spirit of the Anglo-Saxon peoples, the ideals and aims, the manners and customs, of our ancestors, and that it does so in setting before us a great national hero. Beowulf himself was not an Anglo-Saxon. He was a Geat-Dane; but he belonged to that confraternity of nations that composed the Teutonic people. He lived in an heroic age, when the songs of the wandering singers were of the great deeds of outstanding men. The absolute epic of the English people has yet to be written. To some extent Arthur, though a British King--that is to say, though he was King of the Celtic British people, who were subsequently driven into the West, into Cornwall and Wales and Strathclyde, by our Saxon ancestors--became nationalized by our Anglo-Norman ancestors as a typical King of the English people. He has become the epic King of the English in the poetry of Tennyson. It is always a mystery to the writer that no competent singer among us has ever laid hands upon our own Saxon hero, King Alfred. It is sometimes said that there is nothing new under the sun, that there is nothing left for the modern singer to sing about, and that the realm of possible musical production is fast vanishing out of view. Certainly this is not true of poetry. Both Alfred and Arthur are waiting for the sympathetic voice that will tell forth to the world the immortal splendour of their personalities. And just as the Anglo-Normans idealized Arthur as a hero-king of the English nation, though he really fought against the English, so the Saxon singer of Beowulf has idealized this Geatish chieftain, and in some way set him forth as the idealized chieftain of the Teutonic race. Beowulf is an Anglo-Saxon poem.--It consists of 3182 lines. It is written in the alliterative verse of our ancestors in the Anglo-Saxon tongue, which, though the mother-tongue of the English, is yet more difficult to read for the Englishman than Latin or Greek. One wonders whether any genuine Anglo-Saxon epic existed, and has been destroyed in the passing of the centuries. The curious feature about this poem is that it concerns a man who was not an Anglo-Saxon. Our poem is written in the West Saxon dialect. The original poem was probably in Northumbrian, and was translated into West Saxon during the period of literary efflorescence in the West Saxon Court. We do not know whether it was a translation or whether it was original, though the latter is, I believe, the prevailing opinion. Arnold has put forth what may be called the missionary theory of its origin. He believes that both the choice of subject and the grade of culture may be connected with the missionary efforts of the English Church of those days to extend Christianity in Friesland and further east. 'It does not seem improbable that it was in the interest of the spread of Christianity that the composer of Beowulf--perhaps a missioner, perhaps a layman attached to the mission--was attracted to the Scandinavian lands; that he resided there long enough to become thoroughly steeped in the folk-lore and local traditions; that he found the grand figure of Beowulf the Geat predominant in them; and that, weaving into an organic whole those which he found suitable to his own purpose, he composed an epic which, on his return home, must soon have become known to all the lovers of English song.' [1] Dr. Sarrazin thought this unknown poet might have been the famous Cynewulf. Arnold, chiefly on stylistic grounds, differs from this opinion. This is Arnold's opinion: 'Sagas, either in the Danish dialect or that of the Geats--more probably the latter--were current in the Scandinavian countries in the seventh century. Among these sagas, that of Beowulf the Geat must have had a prominent place; others celebrated Hygelac his uncle, Hnaef the Viking, the wars of the Danes and the Heathobards, of the Danes and the Swedes. About the end of the century missionaries from England are known to have been busy in Friesland and Denmark, endeavouring to convert the natives to Christianity. Some one of these, whose mind had a turn for literature and dwelt with joy upon the traditions of the past, collected or learnt by heart a number of these sagas, and, taking that of Beowulf as a basis, and weaving some others into his work, composed an epic poem to which, although it contains the record of those adventures, the heroic scale of the figure who accomplishes them all imparts a real unifying epic interest.' Whatever may be the truth as to its origin, there it lies in the British Museum in its unique MS. as a testimony to all ages of the genius of the Anglo-Saxon race. Now it will be quite naturally asked, What do we learn from Beowulf of the genius and spirit of that race from which we are sprung? The one outstanding fact, as it appears to the writer, is the co-operative principle. And this principle stands in almost violent opposition to the ruling principle of the modern world, in which society is divided into a number of mutually opposite sections or classes, whose interests clash with fatal results to individual and corporate well-being. In this poem we see the whole community, from the King to the churl, bound by one common interest. King and chieftain and thane and churl freely intermingle and converse. They eat and drink and sleep under one common roof, or at least in one common enclosure. Tempora mutantur! but the idea of social interaction and mutual interdependence never found more vivid or real expression than in the pictures presented in Beowulf of Hart, the Great Hall of Hrothgar, and in the Court and township of Hygelac, King of the Geats. In the Hall of Hart Hrothgar and his Queen and his courtiers sit at the high table on the dais, and the lower orders at the long table down the hall. The spears and shields adorn the walls. After the evening meal, the singer, or scop, as he is called, to the accompaniment of the harp, tells forth the deeds of some ancient feud, such as that of Finn and the Danes or the Fight at Finnsburgh, or the feud of the Danes and the Heathobards, in which Freawaru, Hrothgar's daughter, and Ingeld figure so tragically. Then the benches are removed, and the rude beds are spread out on the floor of the Great Hall and they seek 'evening rest.' The whole is a picture of fraternal and paternal government. If Grendel, the Fen-monster, carries away one of their number, then there is weeping and lamentation. The King and the Queen and the nobility and the commonalty are all concerned in the tragedy. The loss of one is the loss of all. When Aeschere is slain by Grendel's mother Hrothgar thus bewails his loss: 'Seek no more after joy; sorrow is renewed for the Danish folk. Aeschere is dead, he who was my wise counsellor and my adviser and my comrade in arms, when in time of war we defended ourselves; ... but now the hand lieth low which bestowed every kind of joy upon you.' And in the end of the poem it is said of Beowulf that he was 'most gentle to his folk.' The King was king only 'for his folk.' The interest of his folk, their physical and moral well-being, was his chief solicitude. 2. But not only was this so within any one nation or tribe, but there was a sense of comradeship and mutual responsibility among those of various tribes and nations. When Beowulf the Geat hears in Gautland of the raids of Grendel upon Hart, he commands his folk to make ready a boat that he may fare across the sea to the help of Hrothgar, because 'he was lacking in warriors.' Beowulf's whole mission in Hart was the discharge of a solemn obligation of help from the strong to the weak. He announces to Hrothgar that he is come 'to cleanse Hart of ill,' and this he feels he must do. 'Woe is me if I preach not the gospel!' cried St. Paul. 'Woe is me if I help not the weak and cleanse not the demon-infested palace of my kinsman!' cried Beowulf. 'Weird goes as he willeth'; that is, Fate must be submitted to. And Fate hath willed that he should help the weak and 'cleanse the ill.' 3. Then there is the tremendous sense of loyalty on the part of the folk to their king or chieftain. The idea of the 'Comitatus' bound the folk to their leaders. Nothing more disgraceful could be conceived than the desertion of the leader. Terrible were the reproaches hurled at the trembling cowards who had hurried away into the woods, to save their own skins, whilst their King Beowulf wrestled with the dragon, the enemy of the people. 'Yea, death is better for any earl than a life of reproach.' Loyalty, a passionate loyalty to the King, was the greatest of virtues, and disloyalty and cowardice the greatest of vices. Society was an organic whole, bound together by the bands of loyalty and devotion to the common good. 4. There is, too, the fatalistic note heard all through the poem. Beowulf feels himself hard pressed by Fate. The Anglo-Saxon called Fate by the name 'Weird,' which has survived in modern English in the sense of something strange and mysterious. Weird was the God, or Goddess of Fate. Again and again in the poem we hear the solemn, minor, dirge-like refrain, 'Weird hath willed it'; 'Goeth Weird as she willeth' (chapter VI. p. 44). There is this perpetual overshadowing and almost crushing sense of some inscrutable and irresistible power that wieldeth all things and disposeth all things, which is, I believe, a pre-eminent characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race, and accounts for the dare-devil courage of her sons upon the battle-field or on the high seas. We find it, too, in its morally less attractive form in the recrudescent pessimism of modern literature. Thomas Hardy is the lineal descendant in literature of the author of Beowulf when he says: 'Thus the President of the Immortals had finished his sport with poor Tess.' [2] 5. And closely allied to this sense of Destiny is the sombre view of life that is characteristic of the Teutonic peoples. There is none of that passionate joy in beauty and in love that we find in the Celtic literature. Life is a serious thing in Beowulf and with us of the Anglo-Saxon race. The scenery of Beowulf is massive and threatening and mist-encircled. Angry seas are boiling and surging and breaking at the foot of lofty and precipitous cliffs. Above the edge of the cliffs stretch mysterious and gloomy moorlands, and treacherous bogs and dense forests inhabited by malignant and powerful spirits, the foes of humanity. In a land like this there is no time for love-making. Eating, drinking, sleeping, fighting there make up the business of life. It is to the Celtic inflow that we owe the addition of love in our modern literature. The composer of Beowulf could not have conceived the Arthur Saga or the Tristram love-legend. These things belong to a later age, when Celtic and Teutonic elements were fused in the Anglo-Norman race. But we still find in our literature the sombre hues. And, after all, it is in the forest of sorrow and pain that we discover the most beautiful flowers and the subtlest perfumes. I desire to express my indebtedness to A. J. Wyatt and William Morris for their translations; to A. J. Wyatt for his edition of the poem in the original; to Thomas Arnold for his terse and most informing work on Beowulf; to the authors of articles in the Encyclopaedia Britannica and in Chambers's Encyclopaedia and The Cambridge History of English Literature. Ernest J. B. Kirtlan. Brighton, November, 1913. THE STORY OF BEOWULF I The Prelude Now we have heard, by inquiry, of the glory of the kings of the people, they of the Spear-Danes, how the Athelings were doing deeds of courage. [3] Full often Scyld, the son of Scef, with troops of warriors, withheld the drinking-stools from many a tribe. This earl caused terror when at first he was found in a miserable case. Afterwards he gave help when he grew up under the welkin, and worshipfully he flourished until all his neighbours over the sea gave him obedience, and yielded him tribute. He was a good king. In after-time there was born to him a son in the Court, whom God sent thither as a saviour of the people. He saw the dire distress that they formerly suffered when for a long while they were without a prince. Then it was that the Lord of Life, the Wielder of glory, gave to him glory. Famous was Beowulf. [4] Far and wide spread his fame. Heir was he of Scyld in the land of the Danes. Thus should a young man be doing good deeds, with rich gifts to the friends of his father, so that in later days, when war shall come upon them, boon companions may stand at his side, helping their liege lord. For in all nations, by praiseworthy deeds, shall a man be thriving. At the fated hour Scyld passed away, very vigorous in spirit, to the keeping of his Lord. Then his pleasant companions carried him down to the ocean flood, as he himself had bidden them, whilst the friend of the Scyldings was wielding words, he who as the dear Lord of the Land had ruled it a long time. And there, in the haven, stood the ship, with rings at the prow, icy, and eager for the journey, the ferry of the Atheling. Then they laid down their dear Lord the giver of rings, the famous man, on the bosom of the ship, close to the mast, where were heaps of treasures, armour trappings that had been brought from far ways. Never heard I of a comelier ship, decked out with battle-weapons and weeds of war, with swords and byrnies. In his bosom they laid many a treasure when he was going on a far journey, into the power of the sea. Nor did they provide for him less of booty and of national treasures than they had done, who at the first had sent him forth, all alone o'er the waves, when he was but a child. Then moreover they set a golden standard high o'er his head, and let the sea take him, and gave all to the man of the sea. Full sad were their minds, and all sorrowing were they. No man can say soothly, no, not any hall-ruler, nor hero under heaven, who took in that lading. [5] II The Story I Moreover the Danish Beowulf, [6] the dear King of his people, was a long time renowned amongst the folk in the cities (his father, the Prince, had gone a-faring elsewhere from this world). Then was there born to him a son, the high Healfdene; and while he lived he was ruling the happy Danish people, and war-fierce and ancient was he. Four children were born to him: Heorogar the leader of troops, and Hrothgar, and Halga the good. And I heard say that Queen Elan (wife of Ongentheow) was his daughter, and she became the beloved comrade of the Swede. Then to Hrothgar was granted good speed in warfare and honour in fighting, so that his loyal subjects eagerly obeyed him, until the youths grew doughty, a very great band of warriors. Then it burned in his mind that he would bid men be building a palace, a greater mead-hall than the children of men ever had heard of, and that he would therein distribute to young and to old, as God gave him power, all the wealth that he had save the share of the folk and the lives of men. Then I heard far and wide how he gave commandment to many a people throughout all the world, this work to be doing, and to deck out the folkstead. In due time it happened that soon among men, this greatest of halls was now all ready. And Hart he called it, whose word had great wielding. He broke not his promise, but gave to them rings and treasures at the banquet. The hall towered on high, and the gables were wide between the horns, [7] and awaited the surging of the loathsome flames. Not long time should pass ere hatred was awakened after the battle-slaughter, twixt father-in-law and son-in-law. [8] Then it was that the powerful sprite who abode in darkness, scarce could brook for a while that daily he heard loud joy in the hall. There was sound of harping, and the clear song of the bard. He who knew it was telling of the beginning of mankind, and he said that the Almighty created the world, and the bright fields surrounded by water. And, exulting, He set the sun and the moon as lamps to shine upon the earth-dwellers, and adorned the world with branches and leaves. And life He was giving to every kind of living creature. So noble men lived in joy, and were all blessed till one began to do evil, a devil from hell; and this grim spirit was called Grendel. And he was a march-stepper, who ruled on the moorlands, the fens, and the stronghold. For a while he kept guard, this unhappy creature, over the land of the race of monsters, since the Creator had proscribed him. On the race of Cain the Eternal Lord brought death as vengeance, when he slew Abel. Nor did he find joy in the feud, but God for the crime drove him far thence. Thus it was that evil things came to their birth, giants and elves and monsters of the deep, likewise those giants who for a long while were striving with God Himself. And well He requited them. II Then he went visiting the high house after nightfall, to see how the Ring-Danes were holding it. And he found there a band of Athelings asleep after feasting. And they knew not sorrow or the misery of men. The grim and greedy wight of destruction, all fierce and furious, was soon ready for his task, and laid hold of thirty thanes, all as they lay sleeping. And away he wended, faring homeward and exulting in the booty, to revisit his dwellings filled full of slaughter. At the dawn of day the war-craft of Grendel was seen by men. Then after his feeding they set up a weeping, great noise in the morning. The glorious Lord, the very good Atheling, sat all unblithely, and suffered great pain, and endured sorrow for his thanes, when they saw the track of the loathly one, the cursed sprite. That struggle was too strong, loathsome and long. And after but one night (no longer time was it) he did them more murder-bale, and recked not a whit the feud and the crime. Too quick was he therein. Then he who had sought elsewhere more at large a resting-place, a bed after bower, was easily found when he was shown and told most truly, by the token so clear, the hate of the hell-thane. He went away farther and faster, he who would escape the fiend. So he ruled and strove against right, he alone against all of them, until the best of houses stood quite idle. And a great while it was--the friend of the Danes suffered distress and sorrows that were great the time of twelve winters. Then was it made known to the children of men by a sorrowful singing that Grendel was striving this while against Hrothgar, and waged hateful enmity of crime and feud for many a year with lasting strife, and would hold no truce against any man of the main host of Danes, nor put away the life-bale, or settle feud with a fee, nor did any man need to hope for brighter bettering at the hand of the banesman. The terrible monster, a dark death-shadow, was pursuing the youth and the warriors, and he fettered and ensnared them, and ever was holding night after night the misty moorlands. And, men know not ever whither workers of hell-runes wander to and fro. Thus the foe of mankind, the terrible and lonesome traveller, often he did them even greater despite. And he took up his dwelling in the treasure-decked Hall of Hart in the dark night, nor could he come near the throne the treasure of God, nor did he know His love. [9] And great was the evil to the friend of the Danes, and breakings of heart. Many a strong one sat in council, and much they discussed what was best for stout-hearted men to do against the fearful terror. And sometimes they went vowing at their heathen shrines and offered sacrifices, and with many words pleaded that the devil himself would give them his help against this menace to the nation. For such was their custom, the hope of the heathen. And ever of Hell they thought in their hearts; the Creator they knew not, the Judge of all deeds, nor knew they the Lord God, nor could they worship the Protector of the heavens, the Wielder of glory. Woe be to that man who shall shove down a soul through hurtful malice into the bosom of the fire, and who hopes for no help nor for any change--well shall it be with that one who after his death day shall seek the Lord and desire protection in the embrace of the Father. III So Beowulf, son of Healfdene, ever was brooding over this time-care, nor could the brave hero avert woe. That conflict was too strong, loathsome and long, that terrible and dire distress, the greatest of night-bales which came to the people. Then the thane of Hygelac, [10] the good man of the Geats, [11] heard from home of the deeds of Grendel. And on the day of this life he was the strongest of main of all men in the world; noble was he and powerful. He bade a fair ship be made, and said that he would be seeking the War-King, the famous prince, over the swan path, and that he needed men. And the proud churls little blamed him for that journey, though dear he was to them. They urged on the valiant man and marked the omen. The good man of the Geats had chosen champions of those who were keenest, and sought out the ship. And one, a sea-crafty man, pointed to the land-marks. Time passed by; the ship was on the waves, the boat under the cliff, and the warriors all readily went up to the stern. And the currents were swirling, with sea and sand. And men were carrying on to the naked deck bright ornaments and splendid war-armour. Then they shove forth the ship that was well bound together; and it set forth over the waves, driven by the wind, this foamy-necked ship, likest to a bird; until about the same time on the next day, the ship with its twisted stern had gone so far that the sailing men could see the land, the shining sea-cliffs, the steep mountains, and the wide sea-nesses. Then they crossed the remaining portion of the sea. [12] The Geats went up quickly on to the shore, and anchored the ship. War-shirts and war-weeds were rattling. And they gave God thanks for their easy crossing of the waves. Then the ward of the Swedes, who kept guard over the sea-cliffs, saw them carry down the gangways the bright shields and armour, all ready. And full curious thought tortured him as to who these men were. He, the thane of Hrothgar, rode down to the beach on his charger, and powerfully brandished the spear in his hand and took counsel with them. 'Who are ye armour-bearers, protected by byrnies, who come here thus bringing the high vessel over the sea, and the ringed ship over the ocean? I am he that sits at the end of the land and keep sea-guard, so that no one more loathsome may scathe with ship-army the land of the Danes. Never have shield-bearers begun to come here more openly, yet ye seem not to know the password of warriors, the compact of kinsmen. Nor ever have I seen a greater earl upon earth, than one of your band, a warrior in armour. And except his face belie him, he that is thus weapon-bedecked is no hall-man; but a peerless one to see. Now must I know your lineage before you go farther with your false spies in the land of the Danes. Now O ye far-dwellers and sea-farers, hear my onefold thought--haste is best in making known whence ye are come.' IV Then the eldest gave answer, and unlocked his treasure of words, the wise one of the troop: 'We are of the race of the Geats and hearth-comrades of Hygelac. My father was well known to the folk, a noble prince was he called Ecgtheow. And he bided many winters, ere as an old man he set out on his journeys away from the dwelling places. And wellnigh every councillor throughout all the world remembered him well. We through bold thinking have come to seek thy lord, the son of Healfdene, the protector of the people. Vouchsafe to us good guidance. We have a great business with the lord of the Danes, who is far famed. Nor of this shall aught be secret as I am hoping. Well thou knowest if 'tis true as we heard say, that among the Danes some secret evil-doer, I know not what scather, by terror doth work unheard-of hostility, humiliation, and death. I may give counsel through greatness of mind to Hrothgar as to how he, the wise and good, may overcome the fiend, if ever should cease for him the baleful business and bettering come after and his troubles wax cooler, or for ever he shall suffer time of stress and miserable throes, while the best of all houses shall remain on the high stead.' Then the watchman, the fearless warrior, as he sat on his horse, quickly made answer: 'The shield-warrior who is wide awake, shall know how to tell the difference between words and works, if he well bethink him. I can see that this band of warriors will be very welcome to the Lord of the Danes. Go ye forth, therefore, bear weapons and armour, as I will direct you. And I will command my thanes to hold against every foe, your ship in honour, new tarred as it is, and dry on the sands, until it shall carry the dearly loved man, that ship with the twisted prow, to the land of the Geats. To each of the well-doers shall it be given to escape scot-free out of the battle rush.' Then they went forth carrying their weapons. And there the ship rested, fastened by a rope, the wide-bosomed vessel secured by its anchor. The Boar [13] held life ward, bright and battle-hard and adorned with gold, over the neck-guard of the handsome Beowulf. There was snorting of the war-like-minded, whilst men were hastening, as they marched on together till they caught sight of the splendid place decked out in gold. And it was the most famous of palaces, under the heavens, of the earth-dwellers, where the ruler was biding. Its glory shone over many lands. Then the dear one in battle showed them the bright house where were the brave ones, that they might straightway make their way towards it. Then one of the warriors turned his horse round, and spake this word: 'Time it is for me to go. May the Almighty Father hold you in favour, and keep you in safety in all your journeyings. I will go to the sea-coast to keep my watch against the fierce troops.' V The way was paved with many coloured stones, and by it they knew the path they should take. The coat of mail shone brightly, which was firmly hand-locked. The bright iron ring sang in the armour as they came on their way in their warlike trappings at the first to the great hall. Then the sea-weary men set down their broad shields, their shields that were wondrous hard 'gainst the wall of the great house, and bowed towards the bench. And byrnies were rattling, the war-weapons of men. And the spears were standing in a row together, the weapons of the sea-men and the spear grey above. And the troop of armed men was made glorious with weapons. Then the proud chieftain asked the warriors of their kindred: 'From whence are ye bringing such gold-plated shields, grey sarks and helmets with visors, and such a heap of spears? I am the servant and messenger of Hrothgar. Never saw I so many men prouder. I trow it was for pride and not at all for banishment, but for greatness of mind that Hrothgar ye are seeking.' Then answered the brave man, the chief of the Geats, and spake these words, hard under helmet: 'We are the comrades at table of Hygelac. Beowulf is my name. I will say fully this my errand to the son of Healfdene the famous chieftain, unto thy lord and master, if he will grant us that we may salute him who is so good.' Then spake Wulfgar (he was Prince of the Wendels [14]). His courage was known to all, his valour and wisdom. 'I will make known to the Prince of the Danes, the Lord of the Scyldings [15] the giver of rings the famous chieftain as thou art pleading, about thy journey, and will make known to thee quickly the answer which he the good man thinks fit to give me.' Quickly he turned then to where Hrothgar was sitting, old and very grey with his troop of earls. The brave man then went and stood before the shoulders of the Lord of the Danes. Well he knew the custom of the doughty ones. Wulfgar then spoke to his lord and friend: 'Here are come faring from a far country over the wide sea, a people of the Geats, and the eldest the warriors call Beowulf. And they are asking that they may exchange words with thee, my lord. O gladman Hrothgar, do not refuse to be talking with them. For worthy they seem all in their war-weeds, in the judgement of earls. At least he is a daring Prince who hither hath led this band of warriors.' VI Then spake Hrothgar the protector of the Danes: 'Well I knew him when he was a child, and his old father was called Ecgtheow. And to him did Hrethel of the Geats give his only daughter, and his son is bravely come here and hath sought out a gracious friend.' Then said the sea-farers who had brought the goodly gifts of the Geats there for thanks, that he the battle-brave had in his hand-grip the main craft of thirty men. 'And the holy God hath sent him for favour to us West Danes, and of this I have hope, 'gainst the terror of Grendel. I shall offer the goodman gifts for his daring. Now make thou haste and command the band of warrior kinsmen into the presence. Bid them welcome to the people of the Danes.' Then went Wulfgar even to the hall-door, and spake these words: 'My liege lord, the Prince of the East Danes, commands me to say that he knows your lineage. And ye who are bold of purpose are welcome hither over the sea-waves. Now may ye go in your war-weeds, under your visored helmets to see Hrothgar. Let your swords stay behind here, the wood and the slaughter-shafts and the issue of words.' Then the Prince rose up, and about him was many a warrior, a glorious band of thanes. And some bided there and held the battle-garments as the brave man commanded. And they hastened together under the roof of Hrothgar as the man directed them. The stout-hearted man went forward, hard under helmet till he stood by the dais. Then Beowulf spake (and the byrny shone on him, the coat of mail, sewn by the cunning of the smith): 'O Hrothgar, all hail! I am the kinsman and comrade of Hygelac. [16] Many marvels I have set on foot in the days of my youth. The affair of Grendel was made known to me in my native land. Sea-farers told how this best of all palaces stood idle and useless to warriors, after evening light came down under the brightness of heaven. Then my people persuaded me, the best and the proudest of all my earls, O my lord Hrothgar, that I should seek thee, for they well knew my main strength. For they themselves saw how I came forth bloodstained from the power of the fiend, when I bound the five, and destroyed the giant's kin, and slew 'mongst the waves, sea-monsters by night, and suffered such dire distress, and wreaked vengeance for the strife of the Geats (for woe they were suffering), and I destroyed the fierce one. And now all alone I shall settle the affair of Grendel the deadly monster, the cruel giant. And one boon will I be asking, O Prince of the Bright Danes, thou lord of the Scyldings, Protector of warriors and friend of the folk, that thou wilt not refuse, since so far I am come, that I and my troop of earls, this crowd of brave men, may alone cleanse out Hart. I have heard say also that the monster because of his rashness recks not of weapons. And, if Hygelac the blithe-minded will be my liege lord, I will forgo to carry to the battle a sword, or broad shield all yellow; but I will engage by my hand-grip with the enemy, and strive for life, foe with foe. And he whom Death taketh shall believe in the doom of the Lord. And I doubt not he will fearlessly consume the people of the Geats, if he may prevail in the war-hall as he has often done with the strong men of the Danes. And thou shalt not need to hide my head if Death take me, for he will seize me all bloodstained, and will bury the slaughter all bloody, and will think to taste and devour me alone and without any sorrow, and will stain the glens in the moorland. And thou needest not to sorrow longer over the food of my body. And if battle take me, send to Hygelac this best of coats of mail, the noblest of garments. It is the heirloom of Hrethel the work of Weland [17]; and let Weird go as it will.' VII Hrothgar gave answer, the protector of the Danes: 'O my friend Beowulf, now thou hast sought us, for defence and for favour. Thy father fought in the greatest of feuds. He was banesman to Heatholaf amongst the Wylfings, when for battle-terror the King of the Geats could not hold him. Thence he sought the folk of the South Danes over the welter of waves. Then first was I ruling the Danish folk, and in my youthful days possessed the costly jewels, the treasure city of heroes. Then Heregar was dead, my elder brother not living was he, the child of Healfdene. He was a better man than I was. Then a payment of money settled the matter. I sent to the Wylfings ancient presents over the sea-ridges. And he swore to me oaths. And it is to me great sorrow in my heart to tell any man what Grendel hath done in Hart through his malice, of humiliation and sudden horror. My hall-troop has grown less, the crowd of my thanes; Weird [18] has swept them towards the terror of Grendel. But easily may the good God restrain the deeds of the foolish scather. And drunken with beer the warriors full often boasted o'er the ale-cup that they would bide in the beer-hall the battle of Grendel with the terror of swords. Then was the mead-hall all bloodstained in the morning when dawn came shining, and all the benches were wet with gore, the hall with sword-blood. And so much the less did I rule o'er dear doughty ones whom death had taken. Now sit down to the banquet and unbind thy thoughts, thy hopes to the thanes, as thy mind inspires thee.' Then was there room made in the beer-hall for the Geats all together. And there they went and sat down, the strong-hearted men, proud of their strength. And a thane waited on them, who bore in his hands the ale-cup bedecked, and he poured out the sparkling mead, while the clear-voiced bard kept singing in Hart. There was joy to the heroes, and a very great gathering of Danes and of Geats. VIII Spake then Unferth, the son of Eglaf, who sat at the feet of the Lord of the Danes and opened a quarrel. (For the journey of Beowulf, of the brave sea-farer, was vexation to him, for he could not brook that ever any other man than he himself should obtain greater fame in all the earth.) 'What!' said he, 'art thou that Beowulf who didst contend with Breca, and strovest for the mastery in swimming o'er wide seas, when ye two for pride were searching the waves and for foolish boasting risked your lives in the deep waters? No man could dissuade you from that sorrowful journey, neither friend nor foe, when ye two swam in the sea, when ye two enfolded the waves with your arms and measured the sea-ways and brandished your arms as you glided o'er the ocean. The sea boiled with waves the wintry whelming. And for seven nights long ye were toiling in the stress of seas. But he o'erpowered thee in swimming, for greater strength had he. Then at the morning tide the sea bore him up to the land of the Heathoremes. Thence he was seeking the friend of his people his own dear country, the land of the Brondings, the fair city of refuge, where he had his own folk, and a city and rings. The son of Beanstan soothly fulfilled his boasting against thee. So do I deem it a worse matter, though thou art everywhere doughty in the rush of battle and grim warfare, if thou shalt be daring to bide near Grendel a night-long space.' Then Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'What! my friend Unferth, drunken with beer, many things thou art saying about that Breca and talkest of his journey. But soothly I tell thee that I had the greater strength in that swimming, and endurance in the waves. We two agreed when we were youngsters, and boasted (for we were both still in the days of our youth) that we in the ocean would be risking our lives. And so in deed we did. We had a naked sword hard in our hands when we were swimming. We two were thinking to guard us 'gainst whale fishes. Nor over the sea-waves might he be floating a whit far from me, more quickly on the waters. Then we together were in the sea for the space of five nights until the flood, the boiling waters drove us asunder. And the coldest of weather, and the darkening night, and a wind from the north battle-grim turned against us, and rough were the waves. And the mind of the mere-fishes was stirred when my shirt of mail that was hand-locked gave to me help against the foe. The decorated battle-robe lay on my breast all adorned with gold, and the doomèd and dire foe drew to the bottom, and fast he had me grim in his grip. Still to me was granted that I reached to the monster with the point of my sword. And the mighty sea-deer carried off the battle-rush through my hand.' IX 'So then evil-doers did often oppress me. And I served them with my dear sword as was most fitting. Not at all of the feasting had they any joy. Evil destroyers sat round the banquet at the bottom of the sea, that they might seize me. But in the morning, wounded by my sword, they lay up on the foreshore, put to sleep by my weapon so that they hindered no more the faring of the sea-goers. Light came from the eastward, the bright beacon of God. The waves grew less that I could catch sight of the sea-nesses, the windy walls. Weird often saveth the earl that is undoomed when his courage is doughty. Nevertheless it happened that I slew with my sword nine of the sea-monsters. Nor have I heard under vault of heaven of a harder night-struggle, nor of a more wretched man on the sea-streams. Still I escaped from the grasp of the foes, with my life, and weary of the journey. When the sea bore me up, on the flood tide, on the welling of waves, to the land of the Finns. Nor have I heard concerning thee of any such striving or terror of swords. Breca never yet, nor either of you two, did such a deed with shining sword in any battle-gaming (not that I will boast of this too much), yet wast thou the slayer of thy brother, thy chief kinsman. And for this in hell shalt thou suffer a curse, though thy wit be doughty. And soothly I tell thee, O son of Eglaf, that Grendel that hateful monster never had done such terrors to thy life and humiliation in Hart if thy mind and thy soul were as battle-fierce as thou thyself dost say. But he has found that he needed not to fear the feud the terrible sword-thrust of your people the Danes. He taketh forced toll, and spareth none of the Danish people, but joyfully wageth war, putteth them to sleep and feedeth on them, and expecteth no fight from the Danes. But I shall ere long offer him in war the strength and the courage of the Geats. Let him go who can to the mead all proudly when morning light shall shine from the south, another day over the children of men.' Then in the hall the giver of rings was grey-haired and battle-brave. The Prince of the Danes was hopeful of help. The guardian of the folk fixed on Beowulf his firm-purposed thought. There was laughter 'mong heroes, din resounded, and words were winsome. Wealtheow went forth, the Queen of Hrothgar, mindful of kinship and decked out in gold, she greeted Beowulf in the hall. And then the lovely wife first proffered the goblet to the Lord of the East Danes, and bade him be blithe at the beer-drinking, he who was dear to all his people. And gladly he took the banquet and hall-cup, he the victorious King. The lady of the Helmings [19] went round about every one of the youthful warriors, and proffered the costly cup, until the time came that the ring-adorned Queen, most excellent in spirit, bore the mead-cup then to Beowulf. She, the wise in words, greeted the Geats and gave thanks to God that she had her desire that she might trust in any earl for help against such crimes. He gladly received it, he the battle-fierce warrior, from the hand of Wealtheow, and then began singing, inspired by a warlike spirit. Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'I had intended at once to work out the will of this your people when I set forth over the sea and sat in my sea-boat with the troop of my people, or that I would fall in the slaughter fast in the fiend's grip. I shall yet acquit myself as befitteth an earl, or in the mead-hall await my last day.' And well the lady liked the words, the boasting of the Geat. And that lovely queen went all decked out in gold to sit by her lord. Then mighty words were spoken in the hall as before, by the people in joyance and the noise of the victors, until the son of Healfdene [20] straightway would be seeking his evening rest. And he knew that a battle was doomed in the high hall to the monster when no longer they could see the light of the sun, or darkening night came stalking over all the shapes of shadows. The troop of warriors rose up, the Lord greeted the other, Hrothgar greeted Beowulf, and wished him good health and the warding of that wine-hall, and he spake the word: 'Since the time that I could lift my hand or my shield, never have I given the mighty hall of the Danes into the care of any, except now to thee. Have now and hold thou this best of houses, be thou mindful of honour, and show thyself courageous, and wakeful 'gainst foes. Nor shalt thou lack joy if thou escapest from that brave work with life.' X Then Hrothgar departed with his troop of heroes, he the Prince of the Scyldings; out of Hall went he, for the battle-chieftain would be seeking out Wealtheow his Queen, that they might go to rest. The glory of kings had appointed a hall-ward, as men say, against Grendel. A thane was in waiting on the Prince of the Danes, and his watch was keeping against the giant. The Lord of the Geats readily trusted the proud strength, the favour of God. Then doffed he the iron coat of mail and his helmet from his head, and gave his sword bedecked, the choicest of weapons, to a thane that was serving, and bade him to hold ready his armour. Then the good man spoke some words of boasting: 'I reck not myself meaner in war-powers and works of battle than Grendel doth himself. For I will not with sword put him to sleep and be taking his life away, though well I might do it. He knows not of good things, that he may strike me, or hew my shield, though brave he may be in hostile working--but we two by right will forbear the sword if he dare be seeking warfare without weapon, and then God all-knowing, the holy Lord, shall adjudge the glory on whichever side He may think meet.' Then the bold in fight got him to rest, and the pillow received the head of the earl, and many a keen sea-warrior lay down on his bed in the hall about him. None of them thought that he thence would ever seek another dear home, folk or free city where he was a child; for they had heard that fell death had taken, ere this too many, in that wine-hall, of the people of the Danes. But the Lord gave weavings of war-speed to the people of the Geats, both comfort and help. So that they all overcame their enemies through the craft of one man and by his might only. And truly it is said that God Almighty doth wield for ever the race of men. Then came in the wan night the shadow-goer gliding. Warriors were sleeping when they should have been keeping guard over that palace; all save one only. It was well known to men that their constant foe could not draw them into shadowy places when the Creator was unwilling. But he, ever wakeful, in angry mood, and fiercely indignant against the foe, was waiting the issue. XI Then came Grendel, stalking from the moors among the misty hill-slopes, and he bore God's anger. And the wicked scather of human kind fully intended to ensnare a certain one in the high hall. So he wended his way under the welkin to where he knew that the best of wine-halls, the gold-hall of man, was adorned with gold plating. Nor was that the first time that he sought out the home of Hrothgar. Nor ever in former or later days did he find a harder welcome from hall-thanes. Then the creature bereft of all joy came to the great hall, and the door, strongly bound with fire-bands, soon sprang open at his touch. And the evil-minded one in his fury burst open the door of the palace. And soon after this the enemy, angry in mind, was treading o'er the doomèd floor. And a fearsome light streamed forth from his eyes likest to a flame. And he could see many a warrior in that palace, a troop of peace-lovers asleep together, a company of kinsmen, and he laughed aloud. Then the terrible monster fully intended to cut off from life every one of them there, when he was expecting abundance of meat. But that fate was not yet, that he should lay hold of any more of human kind after that night. Then did Beowulf, kinsman of Hygelac, see the dire distress, how the wicked scather would fare with sudden grip. Nor did the monster think to delay, but at the first he quickly laid hold of a sleeping warrior, and tore him to pieces all unawares, and bit at the flesh and drank the streaming blood, and devoured huge pieces of flesh. And soon he had eaten up both feet and hands of the man he had killed. Then he stepped up to the great-hearted warrior [21] where he lay on the bed, and took him in his hands. He reached out his hand against the enemy, and quickly received him with hostile intent, and sat upon his arm. The Keeper of crimes soon was finding that he never had met in all the quarters of the earth amongst other men a greater hand-grip. And in mind and heart he was fearful, and eager to be gone and to flee away into darkness to seek the troop of devils. But that was not his fate, as it had been in days of yore. Then the good kinsman of Hygelac remembered the evening talk, and stood upright and laid hold upon him. His fingers burst. The giant was going forth, but the earl stepped after. The famous one intended to escape more widely, howsoever he might, and to flee on his way thence to the sloping hollows of the fens. That journey was sorrowful, which the harmful scather took to Hart. The lordly hall resounded. And great terror there was to all the Danes, the castle-dwellers, to each of the brave. And both the mighty guardians were fiercely angry. The hall resounded. Then was it great wonder that the wine-hall withstood the bold fighters, and that it fell not to the earth, that fair earth-dwelling. But very firm it was standing, cunningly shaped by craft of the smith, within and without. Then on the floor was many a mead-bench, as I have heard tell, decked out with gold, where the fierce ones were striving. Nor did the wise Danes formerly suppose that any man could break down a hall so noble and decorated with antlers, or cunningly destroy it, unless the bosom of flame swallowed it up in smoke. The roaring went up now enough. And an awful terror came to the North Danes, to each one of those who heard weeping from the ramparts, the enemy of God singing a fierce song, a song that was empty of victory, and the captive of hell lamenting his sorrow. For he that was strongest of men in strength held him fast on the day of his life. XII The Prince of earls would not at all let go alive the murderous comer, nor did he count his life as of use to any of the peoples. And many an earl of Beowulf's brandished the old heirloom, and were wishful to defend the life of their far-famed liege-lord, if they might do so. And they knew not, when they entered the battle, they the hard-thinking ones, the battle-men, and they thought to hew on all sides seeking out his spirit, that not any choice iron over the earth nor any battle weapon could be greeting the foe, but that he had forsworn all victorious weapons and swords. And miserable should be his passing on the day of this life, and the hostile sprite should journey far into the power of devils. Then he found out that, he who did crimes long before this with mirthful mind to human kind, he who was a foe to God, that his body would not last out; but the proud kinsman of Hygelac had him in his hands. And each was loathsome to the other while he lived. The terrible monster, sore with wounds was waiting. The gaping wound was seen on his shoulder. His sinews sprang open; and the bone-lockers burst. And great victory was given to Beowulf. Thence would Grendel, mortally wounded, flee under the fen-slopes to seek out a joyless dwelling. The more surely he knew he had reached the end of his life, the number of his days. Joy befell all the Danes after the slaughter-rush. So he had cleansed the hall of Hrothgar--he who had come from far, the proud and stout-hearted one, and saved them from strife. He rejoiced in the night-work and in the glorious deeds. His boast he had fulfilled, this leader of the Geats, which he made to the East Danes, and likewise made good all the distresses and the sorrows which they suffered of yore from the foe, and which through dire need they had to endure, of distresses not a few. And when the battle-brave man laid down the hand, the arm and shoulder under the wide roof, that was the manifest token. XIII Then in the morning, as I have heard say, was many a battle-warrior round about the gift-hall. Came the folk-leaders from far and from near along the wide ways to look at the marvel. Nor did his passing seem a thing to grieve over to any of the warriors of those who were scanning the track of the glory-less wight, how weary in mind he had dragged along his life-steps, on the way thence doomed and put to flight, and overcome in the fight at the lake of the sea-monsters. There was the sea boiling with blood, the awful surge of waves all mingled with hot gore. The death-doomèd one dyed the lake when void of joys he laid down his life in the fen for refuge. And hell received him. Thence after departed the old companions, likewise many a young one from the joyous journeys, proud from the lake to ride on mares, the youths on their horses. And there was the glory of Beowulf proclaimed. And many a one was saying that no man was a better man, no, none in the whole wide world under arch of the sky, of all the shield-bearers, neither south nor north, by the two seas. Nor a whit did they blame in the least their friend and lord, the glad Hrothgar; for he was a good king. Meanwhile the famed in battle let the fallow mares leap and go faring forth to the contest, wherever the earth-ways seemed fair unto them and well known for their choiceness: and the thane of the king, he who was laden with many a vaunt, and was mindful of songs, and remembered a host of very many old sagas, he found other words, but bound by the truth. And a man began wisely to sing the journey of Beowulf, and to tell skilful tales with speeding that was good, and to interchange words. He told all that ever he had heard concerning Sigmund, [22] with his deeds of courage, and much that is unknown, the strife of Waelsing; and the wide journeys which the children of men knew not at all, the feud and the crimes, when Fitela was not with him, when he would be saying any of such things, the uncle to the nephew, for always they were comrades in need at all the strivings. They had laid low very many of the giant's race by means of the sword. And after his death-day a no little fame sprang up for Sigmund when he, the hard in battle, killed the worm, the guardian of the hoard. He alone the child of the Atheling, hazarded a fearful deed, under the grey stone. Nor was Fitela with him. Still it happened to him that his sword pierced through the wondrous worm, and it stood in the wall, that doughty iron, and the dragon was dead. And so this monster had gained strength in that going so that he might enjoy the hoard of rings by his own doom. He loaded the sea-boat and bore the bright treasures on to the ship's bosom, he the son of Waels. The worm melted hot. He was of wanderers the most widely famous in deeds of courage, amongst men, the protector of warriors. He formerly throve thus. Then the warfare of Heremod [23] was waning, his strength and his courage, and he was betrayed among the giants into the hands of the foes, and sent quickly away. And too long did whelming sorrow vex his soul. He was a source of care to his people, to all the nobles, and many a proud churl often was lamenting in former times the way of life of the stout-hearted, they who trusted him for the bettering of bales, that the child of their lord should always be prospering, and succeed to his father's kingdom, and hold the folk, the hoard and city of refuge, the kingdom of heroes, the country of the Danes. But Beowulf Hygelac's kinsman was fairer to all men; but crime assailed Heremod. [24] Sometimes they passed along the fallow streets contending on mares. Then came the light of morning and hastened forth. And many a stiff-minded messenger went to the high hall to see the rare wonder. Likewise the King himself, the ward of the hoard of rings, came treading all glorious and with a great suite, forth from the bridal bower, and choice was his bearing, and his Queen with him passed along the way to the Mead-hall with a troop of maidens. XIV Hrothgar spake. He went to the hall and stood on the threshold and saw the steep roof all decked out with gold and the hand of Grendel. 'Let thanks be given quickly to God for this sight,' said he. 'Often I waited for the loathsome one, for the snares of Grendel. May God always work wonder after wonder, He the Guardian of glory. It was not long ago that I expected not a bettering of any woes for ever, when, doomed to blood, this best of all houses stood all stained with gore. Now has this Hero done a deed, through the power of the Lord, which none of us formerly could ever perform with all our wisdom. Lo! any woman who gave birth to such a son among human kind, may say, if she yet live, that the Creator was gracious unto her in bearing of children. Now, O Beowulf, I will love thee in heart as my son. Hold well to this new peace. Nor shall there be any lack of joys to thee in the world, over which I have power. Full oft I for less have meted out rewards and worshipful gifts to a meaner warrior, one weaker in strife. Thou hast framed for thyself mighty deeds, so that thy doom liveth always and for ever. May the All-wielder ever yield thee good as He now doth.' Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'We framed to fight that brave work with much favour, and hazarded a deed of daring and the might of the unknown. I quickly gave you to see the monster himself the enemy in his fretted armour ready to fall. I thought to twist him quickly with hard grip on a bed of slaughter so that he should lie in the throes of death, because of my hand-grip, unless he should escape with his body. But I could not cut off his going when the Creator willed it not. I cleft him not readily, that deadly fiend. He was too strong on his feet. Nevertheless he left behind his hand as a life protection to show the track, his arm and his shoulders. But not by any means thus did that wretched creature get any help, nor by that did the evil-doer, brought low by sin, live any longer. But sorrow hath him in its fatal grip closely encompassed with baleful bands. There shall a man covered with sins be biding a mickle doom as the shining Creator will prescribe.' Then was the man silent, the son of Ecglaf, in his boasting speech about deeds of battle, when the Athelings looked at the hand high up on the roof, by the craft of the earl, and the fingers of the foe, there before each one. And each of the places of the nails was likest to steel, the claw of the heathen, the uncanny claw of the battle warrior. Every one was saying that no very good iron, of any of the brave ones, would touch him at all, that would bear away thence the bloody battle-hand of the monster. XV Then was it bidden that Hart should be decked by their hands on the inside. And many there were of the men and wives who adorned that wine-hall the guest-chamber. And the tapestries shone along the walls brocaded with gold; many a wonderful sight for every man who stareth upon them. And that bright dwelling was greatly marred, though within it was fast bound with iron yet the door-hinges had sprung apart. The roof alone escaped all safe and sound when the monster turned to flight despairing of life and doomed for his crimes. Nor will it be easy to escape from that fate, whosoever may try to, but he shall get by strife the ready place of the children of men of the soul-bearers, who dwell upon earth, by a fate that cannot be escaped where his body shall sleep after the banquet fast in the tomb. Then was the time for Healfdene's son to go into the hall, when the King himself would partake of the banquet. Nor have I ever heard tell that any people in greater numbers bore themselves better about their treasure-giver. And the wealthy ones sat down on the bench and rejoiced in their feeding. And full courteously their kinsmen took many a mead-cup, they the stout-hearted Hrothgar and Hrothulf in the high hall. And within was Hart filled with friends. And by no means were the Danes the while framing treacheries. Then the son of Healfdene gave to Beowulf the golden banner, the decorated staff banner as a reward for his conquest, and the helm and the byrny. And many a one saw the youth bear in front the bejewelled sword. Beowulf took the cup in the hall. Nor did he need to be ashamed of the fee-gift in the presence of warriors. Nor have I heard tell of many men giving to others on any ale-bench, four gifts gold-decked, in friendlier fashion. The outside rim wound with wires gave protection to the head on the outer side around the crown of the helmet. So that many an heirloom [25] could not hurt fiercely the helmet that was hardened by being plunged in cold water when the shield-warrior should attack the angry one. The Protector of earls commanded eight horses to be brought in under the barriers, with bridles gold plated. And a varicoloured saddle was fixed upon one of them, decked out with treasures, and this was the battle-seat of the high King when the son of Healfdene would be doing the sword-play. Never in the van did it fail the warrior so widely kenned when the helmets were falling. Then the Prince of the Danes gave to Beowulf the wielding of them both, of horses and weapons; and bade him well enjoy them. And thus in manly fashion the famous chieftain, the treasure-guardian of heroes, rewarded the battle onslaught with horses and treasures so as no man can blame them, whoever will be saying rightly the truth. XVI Then the Lord of earls as he sat on the mead-bench gave glorious gifts to each one of those who had fared with Beowulf over the ocean-ways, and heirlooms they were; and he bade them atone for that one with gold whom formerly Grendel had wickedly killed as he would have done more of them unless Almighty God and the spirit of Beowulf had withstood Weird. The Creator ruleth all of human kind, as still He is doing. And good understanding is always the best thing, and forethought of mind. And he who long enjoys here the world in these strife-days, shall be biding both pleasant and loathsome fate. Then was there clamour and singing together in the presence of the battle-prince of Healfdene, and the harp was sounded and a song often sung, when Hrothgar's scop would tell forth the hall-mirth as he sat on the mead-bench. 'When Fear was befalling the heirs of Finn, [26] the hero of the Half-Danes, and Hnaef of the Danes must fall in the slaughter of the Frisian People. Not in the least did Hildeburh need to be praising the troth of the Jutes. For sinlessly was she deprived of her dear ones in the play of swords of children and brothers. By fate they fell, wounded by arrows. And she was a sad woman. Nor without reason did the daughter of Hoc [27] mourn their doom. When morning light came, and she could see under the sky the murder of her kinsmen where she before in the world had the greatest of joy. For warfare took away all the thanes of Finn except a mere remnant, so that he could not in the place where they met fight any warfare at all with Hengest, nor seize from the Prince's thane the woful leavings by fighting. But they offered him terms, so that they all made other room for them on the floor, and gave them halls and a high seat that they might have half the power with the children of the Jutes; and the son of Folcwalda [28] honoured the Danes every day with fee-givings, and bestowed rings on the troop of Hengest, yea, even great treasures plated with gold, so that he would be making the kin of the Frisians bold in the beer-hall. Then they swore on both sides a treaty of peace. Finn swore with Hengest and all without strife that he held in honour the woful remnant by the doom of the wise men, and that no man there by word or work should break the treaty, or ever annul it through treacherous cunning, though they followed the slayers of their Ring-giver, all bereft of their lord as was needful for them. But if any one of the Frisians by daring speech should bring to mind the murderous hate between them, then should the edge of the sword avenge it. Then sworn was that oath, and massive gold was lifted up from the hoard. Then was Hnaef, the best of the warriors, of the bold Danes, ready on the funeral pyre. And the blood-stained shirt of mail was easily seen, the golden boar, in the midst of the flame, the iron-hard boar, [29] and many an Atheling destroyed by wounds. Some fell on the field of death. Then Hildeburh commanded her very own son to be thrust in the flames of the pyre of Hnaef, his body to be burned and be put in the fire. And great was the moaning of the mother for her son, and dirge-like lamenting as the warrior ascended. And the greatest of slaughter-fires wound its way upwards towards the welkin and roared before the cavern. Heads were melting, wounds burst asunder. Then blood sprang forth from the wounds of the body. Flame swallowed all, that most cruel of ghosts, of both of those folk whom battle destroyed. Their life was shaken out. XVII 'Then the warriors went forth to visit the dwellings which were bereft of friends, and to look upon the land of the Frisians, the homesteads and the high town. And Hengest was still dwelling with Finn, that slaughter-stained winter, all bravely without strife. And he thought on the homeland, though he could not be sailing his ringed ship over the waters. The sea boiled with storm and waged war with the wind. And winter locked up the ice-bound waves till yet another year came in the court, as still it doth, which ever guards the seasons, and the glory-bright weather. Then winter was scattered, and fair was the bosom of the earth. [30] And the wanderer strove to go, the guest from the court. And much more he thought of vengeance for the feud than of the sea-voyage, as to how he could bring about an angry encounter, for he bore in mind the children of the Jutes. And so he escaped not the lot of mortals when Hunlafing did on his arm the best of swords, the flashing light of the battle, whose edge was well known to the Jutes. And dire sword-bale after befel the fierce-minded Finn, even in his very own home, when Guthlaf and Oslaf lamented the grim grip of war and the sorrow after sea-journeys, and were charging him with his share in the woes. Nor could he hold back in his own breast his fluttering soul. Then again was the hall adorned with the bodies of foemen, and Finn was also slain, the King with his troop, and the Queen was taken. And the warriors of the Danes carried to the ships all the belongings of the earth-king, such as they could find in the homestead of Finn, of ornaments and jewels. They bore away also the noble wife Hildeburh down to the sea away to the Danes, and led her to her people.' So a song was sung, a lay of the gleemen, and much mirth there was and great noise from the benches. And cup-bearers offered wine from wondrous vessels. Then came forth Queen Wealtheow in her golden circlet, where the two good men were sitting, the uncle and his nephew. And still were they in peace together, and each true to the other. Likewise Unferth the Spokesman sat there at the foot of the Lord of the Danes. And each of them trusted Unferth's good heart and that he had a great soul, though he was not loyal to his kinsmen at the sword-play. Then spake the Queen of the Danes: 'Take this cup, O my liege lord, thou giver of rings. Be thou right joyful, thou gold-friend to men; do thou speak mild words to the Geats, as a man should be doing. Be glad of thy Geats and mindful of gifts. Now thou hast peace both near and far. There is one who told me that thou wouldst have the battle-hero for thy son. Now Hart is all cleansed, the bright hall of rings. Enjoy whilst thou mayest many rewards, and leave to thy kinsmen both folk and a kingdom when thou shalt go forth to look on eternity. I know my glad Hrothulf [31] will hold in honour this youth if thou, O Hrothgar the friend of the Danes, dost leave the world earlier than he. I ween that he will yield good to our children if he remembers all that has passed--how we two worshipfully showed kindness to him in former days when he was but a child.' Then she turned to the bench where were her sons Hrothric and Hrothmund and the children of heroes, the youths all together. There sat the good man Beowulf of the Geats, by the two brothers. XVIII And the cup was borne to them, and a friendly invitation given to them in words, and twisted gold was graciously proffered him, two arm-ornaments, armour and rings, and the greatest of neck-rings of which I heard tell anywhere on earth. Ne'er heard I of better hoard jewels of heroes under the sky, since Hama carried away the Brosinga-men [32] to the bright city, ornaments and treasure vessel. It was he who fled from the cunning plots of Eormanric [33] and chose eternal gain. Hygelac of the Geats next had the ring, he who was the grandson of Swerting, when under the standard he protected the treasure and defended the plunder. And Weird carried him off when he, because of pride suffered woes, the feud with the Frisians. Then carried he the jewels, the precious stones over the sea, he who was the ruling prince, and he fell under shield; and the life of the king and the coat of mail and ring together came into possession of the Franks. And worse warriors plundered the slaughter after the war. And the corpses of the Geats held the field of death. The hall resounded with noise when Wealtheow spake these words in the midst of the court: 'Enjoy this ring, dearest Beowulf, and use this coat of mail, these national treasures, and good luck befall thee! Declare thyself a good craftsman, and be to these boys gentle in teaching, and I will be mindful of thy guerdon for that thou hast so acted that men will esteem thee far and near for ever and ever, even as widely as the sea doth encompass the windy earth-walls. Be a noble Atheling as long as thou livest. I give thee many treasures. Be thou kindly in deed to my sons, joyful as thou art. For here is each earl true to his fellow, and mild of mood, and faithful to his liege-lord. Thanes are gentle, the people all ready. O ye warriors who have drunk deep, do as I tell you.' She went to the seat where was a choice banquet, and the men drank wine. They knew not Weird, the Fate that was grim, as it had befallen many an earl. Then evening came on, and Hrothgar betook him to his own quarters, the Prince to his resting-place, and a great number of earls kept guard o'er the palace as often they had done in former days. They laid bare the bench-board and spread it over with beds and bolsters. And one of the beer-servants eager and fated went to his bed on the floor. And they set at his head war-shields, that were bright. And over the Atheling, there on the bench was easily seen the towering helmet and the ringed byrny, the glorious spear. It was their wont to be ready for war both at home and in battle, at whatever time their lord had need of them. The season was propitious. XIX Then they sank down to sleep. And sorely some of them paid for their evening repose, as full often it had happened to them since Grendel came to the gold-hall and did evil, until an end was made of him, death after sins. It was easily seen and widely known to men that an avenger survived the loathsome one, for a long time after the war-sorrow. A woman, the mother of Grendel, a terrible wife, bore in mind her woes. She who was fated to dwell in the awful lake in the cold streams since Cain became a sword-slayer to his only brother, his father's son. He then went forth marked for the murder, and fled from human joys and dwelt in the waste. And thence he awoke many a fatal demon. And Grendel was one of them, the hateful fierce wolf, who found the man wide awake awaiting the battle. And there was the monster at grips with him, yet he remembered the main strength the wide and ample gift which God gave to him, and trusted in the favour of the Almighty for himself, for comfort and help by which he vanquished the enemy and overcame the hell-sprite. Then he departed abject, bereft of joy, to visit the death-place, he the enemy of mankind. But his mother, greedy and sad in mind would be making a sorrowful journey that she might avenge the death of her son. She came then to Hart, where the Ring-Danes were asleep in that great hall. Then soon there came misfortune to the earls when the mother of Grendel entered the chamber. Yet less was the terror, even by so much as the craft of maidens, the war-terror of a wife, [34] is less than that of men beweaponed--when the sword hard bound and forged by the hammer, and stained with blood, cuts the boar on the helmet of the foe with its edge. Then in the hall, the hard edge was drawn, the sword over the seats, and many a broad shield, heaved up fast by the hand. And no one heeded the helmet nor the broad shield when terror seized upon them. She was in great haste, she would go thence her life to be saving when she was discovered. Quickly she had seized one of the Athelings fast in her grip when forth she was fleeing away to the fen-land. He was to Hrothgar the dearest of heroes, in the number of his comrades by the two seas, a powerful shield-warrior, whom she killed as he slumbered, a youth of renown. Beowulf was not there. To another the place was assigned after the treasure-gift had been bestowed on the famous Geat. Then a great tumult was made in Hart, and with bloodshed she had seized the well-known hand of Grendel her son. And care was renewed in all the dwellings. Nor was that a good exchange that they on both sides should be buying with the lives of their friends. Then was the wise King, the hoar battle-warrior, rough in his mood when he came to know that the dearest of his chief thanes was dead and bereft of life. And Beowulf quickly was fetched into the bower, he, the man all victorious. And at the dawning went one of the earls, a noble champion, he and his comrades, where the proud man was waiting, to see whether the All-wielder will ever be causing a change after woe-spells. And the battle-worthy man went along the floor with his band of followers (the hall wood [35] was resounding) so that he greeted the wise man with words, the Lord of the Danes, and asked him if he had had a quiet night in spite of the pressing call. XX Hrothgar spake, he the Lord of the Danes: 'Ask not after our luck, for sorrow is renewed to the folk of the Danes. Aeschere is dead, the elder brother of Yrmenlaf; he was my councillor and my rune-teller, [36] my shoulder-companion when we in the battle protected our heads; when troops were clashing and helmets were crashing. He was what an earl ought to be, a very good Atheling. Such a man was Aeschere. And a wandering slaughter-guest was his hand-slayer, in Hart. I know not whither that dire woman exulting in carrion, and by her feeding made famous, went on her journeys. She was wreaking vengeance for the feud of thy making when thou killedst Grendel but yesternight, in a violent way, with hard grips, because all too long he was lessening and destroying my people. He fell in the struggle, gave his life as a forfeit; and now comes another, a mighty man-scather, to avenge her son, and the feud hath renewed as may seem a heavy heart-woe to many a thane who weeps in his mind over the treasure-giver. Now lieth low the hand which availed you well, for every kind of pleasure. I heard land-dwellers, and hall-counsellors, and my people, say that they saw two such monstrous March-steppers, [37] alien-sprites, holding the moorland. And one of them was in the likeness of a woman as far as they could tell; the other, shapen wretchedly, trod the path of exiles in the form of a man, except that he was greater than any other man, he whom in former days the earth-dwellers called by name Grendel. They knew not his father, whether any secret sprite was formerly born of him. They kept guard over the hidden land, and the wolf-slopes, the windy nesses, the terrible fen-path where the mountain streams rush down under mists of the nesses, the floods under the earth. And it is not farther hence than the space of a mile where standeth the lake, over which are hanging the frosted trees, their wood fast by the roots, and shadowing the water. And there every night one may see dread wonders, fire on the flood. And there liveth not a wise man of the children of men who knoweth well the ground. Nevertheless the heath-stepper, the strong-horned hart, when pressed by the hounds seeketh that woodland, when put to flight from afar, ere on the hillside, hiding his head he gives up his life. [38] 'Nor is that a canny place. For thence the surge of waters riseth up wan to the welkin when stirred by the winds, the loathsome weather, until the heaven darkens and skies weep. Now is good counsel depending on thee alone. Thou knowest not the land, the terrible places where thou couldest find the sinful man; seek it if thou darest. I will reward thee for the feud with old world treasures so I did before, with twisted gold, if thou comest thence, on thy way.' XXI Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'Sorrow not, O wise man. It is better for each one to avenge his friend, when he is much mourning. Each one of us must wait for the end of his world-life. Let him work who may, ere the doom of death come; that is afterwards best for the noble dead. Arise, O ward of the kingdom. Let us go forth quickly to trace out the going of Grendel's kinswoman. I bid thee do it. For neither in the bosom of the earth, nor in forests of the mountains, nor by the ways of the sea, go where she will, shall she escape into safety. Do thou this day be patient in every kind of trouble as I also hope to be.' The old man leapt up and gave thanks to God, the mighty Lord, for the words of Beowulf. Then was bridled a horse for Hrothgar, a steed with twisted hair, and as a wise prince he went forth in splendid array. The troop of shield-warriors marched along. And the traces were widely seen in the forest-ways, the goings of Grendel's mother over the ground. Forwards she had gone over the mirky moorlands, and had borne in her grasp, bereft of his soul, the best of the thanes who were wont to keep watch over Hrothgar's homestead. Then Beowulf, the Atheling's child, stepped o'er the steep and stony slopes and the narrow pathways, and the straitened single tracks, an unknown way, by the steep nesses, and by many a sea-monster's cavern. And one of the wise men went on before to seek out the path, until all at once he found some mountain trees, overhanging the grey stones, a forest all joyless. And underneath was a water all bloodstained and troubled. And a grievous thing it was for all the Danes to endure, for the friends of the Scyldings, [39] and for many a thane, and distressful to all the earls, when they came upon the head of Aeschere on the cliffs above the sea. The flood boiled with blood and with hot gore (the folk looked upon it). And at times the horn sounded a battle-song ready prepared. All the troop sat down. And many kinds of serpents they saw in the water, and wonderful dragons searching the sea, and on the cliff-slopes, monsters of the ocean were lying at full length, who at the morning tide often make a woful journey on the sail-path; and snakes and wild beasts they could see also. And these living things fell down on the path all bitter and angry when they perceived the noise, and the blast of the war-horn. And the Prince of the Geats killed one of them with his bow and arrows and ended his wave-strife, and he was in the sea, slower at swimming as death swept him away. And on the waves by fierce battle hard pressed, and with boar-spears savagely barbed, the wondrous sea-monster was assailed in the struggle and drawn up on the headland. And men were looking at the awful stranger. And Beowulf put on him his armour, that was fitting for an earl, and by no means did he lament over his life, for the hand-woven coat of mail, which was ample and of many colours, was destined to explore the deeps, and knew well how to defend his body, so that neither battle-grip nor the hostile grasp of the treacherous one might scathe breast or life; and the white helmet thereof warded his head, that which was destined to search out the bottom of the sea and the welter of waters, and which was adorned with treasures and encircled with noble chains, wondrously decked and set round with boar-images, as in days of yore a weapon-smith had made it for him, so that no brand nor battle-sword could bite him. And by no means was that the least of aids in battle that the Spokesman of Hrothgar [40] lent him at need, even the hilted sword which was called Hrunting. And it was one of the ancient treasures. Its edge was of iron, and poison-tipped, and hardened in battle-sweat. And never did it fail in the fight any man who brandished it in his hands, or who dared to go on fearful journeys, to the field of battle. And that was not the first time that it was to do deeds of courage. And Unferth did not think, he the kinsman of Ecglaf, crafty of strength, of what he formerly had said [41] when drunken with wine, he had lent that weapon to a braver sword-warrior. He himself durst not risk his life in the stress of the waters and do a glorious deed. And thereby he lost his doom of famous deeds. But thus was it not with that other, for he had got himself ready for the battle. XXII Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'O kinsman of Healfdene, [42] thou far-famed and proud prince, thou gold-friend of men, now that eager I am for this forth-faring, bethink thee now of what we two were speaking together, that if I should lose my life through helping thee in thy need, thou wouldst be always to me in the place of a father after my death. Be thou a guardian to my kinsmen, my thanes, and my hand comrades, if battle should take me. And dear Hrothgar, send thou the gifts, which thou didst give me, to Hygelac. And the Lord of the Geats, the son of Hrethel, when he looks on the treasure and perceives the gold, will see that I found a giver of rings, one good and open-handed, and that while I could, I enjoyed the treasures. And do thou let Unferth, the man who is far-famed, have the old heirloom, the curiously wrought sword with its wave-like device, with its hard edge. I work out my fate with Hrunting, or death shall seize me.' After these words the Lord of the Weder-Geats courageously hastened, and by no means would he wait for an answer. The whelming sea received the battle-hero. And it was a day's while before he could see the bottom of the sea. And very soon the fierce and eager one who had ruled the expanse of the floods for a hundred years, she, the grim and greedy, saw that a man was searching out from above the dwelling of strange monsters. Then she made a grab at him, and closed on the warrior with dire embrace. But not at first did she scathe his body, safe and sound. The ring surrounded it on the outside, so that she could not pierce the coat of mail or the interlaced war-shirt with loathsome finger. Then the sea-wolf, when she came to the bottom of the sea, bore the Ring-Prince towards her house so that he might not, though he was so strong in soul, wield any weapon; and many a wonder oppressed him in the depths, many a sea-beast broke his war-shirt with his battle-tusks, and monsters pursued him. Then the earl saw that he was in he knew not what hall of strife, where no water scathed him a whit, nor could the sudden grip of the flood touch him because of the roof-hall. He saw, too, a firelight, a bright pale flame shining. Then the good man caught sight of the she-wolf, that monstrous wife, down in the depths of the sea. And he made a mighty rush with his sword. Nor did his hand fail to swing it so that the ringed mail on her head sang a greedy death-song. Then Beowulf the stranger discovered that the battle-blade would not bite or scathe her life, but the edge failed the lord in his need. It had suffered many hand-blows, and the helmet, the battle-dress of the doomed one, it had often cut in two. That was the first time that his dear sword-treasure failed him. Then he became resolute, and not by any means did he fail in courage, that kinsman of Hygelac, mindful of glory. And this angry warrior threw away the stout sword, bound round with jewels with its wavy decorations, and with its edge of steel, so that it lay prone on the ground; and henceforth he trusted in his strength and the hand-grasp of might. So should a man be doing when he thinketh to be gaining long-lasting praise in fighting, and careth not for his life. Then the Lord of the Geats seized by the shoulder the mother of Grendel (nor at all did he mourn over that feud), and he, the hard in battle, threw down his deadly foe, when he was angry, so that she lay prone on the floor. But she very quickly, with grimmest of grips, requited him a hand-reward, and made a clutch at him. And the weary in soul, that strongest of fighters, he the foot-warrior stumbled and fell. Then she sat on that hall-guest, and drew forth her axe, broad and brown-edged, and would fain be avenging the death of her child, of her only son. But on his shoulder was the coat of mail all woven, which saved his life and prevented the entrance of the point and the edge of the sword. And the son of Ecgtheow, the Prince of Geats, would have surely gone a journey under the wide earth unless that warlike coat of mail had given him help, that hard war-net, and unless the Holy God He the cunning Lord, and the Ruler in the heavens, had wielded the victory, and easily decided the issue aright; then he straightway stood up. XXIII Then among the weapons he caught sight of a sword, rich in victories, an old weapon of the giants, and doughty of edge, the glory of warriors. It was the choicest of weapons, and it was greater than any other man could carry to the battle-playing, and all glorious and good, a work of the giants. And he seized it by the belted hilt, he the warrior of the Danes, rough and battle-grim, and he brandished the ring-sword; and despairing of life, he angrily struck so that hardly he grasped at her neck and broke the bone-rings. And the point pierced through the doomed flesh-covering. And she fell on the floor. The sword was all bloody, and the man rejoiced in his work. Shone forth the bright flame and a light stood within, even as shineth the candle [43] from the bright heavens. And then he looked on the hall, and turned to the wall. And the thane of Hygelac, angry and resolute, heaved hard the weapon, taking it by the hilt. And the edge was not worthless to the battle-warrior, for he would be quickly requiting Grendel many a war-rush which he had done upon the West Danes, many times oftener than once when in sleeping he smote the hearth-comrade of Hrothgar, and fed on them sleeping, of the Danish folk, some fifteen men, and bore forth yet another one, that loathly prey. And well he requited him, this furious champion, when he saw the war-weary Grendel lying in death, all void of his life as formerly in Hart the battle had scathed him. His body sprang apart when after his death he suffered a stroke, a hard battle-swing; and then he struck off his head. Right soon the proud warriors, they who with Hrothgar, looked forth on the sea, could easily see, that the surging water was all stained with blood and the grey-haired ancients spoke together about the good man, that they deemed not the Atheling would ever again come seeking the famous Prince Hrothgar glorying in victory, for it seemed unto many that the sea-wolf had destroyed him. Then came noonday. The valiant Danes left the headland, and the gold-friend of men [44] went homeward thence. And the strangers of the Geats, sick in mind, sat and stared at the water. They knew and expected not that they would see again their liege-lord himself. Then the sword began to grow less, after the battle-sweat, into icicles of steel. And a wonder it was that it all began to melt likest to ice, when Our Father doth loosen the band of frost and unwinds the icicles, He who hath power over the seasons, He is the true God. Nor in these dwellings did the Lord of the Geats take any other treasure, though much he saw there, except the head and the hilt, decked out with jewels. The sword had melted, and the decorated weapon was burnt up. The blood was too hot, and so poisonous the alien sprite who died in that conflict. Soon Beowulf was swimming, he who formerly awaited the onset of the hostile ones in the striving, and he dived upwards through the water. And the weltering surge and the spacious lands were all cleansed when the alien sprite gave up his life and this fleeting existence. He the stout-hearted came swimming to shore, he the Prince of the sea-men enjoying the sea-spoils, the great burden of that which he had with him. They advanced towards him and gave thanks to God, that glorious crowd of thanes, and rejoiced in their lord that they could see him once more. Then was loosed quickly from that valiant man both helmet and shield. The sea became turbid, the water under welkin, all stained with blood. And rejoicing in spirit the brave men went forth with foot-tracks and passed over the earth, the well-known pathways. And a hard task it was for each one of those proud men to bear that head away from the sea-cliff. Four of them with difficulty on a pole were bearing the head of Grendel to the gold-hall, until suddenly, valiant and battle-brave, they came to the palace, fourteen of the Geats marching along with their liege-lord who trod the field where the mead-hall stood. Then this Prince of the thanes, this man so bold of deed and honoured by Fate, this battle-dear warrior went into the hall to greet King Hrothgar. Then over the floor where warriors were drinking they bore Grendel's head, a terror to the earls and also to the Queen. And men were looking at the splendid sight of the treasures. XXIV Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'Lo, son of Healfdene, lord of the Danes, we have brought thee this booty of the sea all joyfully, this which thou seest as a token of glory. And I hardly escaped with my life, and hazarded an arduous task of war under water. And nearly was the battle ended for me, but that God shielded me. Nor could I in that conflict do aught with Hrunting, though the weapon was doughty. But the Ruler of men granted me to see hanging on the wall a beauteous sword mighty and ancient (often He guides those who are bereft of their comrades), and I drew the weapon. And I struck in that striving the guardian of the house when I saw my chance. Then that battle-sword that was all decked out, burned up so that blood gushed forth, the hottest of battle-sweat. But I bore off that hilt thence from the enemy, and wrought vengeance for the crimes, the deaths of the Danes, as it was fitting. And here I bid thee to take thy rest all sorrowless in Hart, with the troop of thy men and each of the thanes of thy people, the youth and the doughty ones. O Lord of the Danes, no longer need'st thou fear for them, because of earls' life-bale as before thou didst.' Then was the golden hilt, the work of the giants, given into the hand of the old warrior, the hoary battle-chief. This work of the wonder-smiths went into the possession of the Lord of the Danes after the destruction of devils; and when the man of the fierce heart, the adversary of God guilty of murder, forsook this world, it passed to the best of world-kings by the two seas, of these who in Sceden Isle dealt out treasures. Hrothgar spake and looked upon the hilt, the old heirloom on which was written the beginning of the ancient feud since the flood, the all-embracing ocean slew the giant race, when they bore themselves presumptuously. They were a folk strangers to the eternal God, to whom the ruler gave their deserts through whelming of waters. Thus was there truly marked on the sword guards of shining gold, by means of rune-staves, set down and stated by whom that sword was wrought at the first, that choicest of weapons, with its twisted hilt, adorned with a dragon. Then spake the wise man the son of Healfdene, and all kept silence: 'He who doeth truth and right among the folk, and he who can recall the far-off days, he the old protector of his country may say that this earl was well born. Thy fair fame is spread throughout the wide ways, among all peoples, O my friend Beowulf. Thou dost hold all with patience, and might, with the proud of mind. I will perform the compact as we two agreed. Thou shalt be a lasting aid to thy people, a help to the heroes. Not so was Heremod [45] to the sons of Egwela, the honour-full Danish folk. [46] For he did not become a joy to them, but slaughter and death to the Danish people. But in a fury he killed the table-companions his boon comrades; until he alone, the famous chieftain, turned away from human joys. And though the mighty God greatly exalted him by the joys of strength over all people and rendered him help, yet a fierce hoard of hate grew up in his soul; no rings did he give to the Danes, as the custom was; and joyless he waited, so that he suffered troublesome striving and to his people a long time was baleful. Do thou be learning by that example and seek out manly virtues. I who am old in winters sing thee this song. And a wonder is it to say how the mighty God giveth wisdom to mankind through wideness of mind, lands, and earlship. He hath power over all. Sometimes he letteth the thought of man of famous kith and kin be turning to love, and giveth him earth-joys in his own country, so that he holdeth the city of refuge among men, and giveth him to rule over parts of the world, and very wide kingdoms, so that he himself foolishly never thinketh of his end. He dwelleth in weal; and neither disease nor old age doth deceive him a whit, nor doth hostile sorrow darken his mind, nor anywhere do strife or sword-hate show themselves; but all the world doth go as he willeth. XXV 'He knoweth no evil until his share of pride wasteth and groweth, while sleepeth the guardian, the ward of his soul. And the sleep is too deep, bound up in afflictions, and the banesman draweth near who shooteth cruelly his arrows from the bow. Then in his soul under helmet is he stricken with bitter shaft. Nor can he save himself from the crooked behests of the cursed ghost. And little doth he think of that which long he hath ruled. And the enemy doth covet, nor at all doth he give in boast the plated rings, and he then forgetteth and despiseth his fate his share of honour which God before gave him, He the Wielder of wonder. And in the end it doth happen that the body sinks fleeting and doomed to death falleth. And another succeeds thereto who joyfully distributeth gifts, the old treasure of the earl, and careth not for terrors. Guard thee against malicious hate, O my dear Beowulf, thou noblest of men, and choose for thyself that better part, eternal wisdom. Have no care for pride, O glorious champion. Now is the fame of thy strength proclaimed for a while. Soon will it be that disease or sword-edge or grasp of fire or whelming of floods or grip of sword or flight of arrow or dire old age will sever thee from strength, or the lustre of thine eyes will fail or grow dim. Then forthwith will happen that death will o'erpower thee, O thou noble man. Thus have I for fifty years held sway over the Ring-Danes under the welkin and made safe by war many a tribe throughout the world with spears and swords, so that I recked not any man my foeman under the sweep of heaven. Lo! then there came to me change in my homeland, sorrow after gaming, when Grendel, that ancient foe became my invader. And ever I bore much sorrow of mind through that feud. And may God be thanked, the eternal lord, that I lingered in life, till I looked with mine eyes on that head stained with sword-blood after the old strife. Go now to thy seat and enjoy the feasting, thou who art glorious in war. And when morning cometh there shall be a host of treasures in common between us.' And the Geat was glad of mind, and soon he went up to the high seat as the proud chief had bidden him. Then renewed was fair chanting as before 'mongst these brave ones who sat on the floor. And the helmet of night grew dark over men. And the noble warriors arose. The venerable king wished to go to his bed, the old prince of the Danes. And the Geat, the shield-warrior, desired greatly to go to his rest. And straightway a hall-thane guided the far-comer, weary of his journey, he who so carefully attended to all his needs such as that day the ocean-goers would fain be having. And the great-hearted one rested himself. The House towered on high that was spacious and gold-decked. The guest slept within until the black raven heralded the joy of heaven. Then came the sun, hastening and shining over the earth. Warriors were hurrying and Athelings were eager to go to their people. The bold-hearted comer would visit the ship far away. He the hardy one bade the son of Ecglaf carry forth Hrunting, and commanded him to take his sword, that lovely piece of steel. And he gave thanks for the lending, and said he reckoned him a good war-comrade and crafty in fighting. Not at all did he blame the edge of the sword. He was a proud man. When ready for the journey were all the warriors, then Beowulf the Atheling, of good worth to the Danes, went up to the dais where was Hrothgar the faithful and bold, and greeted him there. XXVI Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'Now we the sea-farers, that have come from afar, desire to say that we are hastening back to Hygelac. And here have we been nobly waited on, and well thou hast treated us. And if I then on earth can gain a whit further greater heart-love from thee, O Lord of men, than I have gained already, in doing war-deeds, thereto I'm right ready. And if I shall hear o'er the sheet of waters that terrors are oppressing those who sit round thee, as erewhile thine enemies were doing upon thee, I will bring here a thousand thanes, heroes to help thee. And I know that Hygelac, the Lord of the Geats, the guardian of my folk, though young in years, will help me by word and works to bring to thee honour and bear spear to thine aid, the help of strength, if thou hast need of men. And if Hrethric [47] the Prince's child should ever take service in the court of the Geat, he may find there many a friend. It is better for him who is doughty himself to be seeking far countries.' Hrothgar spake and gave him answer: 'The all-knowing Lord doth send thee words into thy mind. Never heard I a man speak more wisely, so young in years, thou art strong of main and proud of soul, and of words a wise sayer. I reckon that if it cometh to pass that an arrow or fierce battle should take away the children of Hrethel or disease or sword destroy thy sovereign, the protector of the folk, and thou art still living, that the Sea-Geats will not have to choose any better king, if thou wilt hold the kingdom of the kinsmen. Thou hast brought about peace to the folk of the Geats and the Spear-Danes, and a ceasing of the strife and of the enmity which formerly they suffered. And whilst I am ruling the wide kingdom, treasures shall be in common between us. And many a man shall greet another with gifts over the sea. [48] And the ring-necked ship shall bear over the ocean both offerings and love-tokens. I know the two peoples to be steadfast towards friend and foe, and blameless in all things in the old wise.' Then in that hall the prince of the earls, the son of Healfdene, gave him twelve treasures, and bade him be seeking his own people in safety and with the offerings, and quickly to come back again. Then the King, the Prince of the Danes, he of good lineage, kissed the best of thanes, and embraced his neck. And tears were falling down the face of the old man. And the old and wise man had hope of both things, but most of all of the other that they might see each the other, those thoughtful men in council. For Beowulf was so dear to him that he could not restrain the whelming in his bosom, but a secret longing fast in the bonds of his soul was burning in his breast against his blood. [49] So Beowulf the warrior, proud of his golden gifts, went forth o'er the grassy plain rejoicing in treasure. And the sea-goer was awaiting her lord where she lay at anchor. And as he was going he often thought on the gift of Hrothgar. He was a king, blameless in every way, until old age, that scather of many, bereft him of the joys of strength. XXVII So many a proud young warrior came to the seaside. And they were carrying the ring-net, the interlaced coats of mail. And the ward of the shore noticed the going of the earls, as he did their coming. [50] Nor with evil intent did he hail the guests from the edge of the cliff, but rode up to them, and said that welcome and bright-coated warriors went to the ship to the people of the Geats. Then on the sand was the spacious craft laden with battle-weeds, the ringed prow with horses and treasures, and the mast towered high over Hrothgar's gifts. And he gave to the captain a sword bound with gold, so that by the mead-bench he was by that the worthier because of the treasure and the heirloom. Then he went on board, the deep water to be troubling, and finally left the land of the Danes. And by the mast was one of the ocean-garments, a sail fast by a rope. The sea-wood thundered. Nor did the wind hinder the journey of that ship. The ocean-goer bounded forth, the foamy-necked one, over the waves, the bound prow over the ocean streams, till they could see the cliffs of the Geats' land, the well-known headlands. Then the keel thronged up the shore, driven by the wind, and stood fast in the sand. And the harbour-master was soon on the seashore, who of yore eagerly had seen from afar the going forth of the dear men. And he made fast the wide-bosomed ship, by the anchor chains, so that the less the force of the waves could tear away that winsome ship. He commanded the treasure of the nobles to be borne up the beach, the fretted armour and the plated gold. And not far thence it was for them to be seeking the giver of treasure, Hygelac, Hrethel's son, for at home he dwelleth, he and his companions near to the sea-wall. And splendid was that building, and the Prince was a bold King, and the halls were high, and Hygd his wife was very young and wise and mature in her figure, though the daughter of Hæreth had bided in that city but a very few years. But she was not mean nor niggardly of gifts and of treasures to the people of the Geats. But Thrytho [51] was fierce, for she had committed a terrible crime, that bold Queen of the folk. There was none that durst risk that dire thing of the dear companions, save only her lord, that he should stare on her with his eyes by day; but if he did he might expect that death-bands were destined for himself, for after the hand-grip a weapon was quickly prepared, that the sword that was curiously inlaid should bring to light and make known the death-bale. Nor is it a queenly custom for a woman to perform, though she might be peerless, that she should assail the life of a peace-wearer, of her dear lord, after a pretended insult. At least King Offa, the kinsman of Hemming, checked her in that. But otherwise said the ale-drinkers, namely that she did less of bale to her people and of hostile acts, since the time when she was first given all decked with gold to the young champion, [52] to her dear lord, since she sought the Hall of Offa over the fallow flood by the guidance of her father, where on the throne whilst she lived she well did enjoy her fate, that woman famous for good works. And she kept great love for the prince of heroes, and of all mankind he was, as I have learned by asking, the greatest by two seas. For Offa was a spear-keen man in gifts and in warfare, and widely was he honoured. And he ruled his people wisely. And to him and Thrytho Eomær was born to the help of heroes, he the kinsman of Hemming, the nephew of Garmund, was crafty in battle. XXVIII Then the hardy one himself, with his troop set forth to tread the seashore, going along the sands, the wide sea-beaches. The candle of the world shone, the sun that was shining from the South. And joyfully they journeyed, and with courage they marched along, to where they heard by inquiring, that the good Prince of earls, the banesman of Ongentheow [53] the young war-king, was giving out rings within the city. And quickly was made known to Hygelac the coming of Beowulf, that he the Prince of warriors, the comrade in arms, was returning alive and hale from the battle-play, was coming to the palace. And straightway was there room made for the foot-guests on the floor of the hall by command of the King. And he that had escaped scot-free from the contest sat with the King, kinsman with kinsman, and the lord with courteous speech saluted the brave man with high-swelling words. And the daughter of Hæreth [54] poured forth from the mead-cups throughout that great hall, for she loved well the people, and carried round the drinking-stoups to each of the warriors. And Hygelac began to question his comrade as curiosity prompted him as to the journey of the Sea-Geats. 'How went it with thee, dear Beowulf, in thy faring, when thou didst bethink thee suddenly to be seeking a contest o'er the salt waters, in battle at Hart? And thou didst requite the widely known woe which Hrothgar was suffering, that famous lord. And I brooded o'er that mind-care with sorrow-whelmings, for I trusted not in the journey of the dear man. And for a long time I bade thee not a whit to be greeting the murderous stranger, but to let the South Danes themselves wage war against Grendel. And I now give God thanks that I see thee safe and sound.' Beowulf answered, the son of Ecgtheow: 'O Lord Hygelac, it is well known to many a man, our famous meeting, and the battle we fought, Grendel and I, on the wide plain, when he was working great sorrow to the Danes and misery for ever. All that I avenged, so that no kinsman of Grendel anywhere on earth needed to boast of that uproar by twilight, no not he of that kindred who liveth the longest, encircled by the fen. And first, to greet Hrothgar, I went to the Ring-hall. And straightway the famous kinsman of Healfdene, when he knew my intention, gave me a place with his own son; and the troop was all joyful. Nor ever have I seen greater joy amongst any hall-dwellers under the arch of heaven. Sometimes the famous Queen, [55] the peace-bringer of the folk, walked over the whole floor and encouraged the young sons. And often she gave to the man a twisted ring ere she went to the high seat. And sometimes for the noble band the daughter of Hrothgar carried the ale-cups to the earls at the end of the high table. And I heard those who sat in that hall calling her Freawaru as she gave the studded treasure to the heroes. And she, young and gold-decked, is betrothed to the glad son of Froda. [56] The friend of the Danes and the guardian of the kingdom has brought this to pass, and taken that counsel, so as to set at rest by that betrothal many a slaughter-feud and ancient strife. And often it happens that a little while after the fall of a people, the deadly spear seldom lieth at rest though the bride be doughty. And this may displease the lord of the Heathobards and all of his thanes of the people, when he with his bride walketh over the floor, that his doughty warriors should attend on a noble scion of the Danes, and the heirloom of the ancients should glisten on him, all hard, and the ring-sword, the treasure of the Heathobards, whilst they might be wielding weapons. [57] XXIX [58] 'Till the day on which they risked their own and their comrades' lives in the battle. Then said an old spear-warrior who remembered all that had happened, the death of men by spears (his mind was grim), and he began with sorrowful mind to seek out the thought of the young champion by broodings of the heart, and to awaken the war-bales, and this is what he said: "Canst thou recognize, my friend, the dire sword which thy father carried to the battle, under the visored helm, on that last journey, when the Danes slew him and had the battle-field in their power, when Withergyld [59] lay dead after the fall of the heroes? Now here the son of I know not which of the slayers, all boasting of treasures, goeth into the hall and boasteth of murder and carrieth the gift which thou shouldst rightly possess." Then he exhorteth and bringeth to mind each of the occasions with sorrowful words, until the time cometh that the thane of the bride dieth all stained with blood for the deeds of his father by the piercing of the sword, having forfeited his life. But the other thence escapeth alive, for he knows the land well. Then the oath-swearing of earls is broken on both sides when deadly enmities surge up against Ingeld, and his love for his wife grows cooler after whelming care. And for this reason I reckon not sincere the friendliness of the Heathobards towards the Danes or the troop-peace between them, the plighted troth. 'Now I speak out again about Grendel, for that thou knowest full well, O giver of treasure, how went that hand-to-hand fight of the heroes. When the jewel of heaven glided over the world, then the angry sprite, the terrible and evening-fierce foe, came to visit us where we were dwelling in the hall all safe and sound. There was battle impending to Hondscio, the life-bale to the doomed one. And he first fell, the champion begirt. For Grendel was to the famous thane a banesman by biting, and devoured whole the dear man. Nor would he, the bloody-toothed slayer, mindful of bales, go out empty-handed any sooner again, forth from the gold-hall; but he proved my strength of main, and ready-handed he grasped at me. An ample and wondrous glove hung fast by cunning bands. And it was cunningly fashioned by the craft of devils, and with skins of the dragon. And the fierce doer of deeds was wishful to put me therein, one among many. But he could not do so, for I angrily stood upright. And too long would it be to tell how I requited all evil to that scather of the people, where I, O my liege-lord, honoured thy people by means of good deeds. He escaped on the way, and for a little while he enjoyed life-pleasures. But his right hand showed his tracks in Hart, and he sank to the bottom of the sea, all abject and sad of heart. And the lord of the Danes rewarded me for that battle-rush with many a piece of plated gold, and with ample treasure, when morning came and we had set ourselves down to the feasting. And there was singing and rejoicing. And the wise man of the Danes, who had learned many things, told us of olden days. And the bold in battle sometimes touched the harp-strings, the wood that was full of music, and sometimes he gave forth a song that was true and sad--and sometimes, large-hearted, the King related a wondrous spell well and truly. [60] And sometimes the old man encumbered by years, some ancient warrior, lamented his lost youth and strength in battle. His heart was tumultuous when he, of many winters, recalled all the number of them. So we rejoiced the livelong day until another night came down upon men. Then was the mother of Grendel quickly ready for vengeance, and came on a woful journey, for Death had carried off her son, that war-hate of the Geats. And the uncanny wife avenged her child. And Aeschere, that wise and ancient councillor, departed this life. Nor when morning came might the Danish people burn him with brand, that death-weary man, nor lay the beloved man on the funeral pyre. For she bore away the body in her fiendish grip under the mountain-streams. And that was to Hrothgar the bitterest of griefs which for long had befallen the Prince of the people. Then the Prince, sad in mood, by thy life entreated me that I should do a deed, worthy of an earl, midst welter of waters, and risk my life and achieve glory. And he promised me rewards. I then discovered the grim and terrible guardian of the whelming waters, at the sea's bottom, so widely talked of. There was a hand-to-hand engagement between us for a while, and the sea boiled with gore; I cut off the head of Grendel's mother in the hall at the bottom of the sea, with powerful sword. And I scarce saved my life in that conflict. But not yet was my doomsday. And afterwards the Prince of earls gave me many gifts, he the son of Healfdene. XXXI 'So in good customs lived the King of the people. Nor had I lost the rewards, the meed of strength, for the son of Healfdene bestowed upon me treasures according to my choice, which I will bring to thee, O my warrior-King, and graciously will I proffer them. Again all favour depends on thee, for few chief kinsmen have I save thee, O Hygelac.' He commanded them to bring in the boar, the head-sign, the battle-steep helmet, the hoary byrny, the splendid war-sword, and then he chanted this song: 'It was Hrothgar, that proud prince, who bestowed upon me all this battle-gear. And a certain word he uttered to me, that I should first give thee his kindly greeting. [61] He said that Hrothgar the King of the Danes possessed it a long while. Nor formerly would he be giving the breast-weeds to his son the brave Heoroward, though dear he was to him. Do thou enjoy all well.' Then I heard that four horses, of reddish yellow hue, followed the armour. And thus he did him honour with horses and gifts. So should a kinsman do. By no means should they weave cunning nets for each other, or with secret craft devise death to a comrade. His nephew was very gracious to Hygelac, the brave in strife, and each was striving to bestow favours on the other. And I heard that he gave to Hygd the neck-ring so curiously and wondrously wrought, which Wealtheow a daughter of royal birth had given him, and three horses also slender and saddle-bright. And her breast was adorned with the ring she had received. And Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, so famous in warfare and in good deeds, bore himself boldly and fulfilled his fate, nor did he slay the drunken hearth-comrades. He was not sad-minded, but he, the battle-dear one, by the greatest of craft known to man held fast the lasting and generous gift which God gave him. For long had he been despised, so that the warriors of the Geats looked not upon him as a good man, nor did the lord of troops esteem him as of much worth on the mead-bench. Besides, they thought him slack and by no means a warlike Atheling. Then came a change from all his distresses to this glorious man. Then the Prince of Earls, the battle-brave King, commanded that the heirloom of Hrethel all decked out in gold should be brought in. For of swords there was no more glorious treasure among the Geats. And he laid it on the bosom of Beowulf, and gave him seven thousand men and a building and a throne. And both of them held the land, the earth, the rights in the land as an hereditary possession; but the other who was the better man had more especially a wide kingdom. And in after-days it happened that there were battle-crashings, and Hygelac lay dead, [62] and swords under shields became a death-bane to Heardred, [63] when the brave battle-wolves, the Swedes, sought him out among the victorious ones and assailed with strife the nephew of Hereric, and it was then that the broad kingdom came into the possession of Beowulf. And he held sway therein fifty winters (and a wise King was he, that old guardian of his country) until on dark nights a dragon began to make raids, he that watched over the hoard in the lofty cavern, the steep rocky cave. And the path thereto lay under the cliffs unknown to men. And what man it was who went therein I know not, but he took from the heathen hoard a hall-bowl decked with treasure. Nor did he give it back again, though he had beguiled the guardian of the hoard when he was sleeping, by the craft of a thief. And Beowulf found out that the dragon was angry. [64] XXXII And it was by no means of his own accord or self-will that he sought out the craft of the hoard of the dragon who inflicted such evil upon himself, but rather because being compelled by miseries, the slave fled the hateful blows of heroes, he that was shelterless and the man troubled by guilt penetrated therein. And soon it came to pass that an awful terror arose upon the guest. [65]... And in the earth-house were all kinds of ancient treasures, such as I know not what man of great thoughts had hidden there in days of old, the immense heirlooms of some noble race, costly treasures. And in former times death had taken them all away, and he alone of the warriors of the people who longest lingered there, full lonely and sad for loss of friends was he, and he hoped for a tarrying, that he but for a little while might enjoy the ancient treasures. And this hill was quite near to the ocean-waves, and to the sea-nesses, and no one could come near thereto. And he the guardian of rings carried inside the cave the heavy treasures of plated gold, and uttered some few words: 'Do thou, O earth, hold fast the treasures of earls which heroes may not hold. What! From thee in days of yore good men obtained it. Deadly warfare and terrible life-bale carried away all the men of my people of those who gave up life. They had seen hall-joy. And they saw the joys of heaven. I have not any one who can carry a sword or polish the gold-plated cup, the dear drinking-flagon. The doughty ones have hastened elsewhere. The hard helmet dight with gold shall be deprived of gold plate. The polishers sleep the sleep of death who should make ready the battle grim, likewise the coat of mail which endured in the battle was shattered over shields by the bite of the iron spears and perishes after the death of the warrior. Nor can the ringed byrny go far and wide on behalf of heroes, after the passing of the war-chief. 'No joy of harping is there, nor mirth of stringed instruments, nor does the goodly hawk swing through the hall, nor doth the swift horse paw in the courtyard. And death-bale hath sent away many generations of men.' Thus then, sad at heart he lamented his sorrowful plight, one for many, and unblithely he wept both day and night until the whelming waters of death touched his heart. And the ancient twilight scather found the joyous treasure standing open and unprotected, he it was who flaming seeks the cliff-sides, he, the naked and hateful dragon who flieth by night wrapt about with fire. And the dwellers upon earth greatly fear him. And he should be seeking the hoard upon earth where old in winters he guardeth the heathen gold. Nor aught is he the better thereby. And thus the scather of the people, the mighty monster, had in his power the hall of the hoard three hundred years upon the earth until a man in anger kindled his fury. For he carried off to his liege-lord the plated drinking-flagon and offered his master a treaty of peace. Thus was the hoard discovered, the hoard of rings plundered. And a boon was granted to the miserable man. And the Lord saw for the first time this ancient work of men. Then awoke the dragon, and the strife was renewed. He sniffed at the stone, and the stout-hearted saw the foot-mark of his foe. He had stepped too far forth with cunning craft near the head of the dragon. So may any one who is undoomed easily escape woes and exile who rejoices in the favour of the Wielder of the world. The guardian of the hoard, along the ground, was eagerly seeking, and the man would be finding who had deprived him of his treasure while he was sleeping. Hotly and fiercely he went around all on the outside of the barrow--but no man was there in the waste. Still he gloried in the strife and the battle working. Sometimes he returned to the cavern and sought the treasure vessels. And soon he found that one of the men had searched out the gold, the high heap of treasures. The guardian of the hoard was sorrowfully waiting until evening should come. And very furious was the keeper of that barrow, and the loathsome one would fain be requiting the robbery of that dear drinking-stoup with fire and flame. Then, as the dragon wished, day was departing. Not any longer would he wait within walls, but went forth girt with baleful fire. And terrible was this beginning to the people in that country, and sorrowful would be the ending to their Lord, the giver of treasure. XXXIII Then the Fiend began to belch forth fire, and to burn up the glorious palace. And the flames thereof were a horror to men. Nor would the loathly air-flier leave aught living thereabouts. And this warfare of the dragon was seen far and wide by men, this striving of the foe who caused dire distress, and how the war-scather hated and harmed the people of the Geats. And he hurried back to his hoard and the dark cave-hall of which he was lord, ere it was day-dawn. He had encircled the dwellers in that land with fire and brand. He trusted in his cavern, and in battle and his cliff-wall. But his hope deceived him. Then was the terror made known to Beowulf, quickly and soothly, namely that his very homestead, that best of houses, that throne of the Geats, was dissolving in the whelming fire. And full rueful was it to the good man, and the very greatest of sorrows. And the wise man was thinking that he had bitterly angered the Wielder of all things, the eternal God, in the matter of some ancient customs. [66] And within his breast gloomy brooding was welling, as was by no means his wont. The fiery dragon had destroyed by flame the stronghold of the people, both the sea-board and neighbouring land. And therefore the King of the Weder-Geats devised revenge upon him. Now Beowulf the Prince of earls and protector of warriors commanded them to fashion him a glorious war-shield all made of iron. For he well knew that a wooden shield would be unavailing against flames. For he, the age-long noble Atheling, must await the end of days that were fleeting of this world-life, he and the dragon together, though long he had held sway over the hoard of treasure. And the Prince of rings scorned to employ a troop against the wide-flying monster in the great warfare. Nor did he dread the striving, nor did he think much of this battle with the dragon, of his might and courage, for that formerly in close conflict had he escaped many a time from the crashings of battle since he, the victorious sword-man, cleansed the great hall in Hart, of Hrothgar his kinsman, and had grappled in the contest with the mother of Grendel, of the loathly kin. Nor was that the least hand-to-hand fight, when Hygelac was slain there in the Frisian land when the King of the Geats, the friendly lord of the folk, the son of Hrethel, died in the battle-rush beaten down by the sword, drunk with blood-drinking. Then fled Beowulf by his very own craft and swam through the seas. [67] And he had on his arm alone thirty battle-trappings when he went down to the sea. Nor did the Hetware need to be boasting, of that battle on foot, they who bore their linden shields against him. And few of them ever reached their homes safe from that wolf of the battle. But Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, swam o'er the expanse of waters, miserable and solitary, back to his people, where Hygd proffered him treasures and a kingdom, rings and dominion. She did not think that her son Heardred would know how to hold their native seats against strangers, now that Hygelac was dead. Nor could the wretched people prevail upon the Atheling (Beowulf) in any wise to show himself lord of Heardred or to be choosing the kingship. Nevertheless he gave friendly counsel to the folk with grace and honour until that he (Heardred) was older and held sway over the Weder-Geats. Then those exiles the sons of Ohthere sought him over the seas; they had rebelled against the Lord of the Swedes, the best of the sea-kings, that famous chieftain of those who bestowed rings in Sweden. And that was life's limit to him. For the son of Hygelac, famishing there, was allotted a deadly wound by the swing of a sword. And the son of Ongentheow went away thence to visit his homestead when Heardred lay dead, and left Beowulf to sit on the throne and to rule the Goths. And he was a good King. [68] XXXIV He was minded in after-days to be requiting the fall of the prince. He was a friend to the wretched Eadgils, and helped Eadgils the son of Ohthere with an army with warriors and with weapons, over the wide seas. And then he wrought vengeance with cold and painful journeyings and deprived the king (Onela) of life. [69] Thus the son of Ecgtheow had escaped all the malice and the hurtful contests and the courageous encounters, until the day on which he was to wage war with the dragon. And so it came to pass that the Lord of the Geats went forth with twelve others and inflamed with fury, to spy out the dragon. For he had heard tell of the malice and hatred he had shown to men, whence arose that feud. And by the hand of the informer, [70] famous treasure came into their possession; he was the thirteenth man in the troop who set on foot the beginning of the conflict. And the sorrowful captive must show the way thither. He against his will went to the earth-hall, for he alone knew the barrow under the ground near to the sea-surge, where it was seething, the cavern that was full of ornaments and filagree. And the uncanny guardian thereof, the panting war-wolf, held possession of the treasures, and an ancient was he under the earth. And it was no easy bargain to be gaining for any living man. So the battle-hardened King sat down on the cliff, and took leave of his hearth-comrades, he the gold-friend of the Geats. And his heart was sad, wavering, and ready for death, and Weird came very near to him who would be greeting the venerable warrior and be seeking his soul-treasure, to divide asunder his life from his body. And not long after that was the soul of the Atheling imprisoned in the flesh. Beowulf spake, the son of Ecgtheow: 'Many a war-rush I escaped from in my youth, in times of conflict. And well I call it all to mind. I was seven years old when the Lord of Treasures, the friendly lord of the folk, took me away from my father--and King Hrethel had me in thrall, and gave me treasure and feasted me and kept the peace. Nor was I a whit less dear a child to him than any of his own kin, Herebald and Hæthcyn or my own dear Hygelac. And for the eldest was a murder-bed most unhappily made up by the deeds of a kinsman, [71] when Hæthcyn his lordly friend brought him low with an arrow from out of his horn-bow, and missing the mark he shot through his brother with a bloody javelin. And that was a fight not to be atoned for by gifts of money; and a crime it was, and wearying to the soul in his breast. Nevertheless the Atheling must unavenged be losing his life. For so is it a sorrowful thing for a venerable man to see his son riding the gallows-tree when he singeth a dirge a sorrowful song, as his son hangeth, a joy to the ravens. And he, very old, may not give him any help. And every morning at the feasting he is reminded of his son's journey else-whither. And he careth not to await another heir within the cities, when he alone through the fatality of death hath found out the deeds. 'Heartbroken he looks on the bower of his son, on the wasted wine-hall, become the hiding-place for the winds and bereft of the revels. The riders are sleeping, the heroes in the tomb. Nor is any sound of harping, or games in the courts as erewhile there were. XXXV 'Then he goeth to the sleeping-place and chanteth a sorrow-song, the one for the other. And all too spacious seemed to him the fields and the dwelling-house. So the Prince of the Geats bore welling heart-sorrow after Herebald's death, nor a whit could he requite the feud on the murderer, nor visit his hate on that warrior with loathly deeds, though by no means was he dear to him. He then forsook the joys of life because of that sorrow-wound which befell him, and chose the light of God, and left to his sons land and towns when he departed this life as a rich man doth. Then was there strife and struggle between the Swedes and the Geats, and over the wide seas there was warfare between them, a hardy battle-striving when Hrethel met with his death. And the children of Ongentheow were brave and battle-fierce, and would not keep the peace on the high seas, but round about Hreosnaborg they often worked terrible and dire distress. And my kinsmen wrought vengeance for that feud and crime as all men know, though the other bought his life with a hard bargain. And war was threatening Hæthcyn the lord of the Geats. Then I heard tell that on the morrow one brother the other avenged on the slayer with the edge of the sword, whereas Ongentheow [72] seeketh out Eofor. The war-helmet was shattered, and the Ancient of the Swedes fell prone, all sword-pale. And well enough the hand kept in mind the feud and withheld not the deadly blow. And I yielded him back in the warfare the treasures he gave me with the flashing sword, as was granted to me. And he gave me land and a dwelling and a pleasant country. And he had no need to seek among the Gifthas or the Spear-Danes or in Sweden a worse war-wolf, or to buy one that was worthy. 'And I would always be before him in the troop, alone in the front of the battle, and so for ever will I be striving, whilst this sword endureth, that earlier and later has often stood me in good stead, since the days when for doughtiness I was a hand-slayer to Day Raven the champion of the Hugs. Nor was he fated to bring ornaments or breast-trappings to the Frisian King, but he the guardian of the standard, he the Atheling, fell on the battle-field, all too quickly. Nor was the sword-edge his bane, but the battle-grip broke the whelmings of his heart and the bones of his body. Now shall my sword-edge, my hand and hard weapon, be fighting for the hoard.' Beowulf moreover now for the last time spake these boastful words: 'In many a war I risked my life in the days of my youth, yet still will I seek a feud, I the old guardian of the people will work a glorious deed if the wicked scather cometh out from his earth-palace to seek me.' Then he saluted for the last time each of the warriors, the brave wearers of helmets, the dear companions. 'I would not carry a sword or weapon against the dragon if I knew how else I might maintain my boast against the monster, as I formerly did against Grendel. But in this conflict I expect the hot battle-fire, both breath and poison. Therefore I have both shield and byrny. I will not flee from the warder of the barrow a foot's-space, but it shall be with me at the wall of the barrow as Weird shall direct, who created all men. I am strong in soul so that I will refrain from boasting against the war-flier. Await ye on the barrow guarded by byrnies, O ye warriors in armour, and see which of us two will better survive his wounds after the battle-rush. This is no journey for you nor fitting for any man save only for me, that he should share a conflict with the monster and do deeds worthy of an earl. I will gain possession of the gold by my courage, or battle and deadly evil shall take away your lord.' Then the strong warrior, hard under helm, arose beside his shield and carried his shirt of mail under the rocky cliffs and trusted in the strength of himself alone. Nor was that a coward's journey. Then Beowulf, possessed of manly virtues, who had escaped in many a conflict and crashing of battle when men encountered on foot, saw standing by the wall of the barrow an arch of rock, and a stream broke out thence from the barrow, and the whelming of that river was hot with battle-fires. Nor could he survive any while near to the hoard unburnt because of the flame of the dragon. Then in a fury the Prince of the Weder-Geats let a torrent of words escape from his breast and the stout-hearted one stormed. And his war-clear voice resounded under the hoar cliffs. And hatred was stirred, for the guardian of the hoard recognized well the voice of Beowulf. And that was no time to be seeking friendship. And the breath of the monster, the hot battle-sweat, came forth from the rock at the first and the earth resounded. The warrior, the Lord of the Geats, raised his shield under the barrow against the terrible sprite. Now the heart of the dragon was stirred up to seek the conflict. The good war-king had formerly drawn his sword, the ancient heirloom, not slow of edge. And each of them who intended evil was a terror the one to the other. And the stern-minded one, he the Prince of friendly rulers, stood by his steep shield, and he and the dragon fell quickly together. Beowulf waited warily all in his war-gear. Then the flaming monster bent as he charged, hastening to his doom. The shield well protected life and body of the famous warrior for a lesser while than he had willed it if he was to be wielding victory in that contest on the first day; but Weird had not so fated it. And the Lord of the Geats uplifted his hand, and struck at the horribly bright one heavy with heirlooms, so that the edge stained with blood gave way on the bone and bit in less strongly than its master had need of when pressed by the business. Then after the battle-swing the guardian of the barrow was rough-minded and cast forth slaughter-fire. Battle-flames flashed far and wide. And the son of the Geats could not boast of victory in the conflict. The sword had failed him, naked in the battle, as was unfitting for so well tempered a steel. And it was not easy for the famous son of Ecgtheow to give up possession of the bottom of the sea, and that he should against his will dwell in some place far otherwhere, as must each man let go these fleeting days sooner or later. And not long after this Beowulf and the monster met together again. The guardian of the hoard took good heart, and smoke was fuming in his breast. And fierce were his sufferings as the flames embraced him, he who before had ruled over the folk. Nor at all in a troop did his hand-comrades stand round him, that warrior of Athelings, showing courage in the battle, but they fled into a wood their lives to be saving. And the mind of one of them was surging with sorrows, for to him whose thoughts are pure, friendship cannot ever change. XXXVI Wiglaf was he called, he who was the son of Weohstan, the beloved shield-warrior, the Prince of the Danes and the kinsman of Aelfhere. He saw his lord suffering burning pain under his visor. Then he called to mind the favour that he (Beowulf) had bestowed upon him in days of yore, the costly dwelling of the Waegmundings [73] and all the folk-rights which his father had possessed. Then he could not restrain himself, but gripped the shield with his hand, the yellow wood, and drew forth the old sword which was known among men as the heirloom of Eanmund, the son of Ohthere, and in the striving Weohstan was banesman by the edge of the sword to that friendless exile and bore away to his kinsman the brown-hued helmet, the ringed byrny, and the old giant's sword that Onela [74] had given him, the war-weeds of his comrade, and the well-wrought armour for fighting. Nor did he speak of the feud, though he slew his brother's son. And he held possession of the treasures many years, both the sword and the byrny, until such time as his son should hold the earlship as his father had done. And he gave to the Geats a countless number of each kind of war-weeds, when he in old age passed away from this life, on the outward journey. That was the first time for the young champion that he went into the war-rush with his noble lord. Nor did his mind melt within him, nor did the heirloom of his kinsman at the war-tide. And the dragon discovered it when they two came together. Wiglaf spake many fitting words, and said to his comrades (for his mind was sad within him): 'I remember the time when we partook of the mead, and promised our liege-lord in the beer-hall, he who gave to us rings, that we would yield to him war-trappings both helmets and a hand-sword, if such need befell him. And he chose us for this warfare, and for this journey, of his own free will, and reminded us of glory; and to me he gave these gifts when he counted us good spear-warriors and brave helmet-bearers, although our lord, this guardian of the people had it in his mind all alone to do this brave work for us, for he most of all men could do glorious things and desperate deeds of war. And now is the day come that our lord hath need of our prowess and of goodly warriors. Let us then go to the help of our battle-lord while it lasts, the grim terror of fire. God knows well of me that I would much rather that the flame should embrace my body together with that of my lord the giver of gold. Nor does it seem to me to be fitting that we should carry shields back to the homestead except we have first laid low the foe and protected the life of the Prince of the Weders. [75] And well I know that his old deserts were not that he alone of the youth of the Geats should suffer grief and sink in the fighting. So both sword and helmet, byrny and shield shall be common to both of us together.' Then he waded through the slaughter-reek, and bore the war-helmet to the help of his lord, and uttered a few words: 'Beloved Beowulf, do thou be doing all things, as thou of yore in the days of thy youth wast saying that thou wouldst not allow thy glory to be dimmed whilst thou wast living. Now shalt thou, the brave in deeds and the resolute noble, save thy life with all thy might. I am come to help thee.' After these words came the angry dragon, the terrible and hostile sprite yet once again, and decked in his various hues of whelmings of fire, against his enemies, the men that he hated. And the wood of the shield was burnt up with the waves of flame, and his byrny could not help the young spear-warrior; yet did the youth bravely advance under the shield of his kinsman when his own had been destroyed by the flames. Then again the war-king bethought him of glory, and struck a mighty blow with his battle-sword so that it fixed itself in his head, forced in by violence. And Naegling, Beowulf's sword old and grey, broke in pieces, and failed in the contest. It was not given to him that sharp edges of swords should help him in battle. His hand was too strong, so that it overtaxed every sword, as I have been told, by the force of its swing, whenever he carried into battle a wondrous hand-weapon. And he was nowise the better for a sword. Then for the third time, the scather of the people, the terrible Fire-dragon, was mindful of feuds, and he rushed on the brave man when he saw that he had room, all hot and battle-grim, and surrounded his neck with bitter bones. And he was all be-bloodied over with life-blood, and the sweat welled up in waves. XXXVII Then I heard tell that the Earl of the King of the People showed in his time of need unfailing courage in helping him with craft and keenness, as was fitting for him to do. He paid no heed to the head of the dragon (but the brave man's hand was being burnt when he helped his kinsman), but that warrior in arms struck at the hostile sprite somewhat lower in his body so that his shining and gold-plated sword sank into his body, and the fire proceeding therefrom began to abate. Then the good King Beowulf got possession of his wits again, and drew his bitter and battle-sharp short sword that he bore on his shield. And the King of the Geats cut asunder the dragon in the midst of his body. And the fiend fell prone; courage had driven out his life, and they two together had killed him, noble comrades in arms. And thus should a man who is a thane always be helping his lord at his need. And that was the very last victory achieved by that Prince during his life-work. Then the wound which the Earth-dragon had formerly dealt him began to burn and to swell. And he soon discovered that the baleful venom was seething in his breast, the internal poison. Then the young noble looked on the giant's work as he sat on a seat musing by the cliff wall, how arches of rock, firmly on columns held the eternal earth-house within. Then the most noble thane refreshed his blood-stained and famous Lord, his dear and friendly Prince with water, with his own hands, and loosened the helmet for the battle-sated warrior. And Beowulf spake, over his deathly pitiful wound, for well he knew that he had enjoyed the day's while of his earthly joy: and the number of his days was all departed and death was coming very near. 'Now,' said Beowulf, 'I would have given battle-weeds to my son if any heir had been given to me of my body. I held sway over these peoples fifty years. And there was no folk-king of those who sat round about who dared to greet me with swords, or oppress with terror. At home have I bided my appointed time, and well I held my own [76], nor did I seek out cunning feuds, nor did I swear many unrighteous oaths. And I, sick of my life-wounds, can have joy of all this. For the Wielder of men cannot reproach me with murder of kinsmen when my life shall pass forth from my body. Now do thou, beloved Wiglaf, go quickly and look on the hoard under the hoar stone, now that the dragon lieth prone and asleep sorely wounded and bereft of his treasure. And do thou make good speed that I may look upon the ancient gold treasures and yarely be feasting mine eyes upon the bright and cunning jewels, so that thereby after gazing on that wealth of treasure I may the more easily give up my life and my lordship over the people, whom I have ruled so long.' XXXVIII Then straightway I heard tell how the son of Weohstan, after these words had been spoken, obeyed the behest of his lord, who was sick of his wounds, and carried the ring-net and the coat of mail adorned, under the roof of the barrow. And as Wiglaf, exulting in victory, came by the seat, he saw many gems shining and shaped like the sun [77] and gleaming gold all lying on the ground, and wondrous decorations on the wall, and he saw too the den of the dragon, the ancient twilight-flier, and flagons standing there and vessels of men of days long gone by, no longer polished but shorn of adornment. And there also was many a helmet, ancient and rusty, and many arm-rings cunningly twisted. The possession of treasure and of gold on the earth may easily make proud all of mankind, let him hide it who will. Likewise he saw the all-gilded banner lying high over the hoard, that greatest of wondrous handiwork and all woven by the skill of human hands. And therefrom went forth a ray of light, so that he could see the floor of the cave, and look carefully at the jewels. And there was no sign of the dragon, for the sword-edge had carried him off. Then I heard tell how in that barrow one at his own doom [78] plundered the hoard, that old work of giants, and bore away on his arms both cups and dishes. And the banner also he took, that brightest of beacons. Beowulf's sword, with its iron edge, had formerly injured him who had been the protector of these treasures for a long time, and had waged fierce flame-terror, because of the hoard fiercely welling in the midnight hour until he was killed. The messenger [79] was in haste, and eager for the return journey, and laden with jewels, and curiosity tormented him as to whether he would find the bold-minded Prince of the Geats alive on the battle-field, and bereft of strength where before he had left him. Then he with the treasures found the glorious lord, his own dear master, at the last gasp, and all stained with blood. And he began to throw water upon him, until the power of speech brake through his mind, and Beowulf spake, and with sorrow he looked upon the hoard. 'I would utter words of thanks to the Lord and wondrous King, to the eternal God, for the treasures which now I am looking upon that I have managed to obtain them for my dear people before my death-day. Now that I have in exchange for this hoard of treasure sold my life in my old age, and laid it down, do thou still be helping the people in their need, for I may no longer be lingering here. Do thou bid the famous warriors erect a burial-mound, after the burning of the funeral pyre, at the edge of the sea, which shall tower aloft on Whale's Ness, as a memorial for my people, and so the sea-farers shall call it the Hill of Beowulf, even those who drive the high ships from afar through the mists of the flood.' Then he the bold Prince doffed from his neck the golden ring. And he gave it to his thane, to the young spear-warrior, the gold-adorned helmet, the ring, and the byrny, and bade him enjoy it well. 'Thou, O Wiglaf,' he said, 'art the last heir of our race, of that of the Waegmundings. Weird has swept away all my kinsmen to their fated doom, all the earls in their strength, and I shall follow after them.' Now that was the very last word of the old warrior's breast thoughts, ere he chose the funeral pyre the hot wave-whelmings. And his soul went forth from his breast to be seeking the doom of the truth-fast ones. XXXIX Then had it sorrowfully come to pass for the young warrior that he saw his most beloved in a miserable plight on the earth at his life's end. Likewise the terrible dragon, his slayer, lay there bereft of life and pressed sore by ruin. And the coiled dragon could no longer wield the hoard of rings, but the iron edges of the sword, well tempered and battle-gashed; the hammer's leavings [80], had carried him off, so that the wide-flier, stilled because of his wounds, fell to the earth near to the hoard-hall. And no more in playful wise at the midnight hour, did he drift through the air; this dragon, proud in his gainings of treasure, showed not his face, but was fallen to the earth because of the handiwork of the battle-warrior. And as I have heard, it would have profited but few of the mighty men, even though they were doughty in deeds of all kinds, though they should rush forth against the flaming breath of the poisonous scather, even to the very disturbing of the Ring-Hall with their hands, if they should have found the guardian thereof awake, and dwelling in the cliff-cave. Then Beowulf's share of lordly treasure was paid for by his death. And both he and the dragon had come to an end of their fleeting days. And not long after that, the laggards in battle, those cowardly treaty-breakers, ten of them together, came back from the woodlands, they who erewhile had dreaded the play of javelins when their lord had sore need of their help. But they were filled with shame, and carried their shields, and battle-weeds, to where the old prince was lying. And they looked on Wiglaf; he the foot-warrior sat aweary near to the shoulders of his lord, and sought to rouse him by sprinkling water upon him, but he succeeded not at all. Nor could he, though he wished it ever so much, keep life in the chieftain or avert a whit the will of the Wielder of all things. Every man's fate was decided by the act of God, as is still the case. Then was a grim answer easily given by the young man to these who erewhile had lost their courage. Wiglaf spake, he the son of Weohstan, the sad-hearted. 'He who will speak truth may say that the lord and master who gave you gifts, and warlike trappings, in which ye are now standing, when he very often gave on the ale-bench to them who sat in the hall, both helmet and byrny, the Prince to his thanes, as he could find any of you most noble far or near, that he wholly wrongly bestowed upon you war-trappings when war befell him. The King of the folk needed not indeed to boast of his army comrades, yet God, the Wielder of Victory, granted to him that alone he avenged himself with the edge of the sword when he had need of strength. And but a little life-protection could I give him in the battle, yet I sought to help him beyond my strength. The dragon was by so much the weaker when I struck with my sword that deadly foe. And less fiercely the fire surged forth from his head. Too few were the defenders thronged around their lord when his fated hour came. And now shall the receiving of treasure, and the gift of swords, and all joy of home and hope cease for ever to men of your kin. And every man of you of the tribe must wander empty of land-rights, since noble men will learn far and wide of your flight and inglorious deed. Death would be better for earls than a life of reproach.' XL Then he bade them announce that battle-work at the entrenchment up over the sea-cliff where that troop of earls sat sorrowful in soul through the morning-long day, holding their shields and in expectation of the end of the day and the return of the dear man. And he who rode to and fro o'er the headland was little sparing of fresh tidings, but said to all who were sitting there, 'Now is the joy-giver of the people of the Geats fast on his death-bed, and by the deed of the dragon he inhabits the place of rest gained by a violent death. And by his side lieth the enemy of his life, sick of his dagger-wounds. Nor could he inflict with the sword any wound on that monster. Wiglaf sits over Beowulf, he the son of Weohstan, the earl over the other one who is dead, and reverently keeps ward over the loathèd and the belovèd. But there is an expectation of a time of war to the people, since to Franks and Frisians the fall of the King has become widely known. The hard strife was shapen against the Hugs, when Hygelac came with a fleet into the Frisian lands [81] where the Hetware overcame him in battle, and by their great strength and courage brought it to pass that the shield-warrior should stoop. He fell in the troop. Nor did the Prince give jewelled armour to the doughty ones. The mercy of the Merewing [82] was not always shown to us. Nor do I expect aught of peace or good faith from the Swedish People. But it was well known that Ongentheow [83] bereft Hæthcyn the son of Hrethel [84] of life over against Ravenswood, when because of pride the warlike Swedes first sought out the people of the Geats. Soon Ongentheow the wise father of Ohthere, the ancient and terrible, gave him (Hæthcyn) a return blow, destroyed the sea-kings, and rescued his bride (Queen Elan) he the old man rescued his wife bereft of gold, the mother of Onela and of Ohthere, and then followed up the deadly foe until with difficulty they retreated all lord-less to Ravenswood. And he attacked the remnant [85] with a great army, weary though he was with his wounds. And the live-long night he vowed woe upon the wretched troop, and said that on the morrow he would by the edge of the sword slay some and hang them up on the gallows-tree for a sport of the birds. But help came to the sorrowful in soul at the dawn of day, when they heard the horn of Hygelac and the blast of his trumpet when the good man came on the track faring with the doughty warriors of the people. XLI 'And the blood-track of both Swedes and Geats, the slaughter-rush of warriors, was widely seen how the folk stirred up the feud amongst them. The good man, wise and very sad, went away with his comrades to seek out a stronghold. Earl Ongentheow turned away to higher ground, for he the war-crafty one had heard of the prowess of Hygelac the proud. He had no trust in his power to resist, or that he would be able to refuse the demands of the seamen, the ocean-farers, or defend the treasure he had taken, the children and the bride. [86] Thence afterwards, being old, he sought refuge under the earth-wall. Then was chase given to the people of the Swedes and the banner of Hygelac borne aloft; and they swept o'er the field of peace when the sons of Hrethel thronged to the entrenchment. And there too, was Ongentheow, he the grey-haired King of the People driven to bay at the edge of the sword, and forced to submit to the sole doom of Eofor. And angrily did Wulf, son of Wanred, smite him with weapon, so that from that swinging blow blood-sweat gushed forth in streams under the hair of his head. Yet the old Swede was not terrified thereby, but quickly gave back a terrible blow by a worse exchange when the King of the people turned thither. Nor could Wulf the bold son of Wanred give back a blow to the old churl, for Ongentheow had formerly cut his helmet in two, so that he, stained with blood, fell prone perforce to the ground. But not yet was he doomed, but he raised himself up, though the wound touched him close. And the hardy thane of Hygelac (Eofor) when his brother lay prostrate, caused the broad sword, the old giant's sword, to crash through the wall of shields upon the gigantic helmet. Then stooped the King, the shepherd of the people, mortally wounded. And there were many who bound up his kinsman and quickly upraised him when room had been made so that they might possess the battle-field, while one warrior was plundering another. One took the iron shield of Ongentheow, and his hard-hilted sword, and his helmet, and carried the trappings of the old man to Hygelac. And he received the treasures, and fairly he promised reward for the people, and he did as he promised. The lord of the Geats (Hygelac) son of Hrethel, rewarded with very costly gifts the battle onset of Eofor and Wulf when he got back to his palace, and bestowed upon each of them a hundred thousand, of land and locked rings. Nor could any man in the world reproach him for that reward, since they had gained glory by fighting; and he gave to Eofor his only daughter, she who graced his homestead, to wed as a favour. And this is the feud and the enmity and hostile strife of men, which I expect the Swedish people will seek to awaken against us when they shall hear we have lost our Prince, he who in days of yore held treasure and kingdom against our foes after the fall of heroes, and held in check the fierce Swede, and did what was good for the people and deeds worthy of an earl. Now is it best for us to hasten to look upon our King and bring him who gave to us rings to the funeral pyre. Nor shall a part only of the treasure be melted with the proud man, but there is a hoard of wealth, an immense mass of gold, bought at a grim cost, for now at the very end of his life he bought for us rings. And the brands shall devour all the treasures and the flames of the funeral fire, they shall enfold them, nor shall an earl carry away any treasure as a memorial, nor shall any maid all beauteous wear on her neck ring adornments, but shall go sad of soul and bereft of gold, and often not once only tread an alien land now that the battle-wise man (Beowulf) has laid aside laughter, the games and the joys of song. And many a morning cold shall the spear in the hand-grip be heaved up on high, nor shall there be the sound of harping to awaken the warriors, but the war-raven, eager over the doomed ones, shall say many things to the eagle how it fared with him in eating the carrion while he, with the wolf, plundered the slaughtered.' Thus then was the brave warrior reciting loathly spells. And he lied not at all in weird or word. Then the troop rose up together, and all unblithely went under Eagles' Ness, to look on the wonder, and tears were welling. Then they found him on the sand in his last resting-place, and bereft of soul, who had given them rings in days gone by, and then had the last day drawn to its close, for the good man Beowulf, the warrior King, the Lord of the Weder-Goths, had died a wondrous death. But before this they had seen a more marvellous sight, the dragon on the sea-plain, the loathsome one lying right opposite. And there was the fire-dragon grimly terrible, and scorched with fire. And he was fifty feet in length as he lay there stretched out. He had had joy in the air awhile by night, but afterwards he went down to visit his den. But now he was the prisoner of death, and had enjoyed his last of earth-cares. And by him stood drinking-cups and flagons, and dishes were lying there and a costly sword, all rusty and eaten through as though they had rested a thousand winters in the bosom of the earth. And those heirlooms were fashioned so strongly, the gold of former races of men, and all wound round with spells, so that no man could come near that Ring-hall, unless God only, Himself the true King of victories, gave power to open up the hoard to whom He would (for He is the Protector of men) even to that man as it seemed good to Him. XLII Then was it quite clear to them that the affair had not prospered with the monster, who had hidden ornaments within the cave under the cliff. The guardian thereof had slain some few in former days. Then had the feud been wrathfully avenged. And it is a mystery anywhere when a valiant earl reaches the end of his destiny, when a man may no longer with his kinsman dwell in the mead-hall. And thus was it with Beowulf when he sought out the guardian of the cavern and his cunning crafts. And he himself knew not how his departure from this world would come about. And thus famous chieftains uttered deep curses until the day of doom, because they had allowed it to come to pass that the monster should be guilty of such crimes, and, accursed and fast with hell-bands, as he was, and tormented with plagues that he should plunder the plain. He (Beowulf) was not greedy of gold, and had more readily in former days seen the favour of God. Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan: 'Often shall many an earl of his own only will suffer misery, as is our fate. Nor could we teach the dear lord and shepherd of the kingdom any wisdom so that he would fail to be meeting the keeper of the gold treasures (the dragon) or to let him stay where he had been long time dwelling in his cavern until the world's end. But he held to his high destiny. Now the hoard is seen by us, grimly got hold of, and at too great a cost was it yielded to the King of the people whom he enticed to that conflict. I was within the cavern, and looked upon all the hoard, the decoration of the palace, when by no means pleasantly, room was made for me, and a faring was granted to me in under the sea-cliff. And in much haste I took a very great burden of hoard-treasures in my hand, and bore it forth hither to my King. He was still alive, wise and witting well. And he the ancient uttered many words in sadness, and bade me greet you, and commanded that ye should build after death of your friend a high grave-mound in the place of the funeral pyre, a great and famous monument, for he himself was the most worshipful of men throughout the earth, while he was enjoying the wealth of his city. Let us now go and see and seek yet once again the heap of treasures, the wonder under the cliff. I will direct you, so that ye may look at close quarters upon the rings and the wealth of gold. Let the bier be quickly made ready when we come forth again, and then let us carry the dear man our lord when he shall enjoy the protection of the Ruler of all things.' Then the son of Weohstan, the battle-dear warrior, ordered that commandment should be given to many a hero and householder that they should bring the wood for the funeral pyre from far, they the folk-leaders, to where the good man lay dead. 'Now the war-flame shall wax and the fire shall eat up the strong chief among warriors, him who often endured the iron shower, when the storm of arrows, strongly impelled, shot over the shield-wall, and the shaft did good service, and all eager with its feather, fear followed and aided the barb.' Then the proud son of Weohstan summoned from the troop the thanes of the King, seven of them together, and the very best of them, and he the eighth went under the hostile roof. And one of the warriors carried in his hand a torch which went on in front. And no wise was it allotted who should plunder that hoard, since they saw some part unguarded remaining in the Hall, and lying there fleeting. And little did any man mourn when full heartily they carried forth the costly treasures. Then they shoved the dragon the worm over the cliff-wall, and let the wave take him and the flood embrace that guardian of the treasures. Then the twisted golden ornaments were loaded on a wagon, an immense number of them. And the noble Atheling, the hoar battle-warrior, was carried to Whales' Ness. XLIII Then the People of the Geats got ready the mighty funeral pyre, and hung it round with helmets and battle-shields, and bright byrnies as he had asked. And in the midst they lay the famous Prince, and they lamented the Hero, their dear lord. Then the warriors began to stir up the greatest of bale-fires on the cliff-side. And the reek of the wood-smoke went up swart, over the flame, which was resounding, and its roar mingled with weeping (and the tumult of winds was still), until it had broken the body, all hot into the heart. And unhappy in their thinkings, and with minds full of care, they proclaim the death of their lord, likewise a sorrowful song the Bride.... [87] And heaven swallowed up the smoke. Then on the cliff-slopes the people of the Geats erected a mound, very high and very broad, that it might be beholden from afar by the wave-farers; and they set up the beacon of the mighty in battle in ten days. And the leavings of the funeral fire they surrounded with a wall, so that very proud men might find it to be most worthy of reverence. And they did on the barrow rings and necklaces, and all such adornments as formerly warlike men had taken of the hoard. And they allowed the earth to hold the treasure of earls, the gold on the ground, where it still is to be found as useless to men as it always was. [88] Then the battle-dear men rode round about the mound, the children of the Athelings, twelve of them there were in all, and would be uttering their sorrows and lamenting their King, and reciting a dirge, and speaking of their champion. And they talked of his earlship and of his brave works, and deemed them doughty, as is fitting that a man should praise his lord in words and cherish him in his heart when he shall have gone forth from the fleeting body. So the People of the Geats lamented over the fall of their lord, his hearth-companions, and said that he was a world-king, and the mildest, the gentlest of men, and most tender to his people, and most eager for their praise. APPENDICES I GENERAL NOTE ON THE POEM This is the greatest poem that has come down to us from our Teutonic ancestors. Our only knowledge of it is through the unique MS. in the British Museum. It has already been translated at least eight times as follows: 1. Kemble, 1837. 2. Thorpe and Arnold (with the O.E. Poem accompanying it). 3. Lumsden, 1881 (in ballad form). 4. Garnett, 1883. 5. Earle, 1892. 6. William Morris and A. J. Wyatt, 1895. This is in poetic form, but abounds in archaisms and difficult inversions, and is sometimes not easy to read or indeed to understand. 7. Wentworth Huyshe, 1907. 8. A translation in 1912. Author unknown. Many of the persons and events of Beowulf are also known to us through various Scandinavian and French works as follows: SCANDINAVIAN RECORDS. 1. Saxo's Danish History. 2. Hrólf's Saga Kraka. 3. Ynglinga Saga (and Ynglinga tál). 4. Skiöldunga Saga. As instances of identical persons and events: 1. Skiöldr, ancestor of Skiöldungar, corresponds to Scyld the ancestor of Scyldungas. 2. The Danish King Halfdan corresponds to Healfdene. 3. His sons Hroarr and Helgi correspond to Hrothgar and Halga. 4. Hrölf Kraki corresponds to Hrothwulf, nephew of Hrothgar. 5. Frothi corresponds to Froda, and his son Ingialdi to Ingeld. 6. Otarr corresponds to Ohthere, and his son Athils to Eadgils. With the exception of the Ynglinga tál all these records are quite late, hence they do not afford any evidence for the dates of events mentioned in Beowulf. Further Scandinavian correspondences are seen in Böthvarr Biarki, the chief of Hrölf Kraki's knights. He is supposed to correspond to Beowulf. He came to Leire, the Danish royal residence, and killed a demon in animal form. Saxo says it was a bear. This demon attacked the King's yard at Yule-tide, but Biarki and Beowulf differ as to their future, for Biarki stayed with Hrölf Kraki to the end and died with him. In the Grettis Saga the hero kills two demons, male and female. It is true that the scene is laid in Iceland, but minor details of scenery, the character of the demons, and other similarities make it impossible to believe the two stories to be different in origin. They both sprang out of a folk-tale associated after ten centuries with Grettis, and in England and Denmark with an historical prince of the Geats. FRENCH RECORDS 1. Historia Francorum and Gesta Regum Francorum (discovered by Outzen and Leo). In A.D. 520 a raid was made on the territory of the Chatuarii. Their king Theodberht, son of Theodric I, defeated Chocilaicus, who was killed. This Chocilaicus is identified with the Hygelac of our poem, and the raid with Hygelac's raid on the Hetware (= Chatuarii), the Franks, and the Frisians. This helps us to estimate the date for Beowulf as having been born somewhere about the end of the fifth century. 2. Historia Francorum, by Gregory of Tours. The author speaks of the raider as the King of the Danes. 3. Liber Monstrorum. In this work the raider is Rex Getarum, King of the Geats, who may correspond with the Geats of our poem. The Geats were the people of Gautland in Southern Sweden. See Appendix XI. ORIGIN OF THE ANGLO-SAXON POEM It was probably written in Northumbrian or Midland, but was preserved in a West Saxon translation. There would seem to be some justifiable doubt as to the unity of the poem. Though on the whole pagan and primitive in tone, it has a considerable admixture of Christian elements, e.g. on pp. 29 and 30 and pp. 109-112, though the latter passage may be a late interpolation. Generally speaking, the poetry and sentiments are Christian in tone, but the customs are pagan. The author of the article in The Cambridge History of English Literature, vol. i., to whom I owe much, says: 'I cannot believe that any Christian poet could have composed the account of Beowulf's funeral.' One passage is very reminiscent of Eph. vi. 16, viz. Chapter XXV. p. 111; whilst page 25 (lower half) may be compared with Cædmon's Hymn. There are also references to Cain and Abel and to the Deluge. Of Chapters I.-XXXI. the percentage of Christian elements is four, whilst of the remaining Chapters (XXXII. ad fin.) the percentage is ten, due chiefly to four long passages. Note especially that the words in Chapter II., 'And sometimes they went vowing at their heathen shrines and offered sacrifices,' et seq., are quite inconsistent with the Christian sentiment attributed to Hrothgar later in the poem. 'It is generally thought,' says the writer in The Cambridge History of English Literature, 'that several originally separate lays have been combined into one poem, and, while there is no proof of this, it is quite possible and not unlikely.' There are in the poem four distinct lays: 1. Beowulf's Fight with Grendel. 2. Beowulf's Fight with Grendel's mother. 3. Beowulf's Return to the land of the Geats. 4. Beowulf's Fight with the Dragon. Competent critics say that probably 1 and 2 ought to be taken together, while Beowulf's reception by Hygelac (see 3 above) is probably a separate lay. Some scholars have gone much further in the work of disintegration, even attributing one half of the poem to interpolators, whilst others suggest two parallel versions. Summing up, the writer in The Cambridge History of English Literature says: 'I am disposed to think that a large portion of the poem existed in epic form before the change of faith, and that the appearance of Christian elements in the poem is due to revision. The Christianity of Beowulf is of a singularly indefinite and individual type, which contrasts somewhat strongly with what is found in later Old English poetry. This revision must have been made at a very early date.' The poem was built up between A.D. 512, the date of the famous raid of Hygelac (Chocilaicus) against the Hetware (Chatuarii), and 752, when the French Merovingian dynasty fell; for, says Arnold, 'The poem contains not a word which by any human ingenuity could be tortured into a reference to any event subsequent to the fall of the Merovingians' (A.D. 752). II THE PRELUDE The Prelude would seem to be an attempt to link up the hero of the poem with the mythological progenitors of the Teutonic nations. Thomas Arnold says: 'That Sceaf, Scyld, and Beaw were among the legendary ancestors of the West Saxon line of kings no one disputes. But this does not mean much, for the poem itself shows that the same three were also among the legendary ancestors of the Danish kings.' Ethelward, who wrote early in the tenth century, gives the ancestry of Ethelwulf, the father of Alfred. Ethelward says: 'The seventeenth ancestor from Cerdic was Beo, the eighteenth Scyld, the nineteenth Scef.' Ethelward also says: 'Scef himself, with one light vessel, arrived in the island of the ocean which is called Scani, dressed in armour, and he was a very young boy, and the inhabitants of that land knew nothing about him; however, he was received by them, and kept with care and affection as though he were of their own kin, and afterwards they chose him to be king, from whose stock the King Athulf [Ethelwulf] derives his line.' It may be noted that neither Scyld nor Scef is mentioned in the A.S. Chronicle (A.D. 855). William of Malmesbury, in his Gesta Regum, says that Scef was so called from the sheaf of wheat that lay at his head, that he was asleep when he arrived, and that when he grew up he became a king in the town then called Slaswic, now Haithebi (Rolls Ed., 1. 121). Müllenhoff says: 'If we look closely into the saga, the ship and the sheaf clearly point to navigation and agriculture, the arms and jewels to kingly rule--all four gifts, therefore, to the main elements and foundations of the oldest state of culture among the Germans [Teutons?] of the sea-board; and if the bearer of these symbols became the first king of the country, the meaning can only be this, that from his appearance the beginning of the oldest state of culture dates, and that generally before him no orderly way of leading a human life had existed.' Scyld (meaning Shield) refers to the fact that the king was the protector of the people in war, and is therefore symbolical, like Scef. The ship and the sheaf, the arms and the jewels and the shield--these are the symbols of that primitive civilization--the sheaf, the symbol of agriculture and food, the ship of commerce, the arms of warfare, the jewels of reward of bravery, and the shield of the protection of the people by the king. Arnold mentions the fact that no writer not English mentions the saga of Scef and Scyld, and suggests that this is presumption for the English origin of the legend. I do not, however, think it is conclusive evidence. One is surprised that they are not mentioned in Icelandic literature. Yet somehow the impression on my mind is that these legends were probably brought by our Saxon and Danish ancestors from the Continent, and are taken for granted as well known to the hearers of the song. I think they probably formed part of the legendary genealogy of our common Germanic (Teutonic) ancestors, and happened to find their way into literature only among the English, or have survived only in the English. III 'BROSINGA MENE' 'Brosinga Mene,' p. 82, is the 'Brisinga-mén' mentioned in the Edda, an Icelandic poem. 'This necklace is the Brisinga-mén--the costly necklace of Freja, which she won from the Dwarfs, and which was stolen from her by Loki, as is told in the Edda' (Kemble). Loki was a Scandinavian demi-god. He was beautiful and cunning. He was the principle of strife, the spirit of evil; cp. Job's Satan. Freya was the Scandinavian Goddess of Love. She claimed half of the slain in battle. She was the dispenser of joy and happiness. The German frau is derived from Freya. Hama carried off this necklace when he fled from Eormanric. The origin of this legend, though worked up in the Edda, seems to have been German or Gothic, and 'Brosinga' has reference to the rock-plateau of Breisgau on the Rhine. It is probably a relic of the lost saga of Eormanric (see Appendix IV.), the famous Ostrogothic king referred to in Chapter XVIII. Eormanric is one of the few historical personages of the poem. IV EORMANRIC Gibbon mentions Eormanric in his chapter XXV. of the Decline and Fall, and, in spite of chronological discrepancies, this Eormanric is probably identical with the one mentioned in Beowulf (Chapter XVIII.), in Jornandes (Chapter XXIV.), and in the Edda. In Jornandes the story is as follows. Characters 1. Ermanaric. 2. A Chief of the Roxolani tribe who was a traitor. 3. Sanielh (= Swanhild) wife of the chief. 4. Sarus, } 5. Ammius, } brothers of Sanielh. Ermanaric puts Sanielh to death by causing her to be torn to pieces by wild horses, because of the treachery of her husband, the chief of the Roxolani. Her brothers, Ammius and Sarus, avenge her death by attacking Ermanaric, but they only succeed in wounding him and disabling him for the rest of his life. In the Edda the story is as follows. Characters 1. Gudrun, widow of Sigurd and Atli. 2. Swanhild, daughter of Gudrun by Sigurd. 3. Jonakur, Gudrun's third husband. 4. Sörli, } 5. Hamthir, } sons of Gudrun and Jonakur. 6. Erp, } 7. Jormunrek (Eormanric). 8. Randver, son of Jormunrek. Jormunrek hears of the beauty of Swanhild and sends his son Randver to seek her out for him in marriage. Gudrun consents; on the way Randver is incited by the traitor Bicci to betray Swanhild, and is then accused by him to the king. For this treachery Jormunrek hangs Randver and causes Swanhild to be trampled to death by wild horses. Then the three sons of Gudrun set out to avenge their sister. On the way his two brothers kill Erp, and are consequently unable to kill Jormunrek. They only succeed in maiming him. Saxo Grammaticus, to whom we also owe the story of Hamlet, tells a similar story. Characters 1. Jarmeric, a Danish King. 2. Swawilda (= Swanhild), wife of Jarmeric. 3. Hellespontine brothers, brothers of Swawilda. 4. Bicco, a servant of Jarmeric. Bicco accuses Swawilda to Jarmeric of unfaithfulness. He causes her to be torn to pieces by wild horses. Then her brothers kill Jarmeric with the help of a witch, Gudrun, hewing off his hands and feet. These three stories are evidently based on one common original. V MARRIAGE OF FREAWARU AND INGELD Characters 1. Freawaru, daughter of Hrothgar the Dane. 2. Ingeld, son of Froda, King of the Heathobards. 3. Froda, King of the Heathobards. 4. A Heathobard warrior. 5. Son of the Danish warrior who had killed Froda. The Heathobards were a people in Zealand. There had been an ancient feud between the Danes and the Heathobards in which Froda had been killed by a Danish warrior. Hrothgar hoped to appease the feud by the marriage of his daughter Freawaru to Ingeld. Unluckily, the son of the Danish warrior who had killed Froda accompanied Freawaru to Ingeld's Court. Then an old Heathobard warrior notices this and stirs up strife. The marriage fails in its object, and war breaks out again between the Danes and the Heathobards. Beowulf predicts the course of events in his speech to Hygelac (Chapters XXVIII. and XXIX.). VI FINN The Finn episode (Chapters XVI. and XVII.) is one of those events in Beowulf that would be quite well known to the first hearers of the song, but to us is lacking in that clearness we might desire. Fortunately, Dr. Hickes discovered a fragment entitled, 'The Fight at Finnsburgh,' on the back of a MS. of the Homilies. From Beowulf and from this fragment we are able to piece together an intelligible story. It is probably as follows: Characters 1. Finn, King of the North Frisians and Jutes. 2. Hoc, a Danish chieftain. 3. Hildeburh, daughter of Hoc. 4. Hnaef, son of Hoc. 5. Hengest, son of Hoc. 6. Two sons of Finn and Hildeburh. 7. Hunlafing, a Finnish warrior. 8. Guthlaf and Oslaf, two Danish warriors. Finn abducts Hildeburh, the daughter of Hoc, the Dane. Hoc pursues the two fugitives and is killed in the mêlée. Twenty years pass by--Hnaef and Hengest, sons of Hoc, take up the 'vendetta.' In the fighting Hnaef and a son of Finn and Hildeburh are slain. A peace is patched up. Hengest, son of Hoc, is persuaded to remain as a guest of Finn for the winter, and it is agreed that no reference shall be made by either side to the feud between them. Then the bodies of Hnaef, Hildeburh's brother, and of her son are burnt together on the funeral pyre, 'and great is the mourning of Hildeburh for her son.' But Hengest is ever brooding vengeance. The strife breaks out anew in the spring. Hengest is killed, but two of his warriors, Guthlaf and Oslaf, break through the enemy, return to Finn's country, and slay him and carry off Hildeburh. 'The Fight at Finnsburgh,' which is Homeric in style, is the account of the first invasion of Finn by Hnaef and Hengest, and Wyatt fits it in before the Finn episode on p. 75. Möller places it after the phrase, 'whose edge was well known to the Jutes,' on p. 79. VII HYGELAC Hygelac, son of Hrethel, was king of the Geats, and uncle of Beowulf, his sister's son. He was the reigning king of Beowulf's fellow countrymen the Geats during the greater part of the action of the poem. Beowulf is often called 'Hygelac's kinsman,' and when he went forth to his battle with Grendel's mother (Chapter XXII.), he bade Hrothgar in case of his death send the treasures he had given to him to Hygelac. Hygelac married Hygd, who is presented to us as a good Queen, the daughter of Hæreth. She was 'very young,' 'of noble character,' and 'wise.' She is compared, to her advantage, with Thrytho, who was a shrewish woman. No one dared to look upon her except her husband. However, her second husband, Offa, seems to have 'tamed the shrew' (see p. 120). Hygelac has been identified with Chocilaicus, who was killed in the famous raid on the Chatuarii referred to in the Historia Francorum and the Gesta Regum, who are identified with the Hetware of this poem (see p. 143 and Appendix I.). The famous raid of Hygelac upon the Hetware in which he met his death is referred to five times in the poem, as follows: Chapters XVIII., p. 83; XXXI., p. 134; XXXIII., p. 142; XXXV., p. 151; XL., p. 172. On the death of Hygelac his son Heardred succeeded to the throne (Chapter XXXI., p. 134); and, after a brief interval, he was killed in battle by Onela (see Appendix IX.). Then Beowulf succeeded to the throne of the Geats (Chapter XXXI., p. 134). Hygelac died between a.d. 512 and 520. Beowulf died about 568. He reigned fifty years. VIII H�THCYN AND HEREBALD It would seem doubtful as to whether this was deliberate or accidental. The poet says 'Hæthcyn missed the mark' with his javelin and killed his brother Herebald; but subsequently he speaks as though it had been deliberate murder. IX WARS BETWEEN THE SWEDES AND THE GEATS Characters 1. Swedes 1. Ongentheow, King of the Swedes. 2. Onthere, } 3. Onela, } his two sons. 4. Eadgils, } 5. Eanmund, } two sons of Ohthere. 2. Geats, &c. 6. Hæthcyn, King of Geats. 7. Hygelac, King of Geats. 8. Heardred, King of Geats. 9. Beowulf, King of Geats. 10. Eofor, } 11. Wulf, } two Geat warriors. Ongentheow was a King of the Swedes. The Swedes are also called Scylfings in the poem. The origin of the word 'Scylfing' is doubtful. Ongentheow went to war with Hæthcyn, King of the Geats and brother of Hygelac; and Ongentheow, who was well advanced in years, struck down his foe (Chapter XL., p. 173) at the battle of Ravenswood. This was the first time that the Swedes invaded the Geats. The Geats retreated into the Ravenswood at nightfall, but with the dawn they heard the horn of Hygelac 'as the good prince came marching on the track.' Ongentheow now was alarmed, for Hygelac's prowess in battle was far-famed. He withdrew into some fortification, and was attacked by the Geats. Two brothers, Eofor and Wulf, assailed the veteran warrior. He defended himself with great vigour and killed Wulf; but Eofor came to the help of his brother and dealt Ongentheow his death-blow over the guard of his shield. Ongentheow's two sons were Onela and Ohthere. Ohthere had two sons, Eanmund and Eadgils. These two sons of Ohthere were banished from Sweden for rebellion, and took refuge at the Court of the Geat King Heardred. This greatly enraged their uncle Onela, that they should resort to the Court of their hereditary foes (see above). Onela invaded the land of the Geats (Chapters XXXIII. and XXXIV., pp. 144 sq.) and slew Heardred. Then it was that Beowulf became King of the Geats. Thus two Geatish kings had been slain by the Swedes, viz. Hæthcyn and Heardred. In revenge, later on, Beowulf supported Eadgils in his counter-attack on his own fatherland when Eadgils killed his uncle Onela. This story is confirmed by the Scandinavian accounts in which Athils (= Eadgils) slew Ali (= Onela) on the ice of Lake Wener; cp. the phrase 'cold journeyings' (Chapter XXXIV., p. 145). This is Wyatt's version of the story. X SIGMUND Sigmund (page 65) is the father and uncle of Fitela. He is stated in Beowulf to have killed a serpent who kept guard over a hoard of treasure. In the Icelandic saga known as the Völsunga Saga, Sigmund is represented as the father of Sigurd, and 'it is Sigurd who rifles the treasure of the Niblungs and kills the serpent (Fafnir), its guardian' (Arnold, p. 69), and he carries it away on the back of his horse Grani. Sigmund is represented as the son of a Völsung; that is, as Beowulf has it, 'the heir of Waels.' Waels was afterwards forgotten, however, and Waelsing was regarded as a proper name instead of a patronymic denoting descent from Waels. In a similar way, as Arnold points out, Sigmund is pushed into the background to make room for his son Sigurd (Siegfried). 'And so in the German Nibelungen Lay it is Sigurd (Siegfried) who wins the hoard, but does so by defeating and killing its former possessors Schilbung and Nibelung' (Arnold, p. 70). Attempts have been made to claim a German origin for this saga, but in face of the evidence of Beowulf and the Völsunga Saga and the Edda there is, I think with Arnold, little doubt but that its origin was Scandinavian. Possibly and probably we owe the later elaboration of the saga in the Nibelungen Lay to German influence. For discussion of the whole question see Arnold's Notes on Beowulf, pp. 67-75, Edit. 1898, cap. v. XI TRIBES MENTIONED IN THE POEM 1. Brondings. Breca was a Bronding. After his famous swimming-match with Beowulf (Chapter VIII.), he is said to have sought out his 'pleasant fatherland the land of the Brondings.' Arnold suggests that they were located in Mecklenburg or Pomerania. 2. Danes, also called Bright-Danes, Ring-Danes, Spear-Danes, because of their warlike character; and North Danes, South Danes, &c., because of their wide distribution. They are said to have inhabited the Scede lands and Scedenig and 'between the seas'; that is, they were spread over the Danish Islands, the southern province of Sweden, and the seas between them. 3. Jutes (Eotenas), probably people ruled over by Finn, King of Friesland, and identical with the Frisians. 4. Franks and Frisians. The Franks were ancestors of the modern French. After the conversion of Clovis (A.D. 496), they gradually encroached on the Frisians. 5. Frisians include the Frisians, the Franks, the Hetware, and the Hugs. Friesland was the country between the River Ems and the Zuyder Zee. 6. Geats. They dwelt in the south of Sweden between the Danes and the Swedes. Bugge sought to identify them with the Jutes, and held that Gautland was Juteland. He based this theory on certain phrases: e.g. Chapter XXXIII., where the Swedes (the sons of Ohthere) are said to have visited the Geats 'across the sea,' and again in Chapter XXXV. the Swedes and the Geats are said to have fought 'over wide water'; but, as Arnold points out, these phrases can be interpreted in such a way as not to be incompatible with the theory that they dwelt on the same side of the Cattegat, i.e. on the northern side, and in the extreme south of Sweden. The question as to whether they are identical with the Goths of Roman history is still an open one. Arnold says, 'There is a great weight of evidence tending to identify the Geats with the Goths,' and he quotes evidence from Gibbon (chapter X.). Pytheas of Marseilles, in the fourth century, says that, passing through the Baltic Sea, he met with tribes of Goths, Teutons, and Ests. Tacitus, in chapter XLIII. of Germania, speaks of the Goths as dwelling near the Swedes. Jornandes traces the Goths to Scanzia, an island in the Northern Sea. It is probable, then, that the Goths had a northern and indeed a Scandinavian origin. If so, Beowulf the Geat was probably a Goth. 7. Healfdenes. The tribe to which Hnaef belonged. 8. Heathoremes. The people on whose shores Beowulf was cast up after his swimming-match with Breca. 9. Ingwine. Friends of Ing--another name for the Danes. 10. Scyldingas. Another name for the Danes, as descended from Scyld. 11. Scylfingas. Name for the Swedes. 12. Waegmundings. The tribe to which both Beowulf and Wiglaf belonged. 13. Wylfings. Probably a Gothic tribe. XII Page 135 The text here is much mutilated, and can only be restored by ingenious conjecture. Grein and Bugge and others have reconstructed it. On the whole Bugge's text, which I have followed, seems to me the most reasonable. It is unfortunate that the text should be so imperfect just at this critical point in the linking up of the two great divisions of the story. In the ancient days some remote predecessors of the Geats seem to have heaped up in the neighbourhood a pile of wonderful vessels jewel-bedecked, and treasures of all kinds, of inconceivable value. Then the last of the race carries the treasure to a barrow or cavern in the cliffs near the site, in after-generations, of Beowulf's palace, and delivers a pathetic farewell address (pp. 136 et seq.). The dragon finds the cavern and the treasure and appropriates it for three hundred years. Then one of Beowulf's retainers finds the treasure and takes a golden goblet while the dragon is sleeping, and offers it to his lord as a peace-offering. This brought about Beowulf's feud with the dragon in which he met his death. BOOKS CONSULTED Beowulf, edited with textual footnotes, &c., by A. J. Wyatt, M.A. (Cantab. and London). Pitt Press, Cambridge, 1898. The Tale of Beowulf, sometime King of the Folk of the Weder-Geats. Translated by William Morris, A. J. Wyatt. 1898. Longmans. Zupitza's Transliteration of Beowulf. A photographic reproduction of the manuscript. Early English Text Society. Encyclopaedia Britannica. Chambers's Encyclopaedia. Beowulf, Notes on, by Thomas Arnold, M.A., 1898. Longmans, Green & Co. This contains a good map of the scenes alluded to in the poem. History of Early English Literature, by the Rev. Stopford Brooke. Epic and Romance, W. P. Ker. Ten Brink's English Literature. NOTES [1] See Arnold, p. 115. [2] See conclusion of Tess of the D'Urbervilles. [3] See Appendix II. [4] Not the hero of the poem. [5] Cp. with this the 'Passing of Arthur,' as related by Tennyson. The meaning is clear. Cp. also Appendix. [6] Not the hero of this poem. [7] The gables were decorated with horns of stags and other beasts of the chase. [8] See Appendix V., and chapters XXVIII, and XXIX. [9] Wyatt's translation of 'Ne his myne wisse.' [10] i.e. Beowulf. [11] Geats. The tribe to which Beowulf belonged. They inhabited southern Sweden between the Danes on the south and the Swedes on the north. See Appendix XI. [12] Literally, 'Then was the sea traversed at the end of the ocean.' [13] Frequent references are made to the device of the boar on shield and helmet; cp. p. 77, in description of Hnaef's funeral pyre. [14] The name of a reigning Danish dynasty. [15] For Scyld cp. Appendix II. [16] Hygelac, King of the Geats at the time, and uncle of Beowulf. [17] Weland--'the famous smith of Germanic legend,' says Wyatt--who also refers us to the Franks Casket in the British Museum. [18] Weird was a peculiarly English conception. It means Fate, or Destiny. Then Weird became a god or goddess--cp. 'The Seafarer,' an Old English poem in which we find 'Weird is stronger, the Lord is mightier than any man's thoughts.' [19] i.e. Wealtheow, Hrothgar's Queen, who was of this tribe. [20] Healfdene was the father of Hrothgar, King of the Danes. [21] i.e. Beowulf. [22] Thus we see how sagas or legends came to be woven together into a song. See Appendix X. [23] Heremod was a King of the Danes, and is introduced, says Wyatt, as a stock example of a bad King. [24] Wyatt's translation. [25] Byrny was a coat of mail. Swords were of greater value as they were ancient heirlooms, and had done good service. [26] See Appendix VI. [27] i.e. Hildeburh, wife of Finn. [28] i.e. Finn. [29] The boar then, as ever since, occupied a prominent place in heraldry. [30] See a similar passage in my version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Canto II. 1 and 2. [31] Hrothulf, nephew of Hrothgar. [32] See Appendix III. [33] See Appendix IV. [34] Wyatt's translation. [35] That is, 'the harp.' [36] Rune--literally, 'a secret.' [37] Cp. the phrase 'Welsh marches,' i.e. the boundaries or limits of Wales. [38] Cp. description of hunting in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Canto III. 2. [39] Scyldings are the Danes. [40] i.e. Unferth. [41] Cp. Chapter VIII. [42] i.e. Hrothgar. [43] i.e. the sun. [44] Hrothgar. [45] Cp. pp. 66-68. [46] 'Honour-full' is Wyatt's translation. [47] Hrethric, one of Hrothgar's sons. [48] Literally, 'the gannet's bath.' The sea is also 'Swan's path,' 'Sail-path,' &c. [49] A difficult phrase. Refers perhaps to old feuds between Danes and Geats. [50] Cp. Chapter III. [51] Thrytho is referred to as a foil to Hygd. Thrytho was as bad a woman as Hygd was good. She was a woman of a wild and passionate disposition. She became the Queen of King Offa, and it seems to have been a case of the 'taming of the shrew.' Offa appears to have been her second husband. See below. [52] i.e. to Offa. [53] i.e. Hygelac; see Appendices VII. and IX. [54] i.e. Hygd, Queen of the Geats, Hygelac's wife. [55] i.e. Wealtheow, Hrothgar's Queen. [56] i.e. Ingeld. See below. [57] Another episode, viz. that of Freawaru and Ingeld. Note also the artificial break of the narrative into chapters. See Appendix V. Hrothgar's hopes by the marriage of his daughter Freawaru to Ingeld of the Heathobards was doomed to disappointment, cp. 'Widsith,' 45-9. [58] Numbers XXIX. and XXX. are lacking in the MS. The divisions here are as in Wyatt's edition. [59] Withergyld--name of a Heathobard warrior. [60] Probably referring to the chanting of some ancient legend by the scop, or gleeman. [61] Wyatt's translation. [62] Hygelac was killed in his historical invasion of the Netherlands, which is five times referred to in the poem. See Appendix VII. [63] See Appendix IX. [64] The MS. here is very imperfect. I have used the emended text of Bugge, which makes good sense. See Appendix XII. [65] Here again the text is imperfect. [66] Possibly a later insertion, 'the ten commandments' (Wyatt). [67] Beowulf saved his life by swimming across the sea, in Hygelac's famous raid. See Appendix VII. [68] See Appendix IX. [69] See Appendix IX. [70] See p. 138. [71] See Appendix VIII. [72] See Appendices VII. and IX. [73] Waegmundings--the family to which both Beowulf and Wiglaf belonged. [74] See Appendix IX. [75] i.e. Beowulf. [76] Wyatt and Morris's translations. [77] Wyatt and Morris translate 'sun jewels.' [78] Wyatt's translation. [79] i.e. Wiglaf. [80] i.e. it had been well hammered into shape. [81] Yet another reference to Hygelac's famous raid. See Appendix VII. [82] Merovingian King of the Franks. [83] See Appendix IX. [84] Hrethel, King of Geats, father of Hygelac and grandfather of Beowulf. [85] Literally, 'the sword-leavings.' [86] See Appendix IX. [87] Text in MS. faulty here. Wyatt and Morris have adopted Bugge's emendation. The sense is that Beowulf's widow with her hair bound up utters forth a dirge over her dead husband. [88] Probably the treasures that remained in the cavern. See previous chapter. 
981	----	BEOWULF By Anonymous Translated by Gummere BEOWULF PRELUDE OF THE FOUNDER OF THE DANISH HOUSE LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. Famed was this Beowulf: {0a} far flew the boast of him, son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. So becomes it a youth to quit him well with his father's friends, by fee and gift, that to aid him, aged, in after days, come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds shall an earl have honor in every clan. Forth he fared at the fated moment, sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God. Then they bore him over to ocean's billow, loving clansmen, as late he charged them, while wielded words the winsome Scyld, the leader beloved who long had ruled.... In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel, ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge: there laid they down their darling lord on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings, {0b} by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure fetched from far was freighted with him. No ship have I known so nobly dight with weapons of war and weeds of battle, with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay a heaped hoard that hence should go far o'er the flood with him floating away. No less these loaded the lordly gifts, thanes' huge treasure, than those had done who in former time forth had sent him sole on the seas, a suckling child. High o'er his head they hoist the standard, a gold-wove banner; let billows take him, gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits, mournful their mood. No man is able to say in sooth, no son of the halls, no hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight! I Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings, leader beloved, and long he ruled in fame with all folk, since his father had gone away from the world, till awoke an heir, haughty Healfdene, who held through life, sage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad. Then, one after one, there woke to him, to the chieftain of clansmen, children four: Heorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave; and I heard that -- was -- 's queen, the Heathoscylfing's helpmate dear. To Hrothgar was given such glory of war, such honor of combat, that all his kin obeyed him gladly till great grew his band of youthful comrades. It came in his mind to bid his henchmen a hall uprear, a master mead-house, mightier far than ever was seen by the sons of earth, and within it, then, to old and young he would all allot that the Lord had sent him, save only the land and the lives of his men. Wide, I heard, was the work commanded, for many a tribe this mid-earth round, to fashion the folkstead. It fell, as he ordered, in rapid achievement that ready it stood there, of halls the noblest: Heorot {1a} he named it whose message had might in many a land. Not reckless of promise, the rings he dealt, treasure at banquet: there towered the hall, high, gabled wide, the hot surge waiting of furious flame. {1b} Nor far was that day when father and son-in-law stood in feud for warfare and hatred that woke again. {1c} With envy and anger an evil spirit endured the dole in his dark abode, that he heard each day the din of revel high in the hall: there harps rang out, clear song of the singer. He sang who knew {1d} tales of the early time of man, how the Almighty made the earth, fairest fields enfolded by water, set, triumphant, sun and moon for a light to lighten the land-dwellers, and braided bright the breast of earth with limbs and leaves, made life for all of mortal beings that breathe and move. So lived the clansmen in cheer and revel a winsome life, till one began to fashion evils, that field of hell. Grendel this monster grim was called, march-riever {1e} mighty, in moorland living, in fen and fastness; fief of the giants the hapless wight a while had kept since the Creator his exile doomed. On kin of Cain was the killing avenged by sovran God for slaughtered Abel. Ill fared his feud, {1f} and far was he driven, for the slaughter's sake, from sight of men. Of Cain awoke all that woful breed, Etins {1g} and elves and evil-spirits, as well as the giants that warred with God weary while: but their wage was paid them! II WENT he forth to find at fall of night that haughty house, and heed wherever the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone. Found within it the atheling band asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow, of human hardship. Unhallowed wight, grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, the might of Grendel to men was known; then after wassail was wail uplifted, loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief, atheling excellent, unblithe sat, labored in woe for the loss of his thanes, when once had been traced the trail of the fiend, spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow, too long, too loathsome. Not late the respite; with night returning, anew began ruthless murder; he recked no whit, firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime. They were easy to find who elsewhere sought in room remote their rest at night, bed in the bowers, {2a} when that bale was shown, was seen in sooth, with surest token, -- the hall-thane's {2b} hate. Such held themselves far and fast who the fiend outran! Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill one against all; until empty stood that lordly building, and long it bode so. Twelve years' tide the trouble he bore, sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty, boundless cares. There came unhidden tidings true to the tribes of men, in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him, what murder and massacre, many a year, feud unfading, -- refused consent to deal with any of Daneland's earls, make pact of peace, or compound for gold: still less did the wise men ween to get great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands. But the evil one ambushed old and young death-shadow dark, and dogged them still, lured, or lurked in the livelong night of misty moorlands: men may say not where the haunts of these Hell-Runes {2c} be. Such heaping of horrors the hater of men, lonely roamer, wrought unceasing, harassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded, gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights; and ne'er could the prince {2d} approach his throne, -- 'twas judgment of God, -- or have joy in his hall. Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend, heart-rending misery. Many nobles sat assembled, and searched out counsel how it were best for bold-hearted men against harassing terror to try their hand. Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes altar-offerings, asked with words {2e} that the slayer-of-souls would succor give them for the pain of their people. Their practice this, their heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not, Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord, nor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever, Wielder-of-Wonder. -- Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul to fiery embraces; -- nor favor nor change awaits he ever. But well for him that after death-day may draw to his Lord, and friendship find in the Father's arms! III THUS seethed unceasing the son of Healfdene with the woe of these days; not wisest men assuaged his sorrow; too sore the anguish, loathly and long, that lay on his folk, most baneful of burdens and bales of the night. This heard in his home Hygelac's thane, great among Geats, of Grendel's doings. He was the mightiest man of valor in that same day of this our life, stalwart and stately. A stout wave-walker he bade make ready. Yon battle-king, said he, far o'er the swan-road he fain would seek, the noble monarch who needed men! The prince's journey by prudent folk was little blamed, though they loved him dear; they whetted the hero, and hailed good omens. And now the bold one from bands of Geats comrades chose, the keenest of warriors e'er he could find; with fourteen men the sea-wood {3a} he sought, and, sailor proved, led them on to the land's confines. Time had now flown; {3b} afloat was the ship, boat under bluff. On board they climbed, warriors ready; waves were churning sea with sand; the sailors bore on the breast of the bark their bright array, their mail and weapons: the men pushed off, on its willing way, the well-braced craft. Then moved o'er the waters by might of the wind that bark like a bird with breast of foam, till in season due, on the second day, the curved prow such course had run that sailors now could see the land, sea-cliffs shining, steep high hills, headlands broad. Their haven was found, their journey ended. Up then quickly the Weders' {3c} clansmen climbed ashore, anchored their sea-wood, with armor clashing and gear of battle: God they thanked or passing in peace o'er the paths of the sea. Now saw from the cliff a Scylding clansman, a warden that watched the water-side, how they bore o'er the gangway glittering shields, war-gear in readiness; wonder seized him to know what manner of men they were. Straight to the strand his steed he rode, Hrothgar's henchman; with hand of might he shook his spear, and spake in parley. "Who are ye, then, ye armed men, mailed folk, that yon mighty vessel have urged thus over the ocean ways, here o'er the waters? A warden I, sentinel set o'er the sea-march here, lest any foe to the folk of Danes with harrying fleet should harm the land. No aliens ever at ease thus bore them, linden-wielders: {3d} yet word-of-leave clearly ye lack from clansmen here, my folk's agreement. -- A greater ne'er saw I of warriors in world than is one of you, -- yon hero in harness! No henchman he worthied by weapons, if witness his features, his peerless presence! I pray you, though, tell your folk and home, lest hence ye fare suspect to wander your way as spies in Danish land. Now, dwellers afar, ocean-travellers, take from me simple advice: the sooner the better I hear of the country whence ye came." IV To him the stateliest spake in answer; the warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked: -- "We are by kin of the clan of Geats, and Hygelac's own hearth-fellows we. To folk afar was my father known, noble atheling, Ecgtheow named. Full of winters, he fared away aged from earth; he is honored still through width of the world by wise men all. To thy lord and liege in loyal mood we hasten hither, to Healfdene's son, people-protector: be pleased to advise us! To that mighty-one come we on mickle errand, to the lord of the Danes; nor deem I right that aught be hidden. We hear -- thou knowest if sooth it is -- the saying of men, that amid the Scyldings a scathing monster, dark ill-doer, in dusky nights shows terrific his rage unmatched, hatred and murder. To Hrothgar I in greatness of soul would succor bring, so the Wise-and-Brave {4a} may worst his foes, -- if ever the end of ills is fated, of cruel contest, if cure shall follow, and the boiling care-waves cooler grow; else ever afterward anguish-days he shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place high on its hill that house unpeered!" Astride his steed, the strand-ward answered, clansman unquailing: "The keen-souled thane must be skilled to sever and sunder duly words and works, if he well intends. I gather, this band is graciously bent to the Scyldings' master. March, then, bearing weapons and weeds the way I show you. I will bid my men your boat meanwhile to guard for fear lest foemen come, -- your new-tarred ship by shore of ocean faithfully watching till once again it waft o'er the waters those well-loved thanes, -- winding-neck'd wood, -- to Weders' bounds, heroes such as the hest of fate shall succor and save from the shock of war." They bent them to march, -- the boat lay still, fettered by cable and fast at anchor, broad-bosomed ship. -- Then shone the boars {4b} over the cheek-guard; chased with gold, keen and gleaming, guard it kept o'er the man of war, as marched along heroes in haste, till the hall they saw, broad of gable and bright with gold: that was the fairest, 'mid folk of earth, of houses 'neath heaven, where Hrothgar lived, and the gleam of it lightened o'er lands afar. The sturdy shieldsman showed that bright burg-of-the-boldest; bade them go straightway thither; his steed then turned, hardy hero, and hailed them thus: -- "'Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty in grace and mercy guard you well, safe in your seekings. Seaward I go, 'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch." V STONE-BRIGHT the street: {5a} it showed the way to the crowd of clansmen. Corselets glistened hand-forged, hard; on their harness bright the steel ring sang, as they strode along in mail of battle, and marched to the hall. There, weary of ocean, the wall along they set their bucklers, their broad shields, down, and bowed them to bench: the breastplates clanged, war-gear of men; their weapons stacked, spears of the seafarers stood together, gray-tipped ash: that iron band was worthily weaponed! -- A warrior proud asked of the heroes their home and kin. "Whence, now, bear ye burnished shields, harness gray and helmets grim, spears in multitude? Messenger, I, Hrothgar's herald! Heroes so many ne'er met I as strangers of mood so strong. 'Tis plain that for prowess, not plunged into exile, for high-hearted valor, Hrothgar ye seek!" Him the sturdy-in-war bespake with words, proud earl of the Weders answer made, hardy 'neath helmet: -- "Hygelac's, we, fellows at board; I am Beowulf named. I am seeking to say to the son of Healfdene this mission of mine, to thy master-lord, the doughty prince, if he deign at all grace that we greet him, the good one, now." Wulfgar spake, the Wendles' chieftain, whose might of mind to many was known, his courage and counsel: "The king of Danes, the Scyldings' friend, I fain will tell, the Breaker-of-Rings, as the boon thou askest, the famed prince, of thy faring hither, and, swiftly after, such answer bring as the doughty monarch may deign to give." Hied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat white-haired and old, his earls about him, till the stout thane stood at the shoulder there of the Danish king: good courtier he! Wulfgar spake to his winsome lord: -- "Hither have fared to thee far-come men o'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland; and the stateliest there by his sturdy band is Beowulf named. This boon they seek, that they, my master, may with thee have speech at will: nor spurn their prayer to give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar! In weeds of the warrior worthy they, methinks, of our liking; their leader most surely, a hero that hither his henchmen has led." VI HROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings: -- "I knew him of yore in his youthful days; his aged father was Ecgtheow named, to whom, at home, gave Hrethel the Geat his only daughter. Their offspring bold fares hither to seek the steadfast friend. And seamen, too, have said me this, -- who carried my gifts to the Geatish court, thither for thanks, -- he has thirty men's heft of grasp in the gripe of his hand, the bold-in-battle. Blessed God out of his mercy this man hath sent to Danes of the West, as I ween indeed, against horror of Grendel. I hope to give the good youth gold for his gallant thought. Be thou in haste, and bid them hither, clan of kinsmen, to come before me; and add this word, -- they are welcome guests to folk of the Danes." [To the door of the hall Wulfgar went] and the word declared: -- "To you this message my master sends, East-Danes' king, that your kin he knows, hardy heroes, and hails you all welcome hither o'er waves of the sea! Ye may wend your way in war-attire, and under helmets Hrothgar greet; but let here the battle-shields bide your parley, and wooden war-shafts wait its end." Uprose the mighty one, ringed with his men, brave band of thanes: some bode without, battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief. Then hied that troop where the herald led them, under Heorot's roof: [the hero strode,] hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared. Beowulf spake, -- his breastplate gleamed, war-net woven by wit of the smith: -- "Thou Hrothgar, hail! Hygelac's I, kinsman and follower. Fame a plenty have I gained in youth! These Grendel-deeds I heard in my home-land heralded clear. Seafarers say how stands this hall, of buildings best, for your band of thanes empty and idle, when evening sun in the harbor of heaven is hidden away. So my vassals advised me well, -- brave and wise, the best of men, -- O sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here, for my nerve and my might they knew full well. Themselves had seen me from slaughter come blood-flecked from foes, where five I bound, and that wild brood worsted. I' the waves I slew nicors {6a} by night, in need and peril avenging the Weders, {6b} whose woe they sought, -- crushing the grim ones. Grendel now, monster cruel, be mine to quell in single battle! So, from thee, thou sovran of the Shining-Danes, Scyldings'-bulwark, a boon I seek, -- and, Friend-of-the-folk, refuse it not, O Warriors'-shield, now I've wandered far, -- that I alone with my liegemen here, this hardy band, may Heorot purge! More I hear, that the monster dire, in his wanton mood, of weapons recks not; hence shall I scorn -- so Hygelac stay, king of my kindred, kind to me! -- brand or buckler to bear in the fight, gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone must I front the fiend and fight for life, foe against foe. Then faith be his in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take. Fain, I ween, if the fight he win, in this hall of gold my Geatish band will he fearless eat, -- as oft before, -- my noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then to hide my head; {6c} for his shall I be, dyed in gore, if death must take me; and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey, ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely, with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen: no further for me need'st food prepare! To Hygelac send, if Hild {6d} should take me, best of war-weeds, warding my breast, armor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel and work of Wayland. {6e} Fares Wyrd {6f} as she must." VII HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet: -- "For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf, to succor and save, thou hast sought us here. Thy father's combat {7a} a feud enkindled when Heatholaf with hand he slew among the Wylfings; his Weder kin for horror of fighting feared to hold him. Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk, over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings, when first I was ruling the folk of Danes, wielded, youthful, this widespread realm, this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead, my elder brother, had breathed his last, Healfdene's bairn: he was better than I! Straightway the feud with fee {7b} I settled, to the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges, treasures olden: oaths he {7c} swore me. Sore is my soul to say to any of the race of man what ruth for me in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought, what sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me, my warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them into Grendel's grasp. But God is able this deadly foe from his deeds to turn! Boasted full oft, as my beer they drank, earls o'er the ale-cup, armed men, that they would bide in the beer-hall here, Grendel's attack with terror of blades. Then was this mead-house at morning tide dyed with gore, when the daylight broke, all the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled, gory the hall: I had heroes the less, doughty dear-ones that death had reft. -- But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words, hardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee." Gathered together, the Geatish men in the banquet-hall on bench assigned, sturdy-spirited, sat them down, hardy-hearted. A henchman attended, carried the carven cup in hand, served the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang blithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled, no dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane. VIII UNFERTH spake, the son of Ecglaf, who sat at the feet of the Scyldings' lord, unbound the battle-runes. {8a} -- Beowulf's quest, sturdy seafarer's, sorely galled him; ever he envied that other men should more achieve in middle-earth of fame under heaven than he himself. -- "Art thou that Beowulf, Breca's rival, who emulous swam on the open sea, when for pride the pair of you proved the floods, and wantonly dared in waters deep to risk your lives? No living man, or lief or loath, from your labor dire could you dissuade, from swimming the main. Ocean-tides with your arms ye covered, with strenuous hands the sea-streets measured, swam o'er the waters. Winter's storm rolled the rough waves. In realm of sea a sennight strove ye. In swimming he topped thee, had more of main! Him at morning-tide billows bore to the Battling Reamas, whence he hied to his home so dear beloved of his liegemen, to land of Brondings, fastness fair, where his folk he ruled, town and treasure. In triumph o'er thee Beanstan's bairn {8b} his boast achieved. So ween I for thee a worse adventure -- though in buffet of battle thou brave hast been, in struggle grim, -- if Grendel's approach thou darst await through the watch of night!" Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "What a deal hast uttered, dear my Unferth, drunken with beer, of Breca now, told of his triumph! Truth I claim it, that I had more of might in the sea than any man else, more ocean-endurance. We twain had talked, in time of youth, and made our boast, -- we were merely boys, striplings still, -- to stake our lives far at sea: and so we performed it. Naked swords, as we swam along, we held in hand, with hope to guard us against the whales. Not a whit from me could he float afar o'er the flood of waves, haste o'er the billows; nor him I abandoned. Together we twain on the tides abode five nights full till the flood divided us, churning waves and chillest weather, darkling night, and the northern wind ruthless rushed on us: rough was the surge. Now the wrath of the sea-fish rose apace; yet me 'gainst the monsters my mailed coat, hard and hand-linked, help afforded, -- battle-sark braided my breast to ward, garnished with gold. There grasped me firm and haled me to bottom the hated foe, with grimmest gripe. 'Twas granted me, though, to pierce the monster with point of sword, with blade of battle: huge beast of the sea was whelmed by the hurly through hand of mine. IX ME thus often the evil monsters thronging threatened. With thrust of my sword, the darling, I dealt them due return! Nowise had they bliss from their booty then to devour their victim, vengeful creatures, seated to banquet at bottom of sea; but at break of day, by my brand sore hurt, on the edge of ocean up they lay, put to sleep by the sword. And since, by them on the fathomless sea-ways sailor-folk are never molested. -- Light from east, came bright God's beacon; the billows sank, so that I saw the sea-cliffs high, windy walls. For Wyrd oft saveth earl undoomed if he doughty be! And so it came that I killed with my sword nine of the nicors. Of night-fought battles ne'er heard I a harder 'neath heaven's dome, nor adrift on the deep a more desolate man! Yet I came unharmed from that hostile clutch, though spent with swimming. The sea upbore me, flood of the tide, on Finnish land, the welling waters. No wise of thee have I heard men tell such terror of falchions, bitter battle. Breca ne'er yet, not one of you pair, in the play of war such daring deed has done at all with bloody brand, -- I boast not of it! -- though thou wast the bane {9a} of thy brethren dear, thy closest kin, whence curse of hell awaits thee, well as thy wit may serve! For I say in sooth, thou son of Ecglaf, never had Grendel these grim deeds wrought, monster dire, on thy master dear, in Heorot such havoc, if heart of thine were as battle-bold as thy boast is loud! But he has found no feud will happen; from sword-clash dread of your Danish clan he vaunts him safe, from the Victor-Scyldings. He forces pledges, favors none of the land of Danes, but lustily murders, fights and feasts, nor feud he dreads from Spear-Dane men. But speedily now shall I prove him the prowess and pride of the Geats, shall bid him battle. Blithe to mead go he that listeth, when light of dawn this morrow morning o'er men of earth, ether-robed sun from the south shall beam!" Joyous then was the Jewel-giver, hoar-haired, war-brave; help awaited the Bright-Danes' prince, from Beowulf hearing, folk's good shepherd, such firm resolve. Then was laughter of liegemen loud resounding with winsome words. Came Wealhtheow forth, queen of Hrothgar, heedful of courtesy, gold-decked, greeting the guests in hall; and the high-born lady handed the cup first to the East-Danes' heir and warden, bade him be blithe at the beer-carouse, the land's beloved one. Lustily took he banquet and beaker, battle-famed king. Through the hall then went the Helmings' Lady, to younger and older everywhere carried the cup, till come the moment when the ring-graced queen, the royal-hearted, to Beowulf bore the beaker of mead. She greeted the Geats' lord, God she thanked, in wisdom's words, that her will was granted, that at last on a hero her hope could lean for comfort in terrors. The cup he took, hardy-in-war, from Wealhtheow's hand, and answer uttered the eager-for-combat. Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "This was my thought, when my thanes and I bent to the ocean and entered our boat, that I would work the will of your people fully, or fighting fall in death, in fiend's gripe fast. I am firm to do an earl's brave deed, or end the days of this life of mine in the mead-hall here." Well these words to the woman seemed, Beowulf's battle-boast. -- Bright with gold the stately dame by her spouse sat down. Again, as erst, began in hall warriors' wassail and words of power, the proud-band's revel, till presently the son of Healfdene hastened to seek rest for the night; he knew there waited fight for the fiend in that festal hall, when the sheen of the sun they saw no more, and dusk of night sank darkling nigh, and shadowy shapes came striding on, wan under welkin. The warriors rose. Man to man, he made harangue, Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail, let him wield the wine hall: a word he added: -- "Never to any man erst I trusted, since I could heave up hand and shield, this noble Dane-Hall, till now to thee. Have now and hold this house unpeered; remember thy glory; thy might declare; watch for the foe! No wish shall fail thee if thou bidest the battle with bold-won life." X THEN Hrothgar went with his hero-train, defence-of-Scyldings, forth from hall; fain would the war-lord Wealhtheow seek, couch of his queen. The King-of-Glory against this Grendel a guard had set, so heroes heard, a hall-defender, who warded the monarch and watched for the monster. In truth, the Geats' prince gladly trusted his mettle, his might, the mercy of God! Cast off then his corselet of iron, helmet from head; to his henchman gave, -- choicest of weapons, -- the well-chased sword, bidding him guard the gear of battle. Spake then his Vaunt the valiant man, Beowulf Geat, ere the bed be sought: -- "Of force in fight no feebler I count me, in grim war-deeds, than Grendel deems him. Not with the sword, then, to sleep of death his life will I give, though it lie in my power. No skill is his to strike against me, my shield to hew though he hardy be, bold in battle; we both, this night, shall spurn the sword, if he seek me here, unweaponed, for war. Let wisest God, sacred Lord, on which side soever doom decree as he deemeth right." Reclined then the chieftain, and cheek-pillows held the head of the earl, while all about him seamen hardy on hall-beds sank. None of them thought that thence their steps to the folk and fastness that fostered them, to the land they loved, would lead them back! Full well they wist that on warriors many battle-death seized, in the banquet-hall, of Danish clan. But comfort and help, war-weal weaving, to Weder folk the Master gave, that, by might of one, over their enemy all prevailed, by single strength. In sooth 'tis told that highest God o'er human kind hath wielded ever! -- Thro' wan night striding, came the walker-in-shadow. Warriors slept whose hest was to guard the gabled hall, -- all save one. 'Twas widely known that against God's will the ghostly ravager him {10a} could not hurl to haunts of darkness; wakeful, ready, with warrior's wrath, bold he bided the battle's issue. XI THEN from the moorland, by misty crags, with God's wrath laden, Grendel came. The monster was minded of mankind now sundry to seize in the stately house. Under welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there, gold-hall of men, he gladly discerned, flashing with fretwork. Not first time, this, that he the home of Hrothgar sought, -- yet ne'er in his life-day, late or early, such hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found! To the house the warrior walked apace, parted from peace; {11a} the portal opended, though with forged bolts fast, when his fists had struck it, and baleful he burst in his blatant rage, the house's mouth. All hastily, then, o'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on, ireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes fearful flashes, like flame to see. He spied in hall the hero-band, kin and clansmen clustered asleep, hardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart; for the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn, savage, to sever the soul of each, life from body, since lusty banquet waited his will! But Wyrd forbade him to seize any more of men on earth after that evening. Eagerly watched Hygelac's kinsman his cursed foe, how he would fare in fell attack. Not that the monster was minded to pause! Straightway he seized a sleeping warrior for the first, and tore him fiercely asunder, the bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams, swallowed him piecemeal: swiftly thus the lifeless corse was clear devoured, e'en feet and hands. Then farther he hied; for the hardy hero with hand he grasped, felt for the foe with fiendish claw, for the hero reclining, -- who clutched it boldly, prompt to answer, propped on his arm. Soon then saw that shepherd-of-evils that never he met in this middle-world, in the ways of earth, another wight with heavier hand-gripe; at heart he feared, sorrowed in soul, -- none the sooner escaped! Fain would he flee, his fastness seek, the den of devils: no doings now such as oft he had done in days of old! Then bethought him the hardy Hygelac-thane of his boast at evening: up he bounded, grasped firm his foe, whose fingers cracked. The fiend made off, but the earl close followed. The monster meant -- if he might at all -- to fling himself free, and far away fly to the fens, -- knew his fingers' power in the gripe of the grim one. Gruesome march to Heorot this monster of harm had made! Din filled the room; the Danes were bereft, castle-dwellers and clansmen all, earls, of their ale. Angry were both those savage hall-guards: the house resounded. Wonder it was the wine-hall firm in the strain of their struggle stood, to earth the fair house fell not; too fast it was within and without by its iron bands craftily clamped; though there crashed from sill many a mead-bench -- men have told me -- gay with gold, where the grim foes wrestled. So well had weened the wisest Scyldings that not ever at all might any man that bone-decked, brave house break asunder, crush by craft, -- unless clasp of fire in smoke engulfed it. -- Again uprose din redoubled. Danes of the North with fear and frenzy were filled, each one, who from the wall that wailing heard, God's foe sounding his grisly song, cry of the conquered, clamorous pain from captive of hell. Too closely held him he who of men in might was strongest in that same day of this our life. XII NOT in any wise would the earls'-defence {12a} suffer that slaughterous stranger to live, useless deeming his days and years to men on earth. Now many an earl of Beowulf brandished blade ancestral, fain the life of their lord to shield, their praised prince, if power were theirs; never they knew, -- as they neared the foe, hardy-hearted heroes of war, aiming their swords on every side the accursed to kill, -- no keenest blade, no farest of falchions fashioned on earth, could harm or hurt that hideous fiend! He was safe, by his spells, from sword of battle, from edge of iron. Yet his end and parting on that same day of this our life woful should be, and his wandering soul far off flit to the fiends' domain. Soon he found, who in former days, harmful in heart and hated of God, on many a man such murder wrought, that the frame of his body failed him now. For him the keen-souled kinsman of Hygelac held in hand; hateful alive was each to other. The outlaw dire took mortal hurt; a mighty wound showed on his shoulder, and sinews cracked, and the bone-frame burst. To Beowulf now the glory was given, and Grendel thence death-sick his den in the dark moor sought, noisome abode: he knew too well that here was the last of life, an end of his days on earth. -- To all the Danes by that bloody battle the boon had come. From ravage had rescued the roving stranger Hrothgar's hall; the hardy and wise one had purged it anew. His night-work pleased him, his deed and its honor. To Eastern Danes had the valiant Geat his vaunt made good, all their sorrow and ills assuaged, their bale of battle borne so long, and all the dole they erst endured pain a-plenty. -- 'Twas proof of this, when the hardy-in-fight a hand laid down, arm and shoulder, -- all, indeed, of Grendel's gripe, -- 'neath the gabled roof. XIII MANY at morning, as men have told me, warriors gathered the gift-hall round, folk-leaders faring from far and near, o'er wide-stretched ways, the wonder to view, trace of the traitor. Not troublous seemed the enemy's end to any man who saw by the gait of the graceless foe how the weary-hearted, away from thence, baffled in battle and banned, his steps death-marked dragged to the devils' mere. Bloody the billows were boiling there, turbid the tide of tumbling waves horribly seething, with sword-blood hot, by that doomed one dyed, who in den of the moor laid forlorn his life adown, his heathen soul, and hell received it. Home then rode the hoary clansmen from that merry journey, and many a youth, on horses white, the hardy warriors, back from the mere. Then Beowulf's glory eager they echoed, and all averred that from sea to sea, or south or north, there was no other in earth's domain, under vault of heaven, more valiant found, of warriors none more worthy to rule! (On their lord beloved they laid no slight, gracious Hrothgar: a good king he!) From time to time, the tried-in-battle their gray steeds set to gallop amain, and ran a race when the road seemed fair. From time to time, a thane of the king, who had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses, stored with sagas and songs of old, bound word to word in well-knit rime, welded his lay; this warrior soon of Beowulf's quest right cleverly sang, and artfully added an excellent tale, in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds he had heard in saga of Sigemund. Strange the story: he said it all, -- the Waelsing's wanderings wide, his struggles, which never were told to tribes of men, the feuds and the frauds, save to Fitela only, when of these doings he deigned to speak, uncle to nephew; as ever the twain stood side by side in stress of war, and multitude of the monster kind they had felled with their swords. Of Sigemund grew, when he passed from life, no little praise; for the doughty-in-combat a dragon killed that herded the hoard: {13a} under hoary rock the atheling dared the deed alone fearful quest, nor was Fitela there. Yet so it befell, his falchion pierced that wondrous worm, -- on the wall it struck, best blade; the dragon died in its blood. Thus had the dread-one by daring achieved over the ring-hoard to rule at will, himself to pleasure; a sea-boat he loaded, and bore on its bosom the beaming gold, son of Waels; the worm was consumed. He had of all heroes the highest renown among races of men, this refuge-of-warriors, for deeds of daring that decked his name since the hand and heart of Heremod grew slack in battle. He, swiftly banished to mingle with monsters at mercy of foes, to death was betrayed; for torrents of sorrow had lamed him too long; a load of care to earls and athelings all he proved. Oft indeed, in earlier days, for the warrior's wayfaring wise men mourned, who had hoped of him help from harm and bale, and had thought their sovran's son would thrive, follow his father, his folk protect, the hoard and the stronghold, heroes' land, home of Scyldings. -- But here, thanes said, the kinsman of Hygelac kinder seemed to all: the other {13b} was urged to crime! And afresh to the race, {13c} the fallow roads by swift steeds measured! The morning sun was climbing higher. Clansmen hastened to the high-built hall, those hardy-minded, the wonder to witness. Warden of treasure, crowned with glory, the king himself, with stately band from the bride-bower strode; and with him the queen and her crowd of maidens measured the path to the mead-house fair. XIV HROTHGAR spake, -- to the hall he went, stood by the steps, the steep roof saw, garnished with gold, and Grendel's hand: -- "For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler be speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows I have borne from Grendel; but God still works wonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory. It was but now that I never more for woes that weighed on me waited help long as I lived, when, laved in blood, stood sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, -- widespread woe for wise men all, who had no hope to hinder ever foes infernal and fiendish sprites from havoc in hall. This hero now, by the Wielder's might, a work has done that not all of us erst could ever do by wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say whoso of women this warrior bore among sons of men, if still she liveth, that the God of the ages was good to her in the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee, of heroes best, I shall heartily love as mine own, my son; preserve thou ever this kinship new: thou shalt never lack wealth of the world that I wield as mine! Full oft for less have I largess showered, my precious hoard, on a punier man, less stout in struggle. Thyself hast now fulfilled such deeds, that thy fame shall endure through all the ages. As ever he did, well may the Wielder reward thee still!" Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "This work of war most willingly we have fought, this fight, and fearlessly dared force of the foe. Fain, too, were I hadst thou but seen himself, what time the fiend in his trappings tottered to fall! Swiftly, I thought, in strongest gripe on his bed of death to bind him down, that he in the hent of this hand of mine should breathe his last: but he broke away. Him I might not -- the Maker willed not -- hinder from flight, and firm enough hold the life-destroyer: too sturdy was he, the ruthless, in running! For rescue, however, he left behind him his hand in pledge, arm and shoulder; nor aught of help could the cursed one thus procure at all. None the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend, sunk in his sins, but sorrow holds him tightly grasped in gripe of anguish, in baleful bonds, where bide he must, evil outlaw, such awful doom as the Mighty Maker shall mete him out." More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf {14a} in boastful speech of his battle-deeds, since athelings all, through the earl's great prowess, beheld that hand, on the high roof gazing, foeman's fingers, -- the forepart of each of the sturdy nails to steel was likest, -- heathen's "hand-spear," hostile warrior's claw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said, that him no blade of the brave could touch, how keen soever, or cut away that battle-hand bloody from baneful foe. XV THERE was hurry and hest in Heorot now for hands to bedeck it, and dense was the throng of men and women the wine-hall to cleanse, the guest-room to garnish. Gold-gay shone the hangings that were wove on the wall, and wonders many to delight each mortal that looks upon them. Though braced within by iron bands, that building bright was broken sorely; {15a} rent were its hinges; the roof alone held safe and sound, when, seared with crime, the fiendish foe his flight essayed, of life despairing. -- No light thing that, the flight for safety, -- essay it who will! Forced of fate, he shall find his way to the refuge ready for race of man, for soul-possessors, and sons of earth; and there his body on bed of death shall rest after revel. Arrived was the hour when to hall proceeded Healfdene's son: the king himself would sit to banquet. Ne'er heard I of host in haughtier throng more graciously gathered round giver-of-rings! Bowed then to bench those bearers-of-glory, fain of the feasting. Featly received many a mead-cup the mighty-in-spirit, kinsmen who sat in the sumptuous hall, Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot now was filled with friends; the folk of Scyldings ne'er yet had tried the traitor's deed. To Beowulf gave the bairn of Healfdene a gold-wove banner, guerdon of triumph, broidered battle-flag, breastplate and helmet; and a splendid sword was seen of many borne to the brave one. Beowulf took cup in hall: {15b} for such costly gifts he suffered no shame in that soldier throng. For I heard of few heroes, in heartier mood, with four such gifts, so fashioned with gold, on the ale-bench honoring others thus! O'er the roof of the helmet high, a ridge, wound with wires, kept ward o'er the head, lest the relict-of-files {15c} should fierce invade, sharp in the strife, when that shielded hero should go to grapple against his foes. Then the earls'-defence {15d} on the floor {15e} bade lead coursers eight, with carven head-gear, adown the hall: one horse was decked with a saddle all shining and set in jewels; 'twas the battle-seat of the best of kings, when to play of swords the son of Healfdene was fain to fare. Ne'er failed his valor in the crush of combat when corpses fell. To Beowulf over them both then gave the refuge-of-Ingwines right and power, o'er war-steeds and weapons: wished him joy of them. Manfully thus the mighty prince, hoard-guard for heroes, that hard fight repaid with steeds and treasures contemned by none who is willing to say the sooth aright. XVI AND the lord of earls, to each that came with Beowulf over the briny ways, an heirloom there at the ale-bench gave, precious gift; and the price {16a} bade pay in gold for him whom Grendel erst murdered, -- and fain of them more had killed, had not wisest God their Wyrd averted, and the man's {16b} brave mood. The Maker then ruled human kind, as here and now. Therefore is insight always best, and forethought of mind. How much awaits him of lief and of loath, who long time here, through days of warfare this world endures! Then song and music mingled sounds in the presence of Healfdene's head-of-armies {16c} and harping was heard with the hero-lay as Hrothgar's singer the hall-joy woke along the mead-seats, making his song of that sudden raid on the sons of Finn. {16d} Healfdene's hero, Hnaef the Scylding, was fated to fall in the Frisian slaughter. {16e} Hildeburh needed not hold in value her enemies' honor! {16f} Innocent both were the loved ones she lost at the linden-play, bairn and brother, they bowed to fate, stricken by spears; 'twas a sorrowful woman! None doubted why the daughter of Hoc bewailed her doom when dawning came, and under the sky she saw them lying, kinsmen murdered, where most she had kenned of the sweets of the world! By war were swept, too, Finn's own liegemen, and few were left; in the parleying-place {16g} he could ply no longer weapon, nor war could he wage on Hengest, and rescue his remnant by right of arms from the prince's thane. A pact he offered: another dwelling the Danes should have, hall and high-seat, and half the power should fall to them in Frisian land; and at the fee-gifts, Folcwald's son day by day the Danes should honor, the folk of Hengest favor with rings, even as truly, with treasure and jewels, with fretted gold, as his Frisian kin he meant to honor in ale-hall there. Pact of peace they plighted further on both sides firmly. Finn to Hengest with oath, upon honor, openly promised that woful remnant, with wise-men's aid, nobly to govern, so none of the guests by word or work should warp the treaty, {16h} or with malice of mind bemoan themselves as forced to follow their fee-giver's slayer, lordless men, as their lot ordained. Should Frisian, moreover, with foeman's taunt, that murderous hatred to mind recall, then edge of the sword must seal his doom. Oaths were given, and ancient gold heaped from hoard. -- The hardy Scylding, battle-thane best, {16i} on his balefire lay. All on the pyre were plain to see the gory sark, the gilded swine-crest, boar of hard iron, and athelings many slain by the sword: at the slaughter they fell. It was Hildeburh's hest, at Hnaef's own pyre the bairn of her body on brands to lay, his bones to burn, on the balefire placed, at his uncle's side. In sorrowful dirges bewept them the woman: great wailing ascended. Then wound up to welkin the wildest of death-fires, roared o'er the hillock: {16j} heads all were melted, gashes burst, and blood gushed out from bites {16k} of the body. Balefire devoured, greediest spirit, those spared not by war out of either folk: their flower was gone. XVII THEN hastened those heroes their home to see, friendless, to find the Frisian land, houses and high burg. Hengest still through the death-dyed winter dwelt with Finn, holding pact, yet of home he minded, though powerless his ring-decked prow to drive over the waters, now waves rolled fierce lashed by the winds, or winter locked them in icy fetters. Then fared another year to men's dwellings, as yet they do, the sunbright skies, that their season ever duly await. Far off winter was driven; fair lay earth's breast; and fain was the rover, the guest, to depart, though more gladly he pondered on wreaking his vengeance than roaming the deep, and how to hasten the hot encounter where sons of the Frisians were sure to be. So he escaped not the common doom, when Hun with "Lafing," the light-of-battle, best of blades, his bosom pierced: its edge was famed with the Frisian earls. On fierce-heart Finn there fell likewise, on himself at home, the horrid sword-death; for Guthlaf and Oslaf of grim attack had sorrowing told, from sea-ways landed, mourning their woes. {17a} Finn's wavering spirit bode not in breast. The burg was reddened with blood of foemen, and Finn was slain, king amid clansmen; the queen was taken. To their ship the Scylding warriors bore all the chattels the chieftain owned, whatever they found in Finn's domain of gems and jewels. The gentle wife o'er paths of the deep to the Danes they bore, led to her land. The lay was finished, the gleeman's song. Then glad rose the revel; bench-joy brightened. Bearers draw from their "wonder-vats" wine. Comes Wealhtheow forth, under gold-crown goes where the good pair sit, uncle and nephew, true each to the other one, kindred in amity. Unferth the spokesman at the Scylding lord's feet sat: men had faith in his spirit, his keenness of courage, though kinsmen had found him unsure at the sword-play. The Scylding queen spoke: "Quaff of this cup, my king and lord, breaker of rings, and blithe be thou, gold-friend of men; to the Geats here speak such words of mildness as man should use. Be glad with thy Geats; of those gifts be mindful, or near or far, which now thou hast. Men say to me, as son thou wishest yon hero to hold. Thy Heorot purged, jewel-hall brightest, enjoy while thou canst, with many a largess; and leave to thy kin folk and realm when forth thou goest to greet thy doom. For gracious I deem my Hrothulf, {17b} willing to hold and rule nobly our youths, if thou yield up first, prince of Scyldings, thy part in the world. I ween with good he will well requite offspring of ours, when all he minds that for him we did in his helpless days of gift and grace to gain him honor!" Then she turned to the seat where her sons wereplaced, Hrethric and Hrothmund, with heroes' bairns, young men together: the Geat, too, sat there, Beowulf brave, the brothers between. XVIII A CUP she gave him, with kindly greeting and winsome words. Of wounden gold, she offered, to honor him, arm-jewels twain, corselet and rings, and of collars the noblest that ever I knew the earth around. Ne'er heard I so mighty, 'neath heaven's dome, a hoard-gem of heroes, since Hama bore to his bright-built burg the Brisings' necklace, jewel and gem casket. -- Jealousy fled he, Eormenric's hate: chose help eternal. Hygelac Geat, grandson of Swerting, on the last of his raids this ring bore with him, under his banner the booty defending, the war-spoil warding; but Wyrd o'erwhelmed him what time, in his daring, dangers he sought, feud with Frisians. Fairest of gems he bore with him over the beaker-of-waves, sovran strong: under shield he died. Fell the corpse of the king into keeping of Franks, gear of the breast, and that gorgeous ring; weaker warriors won the spoil, after gripe of battle, from Geatland's lord, and held the death-field. Din rose in hall. Wealhtheow spake amid warriors, and said: -- "This jewel enjoy in thy jocund youth, Beowulf lov'd, these battle-weeds wear, a royal treasure, and richly thrive! Preserve thy strength, and these striplings here counsel in kindness: requital be mine. Hast done such deeds, that for days to come thou art famed among folk both far and near, so wide as washeth the wave of Ocean his windy walls. Through the ways of life prosper, O prince! I pray for thee rich possessions. To son of mine be helpful in deed and uphold his joys! Here every earl to the other is true, mild of mood, to the master loyal! Thanes are friendly, the throng obedient, liegemen are revelling: list and obey!" Went then to her place. -- That was proudest of feasts; flowed wine for the warriors. Wyrd they knew not, destiny dire, and the doom to be seen by many an earl when eve should come, and Hrothgar homeward hasten away, royal, to rest. The room was guarded by an army of earls, as erst was done. They bared the bench-boards; abroad they spread beds and bolsters. -- One beer-carouser in danger of doom lay down in the hall. -- At their heads they set their shields of war, bucklers bright; on the bench were there over each atheling, easy to see, the high battle-helmet, the haughty spear, the corselet of rings. 'Twas their custom so ever to be for battle prepared, at home, or harrying, which it were, even as oft as evil threatened their sovran king. -- They were clansmen good. XIX THEN sank they to sleep. With sorrow one bought his rest of the evening, -- as ofttime had happened when Grendel guarded that golden hall, evil wrought, till his end drew nigh, slaughter for sins. 'Twas seen and told how an avenger survived the fiend, as was learned afar. The livelong time after that grim fight, Grendel's mother, monster of women, mourned her woe. She was doomed to dwell in the dreary waters, cold sea-courses, since Cain cut down with edge of the sword his only brother, his father's offspring: outlawed he fled, marked with murder, from men's delights warded the wilds. -- There woke from him such fate-sent ghosts as Grendel, who, war-wolf horrid, at Heorot found a warrior watching and waiting the fray, with whom the grisly one grappled amain. But the man remembered his mighty power, the glorious gift that God had sent him, in his Maker's mercy put his trust for comfort and help: so he conquered the foe, felled the fiend, who fled abject, reft of joy, to the realms of death, mankind's foe. And his mother now, gloomy and grim, would go that quest of sorrow, the death of her son to avenge. To Heorot came she, where helmeted Danes slept in the hall. Too soon came back old ills of the earls, when in she burst, the mother of Grendel. Less grim, though, that terror, e'en as terror of woman in war is less, might of maid, than of men in arms when, hammer-forged, the falchion hard, sword gore-stained, through swine of the helm, crested, with keen blade carves amain. Then was in hall the hard-edge drawn, the swords on the settles, {19a} and shields a-many firm held in hand: nor helmet minded nor harness of mail, whom that horror seized. Haste was hers; she would hie afar and save her life when the liegemen saw her. Yet a single atheling up she seized fast and firm, as she fled to the moor. He was for Hrothgar of heroes the dearest, of trusty vassals betwixt the seas, whom she killed on his couch, a clansman famous, in battle brave. -- Nor was Beowulf there; another house had been held apart, after giving of gold, for the Geat renowned. -- Uproar filled Heorot; the hand all had viewed, blood-flecked, she bore with her; bale was returned, dole in the dwellings: 'twas dire exchange where Dane and Geat were doomed to give the lives of loved ones. Long-tried king, the hoary hero, at heart was sad when he knew his noble no more lived, and dead indeed was his dearest thane. To his bower was Beowulf brought in haste, dauntless victor. As daylight broke, along with his earls the atheling lord, with his clansmen, came where the king abode waiting to see if the Wielder-of-All would turn this tale of trouble and woe. Strode o'er floor the famed-in-strife, with his hand-companions, -- the hall resounded, -- wishing to greet the wise old king, Ingwines' lord; he asked if the night had passed in peace to the prince's mind. XX HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings: -- "Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere, of Yrmenlaf the elder brother, my sage adviser and stay in council, shoulder-comrade in stress of fight when warriors clashed and we warded our heads, hewed the helm-boars; hero famed should be every earl as Aeschere was! But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither, {20a} proud of the prey, her path she took, fain of her fill. The feud she avenged that yesternight, unyieldingly, Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, -- seeing how long these liegemen mine he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life, in arms he fell. Now another comes, keen and cruel, her kin to avenge, faring far in feud of blood: so that many a thane shall think, who e'er sorrows in soul for that sharer of rings, this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies low that once was willing each wish to please. Land-dwellers here {20b} and liegemen mine, who house by those parts, I have heard relate that such a pair they have sometimes seen, march-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting, wandering spirits: one of them seemed, so far as my folk could fairly judge, of womankind; and one, accursed, in man's guise trod the misery-track of exile, though huger than human bulk. Grendel in days long gone they named him, folk of the land; his father they knew not, nor any brood that was born to him of treacherous spirits. Untrod is their home; by wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands, fenways fearful, where flows the stream from mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks, underground flood. Not far is it hence in measure of miles that the mere expands, and o'er it the frost-bound forest hanging, sturdily rooted, shadows the wave. By night is a wonder weird to see, fire on the waters. So wise lived none of the sons of men, to search those depths! Nay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs, the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek, long distance driven, his dear life first on the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge to hide his head: 'tis no happy place! Thence the welter of waters washes up wan to welkin when winds bestir evil storms, and air grows dusk, and the heavens weep. Now is help once more with thee alone! The land thou knowst not, place of fear, where thou findest out that sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare! I will reward thee, for waging this fight, with ancient treasure, as erst I did, with winding gold, if thou winnest back." XXI BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: "Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them. Each of us all must his end abide in the ways of the world; so win who may glory ere death! When his days are told, that is the warrior's worthiest doom. Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon, and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel. No harbor shall hide her -- heed my promise! -- enfolding of field or forested mountain or floor of the flood, let her flee where she will! But thou this day endure in patience, as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one." Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked, mighty Lord, for the man's brave words. For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled wave-maned steed. The sovran wise stately rode on; his shield-armed men followed in force. The footprints led along the woodland, widely seen, a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod the murky moor; of men-at-arms she bore the bravest and best one, dead, him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled. On then went the atheling-born o'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles, narrow passes and unknown ways, headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors. Foremost he {21a} fared, a few at his side of the wiser men, the ways to scan, till he found in a flash the forested hill hanging over the hoary rock, a woful wood: the waves below were dyed in blood. The Danish men had sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all, for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear, ill for earls, when Aeschere's head they found by the flood on the foreland there. Waves were welling, the warriors saw, hot with blood; but the horn sang oft battle-song bold. The band sat down, and watched on the water worm-like things, sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep, and nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness -- such as oft essay at hour of morn on the road-of-sails their ruthless quest, -- and sea-snakes and monsters. These started away, swollen and savage that song to hear, that war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats, with bolt from bow, then balked of life, of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed less doughty in swimming whom death had seized. Swift on the billows, with boar-spears well hooked and barbed, it was hard beset, done to death and dragged on the headland, wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed the grisly guest. Then girt him Beowulf in martial mail, nor mourned for his life. His breastplate broad and bright of hues, woven by hand, should the waters try; well could it ward the warrior's body that battle should break on his breast in vain nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe. And the helmet white that his head protected was destined to dare the deeps of the flood, through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains, decked with gold, as in days of yore the weapon-smith worked it wondrously, with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise, brandished in battle, could bite that helm. Nor was that the meanest of mighty helps which Hrothgar's orator offered at need: "Hrunting" they named the hilted sword, of old-time heirlooms easily first; iron was its edge, all etched with poison, with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight in hero's hand who held it ever, on paths of peril prepared to go to folkstead {21b} of foes. Not first time this it was destined to do a daring task. For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf sturdy and strong, that speech he had made, drunk with wine, now this weapon he lent to a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not under welter of waters wager his life as loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory, honor of earls. With the other not so, who girded him now for the grim encounter. XXII BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene gold-friend of men, now I go on this quest, sovran wise, what once was said: if in thy cause it came that I should lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide to me, though fallen, in father's place! Be guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes, my warrior-friends, if War should seize me; and the goodly gifts thou gavest me, Hrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send! Geatland's king may ken by the gold, Hrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure, that I got me a friend for goodness famed, and joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower. And let Unferth wield this wondrous sword, earl far-honored, this heirloom precious, hard of edge: with Hrunting I seek doom of glory, or Death shall take me." After these words the Weder-Geat lord boldly hastened, biding never answer at all: the ocean floods closed o'er the hero. Long while of the day fled ere he felt the floor of the sea. Soon found the fiend who the flood-domain sword-hungry held these hundred winters, greedy and grim, that some guest from above, some man, was raiding her monster-realm. She grasped out for him with grisly claws, and the warrior seized; yet scathed she not his body hale; the breastplate hindered, as she strove to shatter the sark of war, the linked harness, with loathsome hand. Then bore this brine-wolf, when bottom she touched, the lord of rings to the lair she haunted whiles vainly he strove, though his valor held, weapon to wield against wondrous monsters that sore beset him; sea-beasts many tried with fierce tusks to tear his mail, and swarmed on the stranger. But soon he marked he was now in some hall, he knew not which, where water never could work him harm, nor through the roof could reach him ever fangs of the flood. Firelight he saw, beams of a blaze that brightly shone. Then the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep, mere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke he swung his blade, and the blow withheld not. Then sang on her head that seemly blade its war-song wild. But the warrior found the light-of-battle {22a} was loath to bite, to harm the heart: its hard edge failed the noble at need, yet had known of old strife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven, doomed men's fighting-gear. First time, this, for the gleaming blade that its glory fell. Firm still stood, nor failed in valor, heedful of high deeds, Hygelac's kinsman; flung away fretted sword, featly jewelled, the angry earl; on earth it lay steel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted, hand-gripe of might. So man shall do whenever in war he weens to earn him lasting fame, nor fears for his life! Seized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat, the Geatish war-prince Grendel's mother. Flung then the fierce one, filled with wrath, his deadly foe, that she fell to ground. Swift on her part she paid him back with grisly grasp, and grappled with him. Spent with struggle, stumbled the warrior, fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown. On the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword, broad and brown-edged, {22b} the bairn to avenge, the sole-born son. -- On his shoulder lay braided breast-mail, barring death, withstanding entrance of edge or blade. Life would have ended for Ecgtheow's son, under wide earth for that earl of Geats, had his armor of war not aided him, battle-net hard, and holy God wielded the victory, wisest Maker. The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause; and easily rose the earl erect. XXIII 'MID the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant, old-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof, warriors' heirloom, weapon unmatched, -- save only 'twas more than other men to bandy-of-battle could bear at all -- as the giants had wrought it, ready and keen. Seized then its chain-hilt the Scyldings' chieftain, bold and battle-grim, brandished the sword, reckless of life, and so wrathfully smote that it gripped her neck and grasped her hard, her bone-rings breaking: the blade pierced through that fated-one's flesh: to floor she sank. Bloody the blade: he was blithe of his deed. Then blazed forth light. 'Twas bright within as when from the sky there shines unclouded heaven's candle. The hall he scanned. By the wall then went he; his weapon raised high by its hilts the Hygelac-thane, angry and eager. That edge was not useless to the warrior now. He wished with speed Grendel to guerdon for grim raids many, for the war he waged on Western-Danes oftener far than an only time, when of Hrothgar's hearth-companions he slew in slumber, in sleep devoured, fifteen men of the folk of Danes, and as many others outward bore, his horrible prey. Well paid for that the wrathful prince! For now prone he saw Grendel stretched there, spent with war, spoiled of life, so scathed had left him Heorot's battle. The body sprang far when after death it endured the blow, sword-stroke savage, that severed its head. Soon, {23a} then, saw the sage companions who waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood, that the tossing waters turbid grew, blood-stained the mere. Old men together, hoary-haired, of the hero spake; the warrior would not, they weened, again, proud of conquest, come to seek their mighty master. To many it seemed the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life. The ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings left the headland; homeward went the gold-friend of men. {23b} But the guests sat on, stared at the surges, sick in heart, and wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord again to see. Now that sword began, from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings, {23c} war-blade, to wane: 'twas a wondrous thing that all of it melted as ice is wont when frosty fetters the Father loosens, unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all seasons and times: the true God he! Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats save only the head and that hilt withal blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted, burned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot, so poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within there. Soon he was swimming who safe saw in combat downfall of demons; up-dove through the flood. The clashing waters were cleansed now, waste of waves, where the wandering fiend her life-days left and this lapsing world. Swam then to strand the sailors'-refuge, sturdy-in-spirit, of sea-booty glad, of burden brave he bore with him. Went then to greet him, and God they thanked, the thane-band choice of their chieftain blithe, that safe and sound they could see him again. Soon from the hardy one helmet and armor deftly they doffed: now drowsed the mere, water 'neath welkin, with war-blood stained. Forth they fared by the footpaths thence, merry at heart the highways measured, well-known roads. Courageous men carried the head from the cliff by the sea, an arduous task for all the band, the firm in fight, since four were needed on the shaft-of-slaughter {23d} strenuously to bear to the gold-hall Grendel's head. So presently to the palace there foemen fearless, fourteen Geats, marching came. Their master-of-clan mighty amid them the meadow-ways trod. Strode then within the sovran thane fearless in fight, of fame renowned, hardy hero, Hrothgar to greet. And next by the hair into hall was borne Grendel's head, where the henchmen were drinking, an awe to clan and queen alike, a monster of marvel: the men looked on. XXIV BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene, Lord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee, sign of glory; thou seest it here. Not lightly did I with my life escape! In war under water this work I essayed with endless effort; and even so my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me. Not a whit could I with Hrunting do in work of war, though the weapon is good; yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging, old, gigantic, -- how oft He guides the friendless wight! -- and I fought with that brand, felling in fight, since fate was with me, the house's wardens. That war-sword then all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it, battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds death-fall of Danes, as was due and right. And this is my hest, that in Heorot now safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band, and every thane of all thy folk both old and young; no evil fear, Scyldings' lord, from that side again, aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!" Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader, hoary hero, in hand was laid, giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it after downfall of devils, the Danish lord, wonder-smiths' work, since the world was rid of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God, murder-marked, and his mother as well. Now it passed into power of the people's king, best of all that the oceans bound who have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle. Hrothgar spake -- the hilt he viewed, heirloom old, where was etched the rise of that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed, raging waves, the race of giants (fearful their fate!), a folk estranged from God Eternal: whence guerdon due in that waste of waters the Wielder paid them. So on the guard of shining gold in runic staves it was rightly said for whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought, best of blades, in bygone days, and the hilt well wound. -- The wise-one spake, son of Healfdene; silent were all: -- "Lo, so may he say who sooth and right follows 'mid folk, of far times mindful, a land-warden old, {24a} that this earl belongs to the better breed! So, borne aloft, thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf, far and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thou shalt all maintain, mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of mine will I assure thee, as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay in future, in far-off years, to folk of thine, to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus to offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings, nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter, for doom of death to the Danishmen. He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades, companions at board! So he passed alone, chieftain haughty, from human cheer. Though him the Maker with might endowed, delights of power, and uplifted high above all men, yet blood-fierce his mind, his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he to Danes as was due; he endured all joyless strain of struggle and stress of woe, long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson! Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee, wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems how to sons of men Almighty God in the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom, estate, high station: He swayeth all things. Whiles He letteth right lustily fare the heart of the hero of high-born race, -- in seat ancestral assigns him bliss, his folk's sure fortress in fee to hold, puts in his power great parts of the earth, empire so ample, that end of it this wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none. So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him illness or age; no evil cares shadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens from ever an enemy: all the world wends at his will, no worse he knoweth, till all within him obstinate pride waxes and wakes while the warden slumbers, the spirit's sentry; sleep is too fast which masters his might, and the murderer nears, stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow! XXV "UNDER harness his heart then is hit indeed by sharpest shafts; and no shelter avails from foul behest of the hellish fiend. {25a} Him seems too little what long he possessed. Greedy and grim, no golden rings he gives for his pride; the promised future forgets he and spurns, with all God has sent him, Wonder-Wielder, of wealth and fame. Yet in the end it ever comes that the frame of the body fragile yields, fated falls; and there follows another who joyously the jewels divides, the royal riches, nor recks of his forebear. Ban, then, such baleful thoughts, Beowulf dearest, best of men, and the better part choose, profit eternal; and temper thy pride, warrior famous! The flower of thy might lasts now a while: but erelong it shall be that sickness or sword thy strength shall minish, or fang of fire, or flooding billow, or bite of blade, or brandished spear, or odious age; or the eyes' clear beam wax dull and darken: Death even thee in haste shall o'erwhelm, thou hero of war! So the Ring-Danes these half-years a hundred I ruled, wielded 'neath welkin, and warded them bravely from mighty-ones many o'er middle-earth, from spear and sword, till it seemed for me no foe could be found under fold of the sky. Lo, sudden the shift! To me seated secure came grief for joy when Grendel began to harry my home, the hellish foe; for those ruthless raids, unresting I suffered heart-sorrow heavy. Heaven be thanked, Lord Eternal, for life extended that I on this head all hewn and bloody, after long evil, with eyes may gaze! -- Go to the bench now! Be glad at banquet, warrior worthy! A wealth of treasure at dawn of day, be dealt between us!" Glad was the Geats' lord, going betimes to seek his seat, as the Sage commanded. Afresh, as before, for the famed-in-battle, for the band of the hall, was a banquet dight nobly anew. The Night-Helm darkened dusk o'er the drinkers. The doughty ones rose: for the hoary-headed would hasten to rest, aged Scylding; and eager the Geat, shield-fighter sturdy, for sleeping yearned. Him wander-weary, warrior-guest from far, a hall-thane heralded forth, who by custom courtly cared for all needs of a thane as in those old days warrior-wanderers wont to have. So slumbered the stout-heart. Stately the hall rose gabled and gilt where the guest slept on till a raven black the rapture-of-heaven {25b} blithe-heart boded. Bright came flying shine after shadow. The swordsmen hastened, athelings all were eager homeward forth to fare; and far from thence the great-hearted guest would guide his keel. Bade then the hardy-one Hrunting be brought to the son of Ecglaf, the sword bade him take, excellent iron, and uttered his thanks for it, quoth that he counted it keen in battle, "war-friend" winsome: with words he slandered not edge of the blade: 'twas a big-hearted man! Now eager for parting and armed at point warriors waited, while went to his host that Darling of Danes. The doughty atheling to high-seat hastened and Hrothgar greeted. XXVI BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "Lo, we seafarers say our will, far-come men, that we fain would seek Hygelac now. We here have found hosts to our heart: thou hast harbored us well. If ever on earth I am able to win me more of thy love, O lord of men, aught anew, than I now have done, for work of war I am willing still! If it come to me ever across the seas that neighbor foemen annoy and fright thee, -- as they that hate thee erewhile have used, -- thousands then of thanes I shall bring, heroes to help thee. Of Hygelac I know, ward of his folk, that, though few his years, the lord of the Geats will give me aid by word and by work, that well I may serve thee, wielding the war-wood to win thy triumph and lending thee might when thou lackest men. If thy Hrethric should come to court of Geats, a sovran's son, he will surely there find his friends. A far-off land each man should visit who vaunts him brave." Him then answering, Hrothgar spake: -- "These words of thine the wisest God sent to thy soul! No sager counsel from so young in years e'er yet have I heard. Thou art strong of main and in mind art wary, art wise in words! I ween indeed if ever it hap that Hrethel's heir by spear be seized, by sword-grim battle, by illness or iron, thine elder and lord, people's leader, -- and life be thine, -- no seemlier man will the Sea-Geats find at all to choose for their chief and king, for hoard-guard of heroes, if hold thou wilt thy kinsman's kingdom! Thy keen mind pleases me the longer the better, Beowulf loved! Thou hast brought it about that both our peoples, sons of the Geat and Spear-Dane folk, shall have mutual peace, and from murderous strife, such as once they waged, from war refrain. Long as I rule this realm so wide, let our hoards be common, let heroes with gold each other greet o'er the gannet's-bath, and the ringed-prow bear o'er rolling waves tokens of love. I trow my landfolk towards friend and foe are firmly joined, and honor they keep in the olden way." To him in the hall, then, Healfdene's son gave treasures twelve, and the trust-of-earls bade him fare with the gifts to his folk beloved, hale to his home, and in haste return. Then kissed the king of kin renowned, Scyldings' chieftain, that choicest thane, and fell on his neck. Fast flowed the tears of the hoary-headed. Heavy with winters, he had chances twain, but he clung to this, {26a} -- that each should look on the other again, and hear him in hall. Was this hero so dear to him. his breast's wild billows he banned in vain; safe in his soul a secret longing, locked in his mind, for that loved man burned in his blood. Then Beowulf strode, glad of his gold-gifts, the grass-plot o'er, warrior blithe. The wave-roamer bode riding at anchor, its owner awaiting. As they hastened onward, Hrothgar's gift they lauded at length. -- 'Twas a lord unpeered, every way blameless, till age had broken -- it spareth no mortal -- his splendid might. XXVII CAME now to ocean the ever-courageous hardy henchmen, their harness bearing, woven war-sarks. The warden marked, trusty as ever, the earl's return. From the height of the hill no hostile words reached the guests as he rode to greet them; but "Welcome!" he called to that Weder clan as the sheen-mailed spoilers to ship marched on. Then on the strand, with steeds and treasure and armor their roomy and ring-dight ship was heavily laden: high its mast rose over Hrothgar's hoarded gems. A sword to the boat-guard Beowulf gave, mounted with gold; on the mead-bench since he was better esteemed, that blade possessing, heirloom old. -- Their ocean-keel boarding, they drove through the deep, and Daneland left. A sea-cloth was set, a sail with ropes, firm to the mast; the flood-timbers moaned; {27a} nor did wind over billows that wave-swimmer blow across from her course. The craft sped on, foam-necked it floated forth o'er the waves, keel firm-bound over briny currents, till they got them sight of the Geatish cliffs, home-known headlands. High the boat, stirred by winds, on the strand updrove. Helpful at haven the harbor-guard stood, who long already for loved companions by the water had waited and watched afar. He bound to the beach the broad-bosomed ship with anchor-bands, lest ocean-billows that trusty timber should tear away. Then Beowulf bade them bear the treasure, gold and jewels; no journey far was it thence to go to the giver of rings, Hygelac Hrethling: at home he dwelt by the sea-wall close, himself and clan. Haughty that house, a hero the king, high the hall, and Hygd {27b} right young, wise and wary, though winters few in those fortress walls she had found a home, Haereth's daughter. Nor humble her ways, nor grudged she gifts to the Geatish men, of precious treasure. Not Thryth's pride showed she, folk-queen famed, or that fell deceit. Was none so daring that durst make bold (save her lord alone) of the liegemen dear that lady full in the face to look, but forged fetters he found his lot, bonds of death! And brief the respite; soon as they seized him, his sword-doom was spoken, and the burnished blade a baleful murder proclaimed and closed. No queenly way for woman to practise, though peerless she, that the weaver-of-peace {27c} from warrior dear by wrath and lying his life should reave! But Hemming's kinsman hindered this. -- For over their ale men also told that of these folk-horrors fewer she wrought, onslaughts of evil, after she went, gold-decked bride, to the brave young prince, atheling haughty, and Offa's hall o'er the fallow flood at her father's bidding safely sought, where since she prospered, royal, throned, rich in goods, fain of the fair life fate had sent her, and leal in love to the lord of warriors. He, of all heroes I heard of ever from sea to sea, of the sons of earth, most excellent seemed. Hence Offa was praised for his fighting and feeing by far-off men, the spear-bold warrior; wisely he ruled over his empire. Eomer woke to him, help of heroes, Hemming's kinsman, Grandson of Garmund, grim in war. XXVIII HASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him, sandy strand of the sea to tread and widespread ways. The world's great candle, sun shone from south. They strode along with sturdy steps to the spot they knew where the battle-king young, his burg within, slayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings, shelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac Beowulf's coming was quickly told, -- that there in the court the clansmen's refuge, the shield-companion sound and alive, hale from the hero-play homeward strode. With haste in the hall, by highest order, room for the rovers was readily made. By his sovran he sat, come safe from battle, kinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord he first had greeted in gracious form, with manly words. The mead dispensing, came through the high hall Haereth's daughter, winsome to warriors, wine-cup bore to the hands of the heroes. Hygelac then his comrade fairly with question plied in the lofty hall, sore longing to know what manner of sojourn the Sea-Geats made. "What came of thy quest, my kinsman Beowulf, when thy yearnings suddenly swept thee yonder battle to seek o'er the briny sea, combat in Heorot? Hrothgar couldst thou aid at all, the honored chief, in his wide-known woes? With waves of care my sad heart seethed; I sore mistrusted my loved one's venture: long I begged thee by no means to seek that slaughtering monster, but suffer the South-Danes to settle their feud themselves with Grendel. Now God be thanked that safe and sound I can see thee now!" Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "'Tis known and unhidden, Hygelac Lord, to many men, that meeting of ours, struggle grim between Grendel and me, which we fought on the field where full too many sorrows he wrought for the Scylding-Victors, evils unending. These all I avenged. No boast can be from breed of Grendel, any on earth, for that uproar at dawn, from the longest-lived of the loathsome race in fleshly fold! -- But first I went Hrothgar to greet in the hall of gifts, where Healfdene's kinsman high-renowned, soon as my purpose was plain to him, assigned me a seat by his son and heir. The liegemen were lusty; my life-days never such merry men over mead in hall have I heard under heaven! The high-born queen, people's peace-bringer, passed through the hall, cheered the young clansmen, clasps of gold, ere she sought her seat, to sundry gave. Oft to the heroes Hrothgar's daughter, to earls in turn, the ale-cup tendered, -- she whom I heard these hall-companions Freawaru name, when fretted gold she proffered the warriors. Promised is she, gold-decked maid, to the glad son of Froda. Sage this seems to the Scylding's-friend, kingdom's-keeper: he counts it wise the woman to wed so and ward off feud, store of slaughter. But seldom ever when men are slain, does the murder-spear sink but briefest while, though the bride be fair! {28a} "Nor haply will like it the Heathobard lord, and as little each of his liegemen all, when a thane of the Danes, in that doughty throng, goes with the lady along their hall, and on him the old-time heirlooms glisten hard and ring-decked, Heathobard's treasure, weapons that once they wielded fair until they lost at the linden-play {28b} liegeman leal and their lives as well. Then, over the ale, on this heirloom gazing, some ash-wielder old who has all in mind that spear-death of men, {28c} -- he is stern of mood, heavy at heart, -- in the hero young tests the temper and tries the soul and war-hate wakens, with words like these: -- Canst thou not, comrade, ken that sword which to the fray thy father carried in his final feud, 'neath the fighting-mask, dearest of blades, when the Danish slew him and wielded the war-place on Withergild's fall, after havoc of heroes, those hardy Scyldings? Now, the son of a certain slaughtering Dane, proud of his treasure, paces this hall, joys in the killing, and carries the jewel {28d} that rightfully ought to be owned by thee!_ Thus he urges and eggs him all the time with keenest words, till occasion offers that Freawaru's thane, for his father's deed, after bite of brand in his blood must slumber, losing his life; but that liegeman flies living away, for the land he kens. And thus be broken on both their sides oaths of the earls, when Ingeld's breast wells with war-hate, and wife-love now after the care-billows cooler grows. "So {28e} I hold not high the Heathobards' faith due to the Danes, or their during love and pact of peace. -- But I pass from that, turning to Grendel, O giver-of-treasure, and saying in full how the fight resulted, hand-fray of heroes. When heaven's jewel had fled o'er far fields, that fierce sprite came, night-foe savage, to seek us out where safe and sound we sentried the hall. To Hondscio then was that harassing deadly, his fall there was fated. He first was slain, girded warrior. Grendel on him turned murderous mouth, on our mighty kinsman, and all of the brave man's body devoured. Yet none the earlier, empty-handed, would the bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of bale, outward go from the gold-decked hall: but me he attacked in his terror of might, with greedy hand grasped me. A glove hung by him {28f} wide and wondrous, wound with bands; and in artful wise it all was wrought, by devilish craft, of dragon-skins. Me therein, an innocent man, the fiendish foe was fain to thrust with many another. He might not so, when I all angrily upright stood. 'Twere long to relate how that land-destroyer I paid in kind for his cruel deeds; yet there, my prince, this people of thine got fame by my fighting. He fled away, and a little space his life preserved; but there staid behind him his stronger hand left in Heorot; heartsick thence on the floor of the ocean that outcast fell. Me for this struggle the Scyldings'-friend paid in plenty with plates of gold, with many a treasure, when morn had come and we all at the banquet-board sat down. Then was song and glee. The gray-haired Scylding, much tested, told of the times of yore. Whiles the hero his harp bestirred, wood-of-delight; now lays he chanted of sooth and sadness, or said aright legends of wonder, the wide-hearted king; or for years of his youth he would yearn at times, for strength of old struggles, now stricken with age, hoary hero: his heart surged full when, wise with winters, he wailed their flight. Thus in the hall the whole of that day at ease we feasted, till fell o'er earth another night. Anon full ready in greed of vengeance, Grendel's mother set forth all doleful. Dead was her son through war-hate of Weders; now, woman monstrous with fury fell a foeman she slew, avenged her offspring. From Aeschere old, loyal councillor, life was gone; nor might they e'en, when morning broke, those Danish people, their death-done comrade burn with brands, on balefire lay the man they mourned. Under mountain stream she had carried the corpse with cruel hands. For Hrothgar that was the heaviest sorrow of all that had laden the lord of his folk. The leader then, by thy life, besought me (sad was his soul) in the sea-waves' coil to play the hero and hazard my being for glory of prowess: my guerdon he pledged. I then in the waters -- 'tis widely known -- that sea-floor-guardian savage found. Hand-to-hand there a while we struggled; billows welled blood; in the briny hall her head I hewed with a hardy blade from Grendel's mother, -- and gained my life, though not without danger. My doom was not yet. Then the haven-of-heroes, Healfdene's son, gave me in guerdon great gifts of price. XXIX "So held this king to the customs old, that I wanted for nought in the wage I gained, the meed of my might; he made me gifts, Healfdene's heir, for my own disposal. Now to thee, my prince, I proffer them all, gladly give them. Thy grace alone can find me favor. Few indeed have I of kinsmen, save, Hygelac, thee!" Then he bade them bear him the boar-head standard, the battle-helm high, and breastplate gray, the splendid sword; then spake in form: -- "Me this war-gear the wise old prince, Hrothgar, gave, and his hest he added, that its story be straightway said to thee. -- A while it was held by Heorogar king, for long time lord of the land of Scyldings; yet not to his son the sovran left it, to daring Heoroweard, -- dear as he was to him, his harness of battle. -- Well hold thou it all!" And I heard that soon passed o'er the path of this treasure, all apple-fallow, four good steeds, each like the others, arms and horses he gave to the king. So should kinsmen be, not weave one another the net of wiles, or with deep-hid treachery death contrive for neighbor and comrade. His nephew was ever by hardy Hygelac held full dear, and each kept watch o'er the other's weal. I heard, too, the necklace to Hygd he presented, wonder-wrought treasure, which Wealhtheow gave him sovran's daughter: three steeds he added, slender and saddle-gay. Since such gift the gem gleamed bright on the breast of the queen. Thus showed his strain the son of Ecgtheow as a man remarked for mighty deeds and acts of honor. At ale he slew not comrade or kin; nor cruel his mood, though of sons of earth his strength was greatest, a glorious gift that God had sent the splendid leader. Long was he spurned, and worthless by Geatish warriors held; him at mead the master-of-clans failed full oft to favor at all. Slack and shiftless the strong men deemed him, profitless prince; but payment came, to the warrior honored, for all his woes. -- Then the bulwark-of-earls {29a} bade bring within, hardy chieftain, Hrethel's heirloom garnished with gold: no Geat e'er knew in shape of a sword a statelier prize. The brand he laid in Beowulf's lap; and of hides assigned him seven thousand, {29b} with house and high-seat. They held in common land alike by their line of birth, inheritance, home: but higher the king because of his rule o'er the realm itself. Now further it fell with the flight of years, with harryings horrid, that Hygelac perished, {29c} and Heardred, too, by hewing of swords under the shield-wall slaughtered lay, when him at the van of his victor-folk sought hardy heroes, Heatho-Scilfings, in arms o'erwhelming Hereric's nephew. Then Beowulf came as king this broad realm to wield; and he ruled it well fifty winters, {29d} a wise old prince, warding his land, until One began in the dark of night, a Dragon, to rage. In the grave on the hill a hoard it guarded, in the stone-barrow steep. A strait path reached it, unknown to mortals. Some man, however, came by chance that cave within to the heathen hoard. {29e} In hand he took a golden goblet, nor gave he it back, stole with it away, while the watcher slept, by thievish wiles: for the warden's wrath prince and people must pay betimes! XXX THAT way he went with no will of his own, in danger of life, to the dragon's hoard, but for pressure of peril, some prince's thane. He fled in fear the fatal scourge, seeking shelter, a sinful man, and entered in. At the awful sight tottered that guest, and terror seized him; yet the wretched fugitive rallied anon from fright and fear ere he fled away, and took the cup from that treasure-hoard. Of such besides there was store enough, heirlooms old, the earth below, which some earl forgotten, in ancient years, left the last of his lofty race, heedfully there had hidden away, dearest treasure. For death of yore had hurried all hence; and he alone left to live, the last of the clan, weeping his friends, yet wished to bide warding the treasure, his one delight, though brief his respite. The barrow, new-ready, to strand and sea-waves stood anear, hard by the headland, hidden and closed; there laid within it his lordly heirlooms and heaped hoard of heavy gold that warden of rings. Few words he spake: "Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not, what earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee brave men brought it! But battle-death seized and cruel killing my clansmen all, robbed them of life and a liegeman's joys. None have I left to lift the sword, or to cleanse the carven cup of price, beaker bright. My brave are gone. And the helmet hard, all haughty with gold, shall part from its plating. Polishers sleep who could brighten and burnish the battle-mask; and those weeds of war that were wont to brave over bicker of shields the bite of steel rust with their bearer. The ringed mail fares not far with famous chieftain, at side of hero! No harp's delight, no glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now flies through the hall! Nor horses fleet stamp in the burgstead! Battle and death the flower of my race have reft away." Mournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe, alone, for them all, and unblithe wept by day and by night, till death's fell wave o'erwhelmed his heart. His hoard-of-bliss that old ill-doer open found, who, blazing at twilight the barrows haunteth, naked foe-dragon flying by night folded in fire: the folk of earth dread him sore. 'Tis his doom to seek hoard in the graves, and heathen gold to watch, many-wintered: nor wins he thereby! Powerful this plague-of-the-people thus held the house of the hoard in earth three hundred winters; till One aroused wrath in his breast, to the ruler bearing that costly cup, and the king implored for bond of peace. So the barrow was plundered, borne off was booty. His boon was granted that wretched man; and his ruler saw first time what was fashioned in far-off days. When the dragon awoke, new woe was kindled. O'er the stone he snuffed. The stark-heart found footprint of foe who so far had gone in his hidden craft by the creature's head. -- So may the undoomed easily flee evils and exile, if only he gain the grace of The Wielder! -- That warden of gold o'er the ground went seeking, greedy to find the man who wrought him such wrong in sleep. Savage and burning, the barrow he circled all without; nor was any there, none in the waste.... Yet war he desired, was eager for battle. The barrow he entered, sought the cup, and discovered soon that some one of mortals had searched his treasure, his lordly gold. The guardian waited ill-enduring till evening came; boiling with wrath was the barrow's keeper, and fain with flame the foe to pay for the dear cup's loss. -- Now day was fled as the worm had wished. By its wall no more was it glad to bide, but burning flew folded in flame: a fearful beginning for sons of the soil; and soon it came, in the doom of their lord, to a dreadful end. XXXI THEN the baleful fiend its fire belched out, and bright homes burned. The blaze stood high all landsfolk frighting. No living thing would that loathly one leave as aloft it flew. Wide was the dragon's warring seen, its fiendish fury far and near, as the grim destroyer those Geatish people hated and hounded. To hidden lair, to its hoard it hastened at hint of dawn. Folk of the land it had lapped in flame, with bale and brand. In its barrow it trusted, its battling and bulwarks: that boast was vain! To Beowulf then the bale was told quickly and truly: the king's own home, of buildings the best, in brand-waves melted, that gift-throne of Geats. To the good old man sad in heart, 'twas heaviest sorrow. The sage assumed that his sovran God he had angered, breaking ancient law, and embittered the Lord. His breast within with black thoughts welled, as his wont was never. The folk's own fastness that fiery dragon with flame had destroyed, and the stronghold all washed by waves; but the warlike king, prince of the Weders, plotted vengeance. Warriors'-bulwark, he bade them work all of iron -- the earl's commander -- a war-shield wondrous: well he knew that forest-wood against fire were worthless, linden could aid not. -- Atheling brave, he was fated to finish this fleeting life, {31a} his days on earth, and the dragon with him, though long it had watched o'er the wealth of the hoard! -- Shame he reckoned it, sharer-of-rings, to follow the flyer-afar with a host, a broad-flung band; nor the battle feared he, nor deemed he dreadful the dragon's warring, its vigor and valor: ventures desperate he had passed a-plenty, and perils of war, contest-crash, since, conqueror proud, Hrothgar's hall he had wholly purged, and in grapple had killed the kin of Grendel, loathsome breed! Not least was that of hand-to-hand fights where Hygelac fell, when the ruler of Geats in rush of battle, lord of his folk, in the Frisian land, son of Hrethel, by sword-draughts died, by brands down-beaten. Thence Beowulf fled through strength of himself and his swimming power, though alone, and his arms were laden with thirty coats of mail, when he came to the sea! Nor yet might Hetwaras {31b} haughtily boast their craft of contest, who carried against him shields to the fight: but few escaped from strife with the hero to seek their homes! Then swam over ocean Ecgtheow's son lonely and sorrowful, seeking his land, where Hygd made him offer of hoard and realm, rings and royal-seat, reckoning naught the strength of her son to save their kingdom from hostile hordes, after Hygelac's death. No sooner for this could the stricken ones in any wise move that atheling's mind over young Heardred's head as lord and ruler of all the realm to be: yet the hero upheld him with helpful words, aided in honor, till, older grown, he wielded the Weder-Geats. -- Wandering exiles sought him o'er seas, the sons of Ohtere, who had spurned the sway of the Scylfings'-helmet, the bravest and best that broke the rings, in Swedish land, of the sea-kings' line, haughty hero. {31c} Hence Heardred's end. For shelter he gave them, sword-death came, the blade's fell blow, to bairn of Hygelac; but the son of Ongentheow sought again house and home when Heardred fell, leaving Beowulf lord of Geats and gift-seat's master. -- A good king he! XXXII THE fall of his lord he was fain to requite in after days; and to Eadgils he proved friend to the friendless, and forces sent over the sea to the son of Ohtere, weapons and warriors: well repaid he those care-paths cold when the king he slew. {32a} Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow had passed a plenty, through perils dire, with daring deeds, till this day was come that doomed him now with the dragon to strive. With comrades eleven the lord of Geats swollen in rage went seeking the dragon. He had heard whence all the harm arose and the killing of clansmen; that cup of price on the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder. In the throng was this one thirteenth man, starter of all the strife and ill, care-laden captive; cringing thence forced and reluctant, he led them on till he came in ken of that cavern-hall, the barrow delved near billowy surges, flood of ocean. Within 'twas full of wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden, warrior trusty, the treasures held, lurked in his lair. Not light the task of entrance for any of earth-born men! Sat on the headland the hero king, spake words of hail to his hearth-companions, gold-friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul, wavering, death-bound. Wyrd full nigh stood ready to greet the gray-haired man, to seize his soul-hoard, sunder apart life and body. Not long would be the warrior's spirit enwound with flesh. Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow: -- "Through store of struggles I strove in youth, mighty feuds; I mind them all. I was seven years old when the sovran of rings, friend-of-his-folk, from my father took me, had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, with food and fee, faithful in kinship. Ne'er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me, bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons, Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine. For the eldest of these, by unmeet chance, by kinsman's deed, was the death-bed strewn, when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow, his own dear liege laid low with an arrow, missed the mark and his mate shot down, one brother the other, with bloody shaft. A feeless fight, {32b} and a fearful sin, horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was, unavenged must the atheling die! Too awful it is for an aged man to bide and bear, that his bairn so young rides on the gallows. A rime he makes, sorrow-song for his son there hanging as rapture of ravens; no rescue now can come from the old, disabled man! Still is he minded, as morning breaks, of the heir gone elsewhere; {32c} another he hopes not he will bide to see his burg within as ward for his wealth, now the one has found doom of death that the deed incurred. Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son, wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers reft of revel. The rider sleepeth, the hero, far-hidden; {32d} no harp resounds, in the courts no wassail, as once was heard. XXXIII "THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants alone for his lost. Too large all seems, homestead and house. So the helmet-of-Weders hid in his heart for Herebeald waves of woe. No way could he take to avenge on the slayer slaughter so foul; nor e'en could he harass that hero at all with loathing deed, though he loved him not. And so for the sorrow his soul endured, men's gladness he gave up and God's light chose. Lands and cities he left his sons (as the wealthy do) when he went from earth. There was strife and struggle 'twixt Swede and Geat o'er the width of waters; war arose, hard battle-horror, when Hrethel died, and Ongentheow's offspring grew strife-keen, bold, nor brooked o'er the seas pact of peace, but pushed their hosts to harass in hatred by Hreosnabeorh. Men of my folk for that feud had vengeance, for woful war ('tis widely known), though one of them bought it with blood of his heart, a bargain hard: for Haethcyn proved fatal that fray, for the first-of-Geats. At morn, I heard, was the murderer killed by kinsman for kinsman, {33a} with clash of sword, when Ongentheow met Eofor there. Wide split the war-helm: wan he fell, hoary Scylfing; the hand that smote him of feud was mindful, nor flinched from the death-blow. -- "For all that he {33b} gave me, my gleaming sword repaid him at war, -- such power I wielded, -- for lordly treasure: with land he entrusted me, homestead and house. He had no need from Swedish realm, or from Spear-Dane folk, or from men of the Gifths, to get him help, -- some warrior worse for wage to buy! Ever I fought in the front of all, sole to the fore; and so shall I fight while I bide in life and this blade shall last that early and late hath loyal proved since for my doughtiness Daeghrefn fell, slain by my hand, the Hugas' champion. Nor fared he thence to the Frisian king with the booty back, and breast-adornments; but, slain in struggle, that standard-bearer fell, atheling brave. Not with blade was he slain, but his bones were broken by brawny gripe, his heart-waves stilled. -- The sword-edge now, hard blade and my hand, for the hoard shall strive." Beowulf spake, and a battle-vow made his last of all: "I have lived through many wars in my youth; now once again, old folk-defender, feud will I seek, do doughty deeds, if the dark destroyer forth from his cavern come to fight me!" Then hailed he the helmeted heroes all, for the last time greeting his liegemen dear, comrades of war: "I should carry no weapon, no sword to the serpent, if sure I knew how, with such enemy, else my vows I could gain as I did in Grendel's day. But fire in this fight I must fear me now, and poisonous breath; so I bring with me breastplate and board. {33c} From the barrow's keeper no footbreadth flee I. One fight shall end our war by the wall, as Wyrd allots, all mankind's master. My mood is bold but forbears to boast o'er this battling-flyer. -- Now abide by the barrow, ye breastplate-mailed, ye heroes in harness, which of us twain better from battle-rush bear his wounds. Wait ye the finish. The fight is not yours, nor meet for any but me alone to measure might with this monster here and play the hero. Hardily I shall win that wealth, or war shall seize, cruel killing, your king and lord!" Up stood then with shield the sturdy champion, stayed by the strength of his single manhood, and hardy 'neath helmet his harness bore under cleft of the cliffs: no coward's path! Soon spied by the wall that warrior chief, survivor of many a victory-field where foemen fought with furious clashings, an arch of stone; and within, a stream that broke from the barrow. The brooklet's wave was hot with fire. The hoard that way he never could hope unharmed to near, or endure those deeps, {33d} for the dragon's flame. Then let from his breast, for he burst with rage, the Weder-Geat prince a word outgo; stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing and clear his cry 'neath the cliff-rocks gray. The hoard-guard heard a human voice; his rage was enkindled. No respite now for pact of peace! The poison-breath of that foul worm first came forth from the cave, hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded. Stout by the stone-way his shield he raised, lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one; while with courage keen that coiled foe came seeking strife. The sturdy king had drawn his sword, not dull of edge, heirloom old; and each of the two felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood. Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised the warrior king, as the worm now coiled together amain: the mailed-one waited. Now, spire by spire, fast sped and glided that blazing serpent. The shield protected, soul and body a shorter while for the hero-king than his heart desired, could his will have wielded the welcome respite but once in his life! But Wyrd denied it, and victory's honors. -- His arm he lifted lord of the Geats, the grim foe smote with atheling's heirloom. Its edge was turned brown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly than its noble master had need of then in his baleful stress. -- Then the barrow's keeper waxed full wild for that weighty blow, cast deadly flames; wide drove and far those vicious fires. No victor's glory the Geats' lord boasted; his brand had failed, naked in battle, as never it should, excellent iron! -- 'Twas no easy path that Ecgtheow's honored heir must tread over the plain to the place of the foe; for against his will he must win a home elsewhere far, as must all men, leaving this lapsing life! -- Not long it was ere those champions grimly closed again. The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast once more; and by peril was pressed again, enfolded in flames, the folk-commander! Nor yet about him his band of comrades, sons of athelings, armed stood with warlike front: to the woods they bent them, their lives to save. But the soul of one with care was cumbered. Kinship true can never be marred in a noble mind! XXXIV WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan's son, linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings, Aelfhere's kinsman. His king he now saw with heat under helmet hard oppressed. He minded the prizes his prince had given him, wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line, and folk-rights that his father owned Not long he lingered. The linden yellow, his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: -- as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it, who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere, friendless exile, erst in fray killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed, old sword of Eotens, Onela's gift, weeds of war of the warrior-thane, battle-gear brave: though a brother's child had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela. {34a} For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept, breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown earlship to earn as the old sire did: then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle, portion huge, when he passed from life, fared aged forth. For the first time now with his leader-lord the liegeman young was bidden to share the shock of battle. Neither softened his soul, nor the sire's bequest weakened in war. {34b} So the worm found out when once in fight the foes had met! Wiglaf spake, -- and his words were sage; sad in spirit, he said to his comrades: -- "I remember the time, when mead we took, what promise we made to this prince of ours in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings, for gear of combat to give him requital, for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring stress of this sort! Himself who chose us from all his army to aid him now, urged us to glory, and gave these treasures, because he counted us keen with the spear and hardy 'neath helm, though this hero-work our leader hoped unhelped and alone to finish for us, -- folk-defender who hath got him glory greater than all men for daring deeds! Now the day is come that our noble master has need of the might of warriors stout. Let us stride along the hero to help while the heat is about him glowing and grim! For God is my witness I am far more fain the fire should seize along with my lord these limbs of mine! {34c} Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear homeward hence, save here we essay to fell the foe and defend the life of the Weders' lord. I wot 'twere shame on the law of our land if alone the king out of Geatish warriors woe endured and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet, breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!" Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain, his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake: -- "Beowulf dearest, do all bravely, as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds, atheling steadfast, with all thy strength shield thy life! I will stand to help thee." At the words the worm came once again, murderous monster mad with rage, with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek, the hated men. In heat-waves burned that board {34d} to the boss, and the breastplate failed to shelter at all the spear-thane young. Yet quickly under his kinsman's shield went eager the earl, since his own was now all burned by the blaze. The bold king again had mind of his glory: with might his glaive was driven into the dragon's head, -- blow nerved by hate. But Naegling {34e} was shivered, broken in battle was Beowulf's sword, old and gray. 'Twas granted him not that ever the edge of iron at all could help him at strife: too strong was his hand, so the tale is told, and he tried too far with strength of stroke all swords he wielded, though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought. Then for the third time thought on its feud that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon, and rushed on the hero, where room allowed, battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth closed on his neck, and covered him with waves of blood from his breast that welled. XXXV 'TWAS now, men say, in his sovran's need that the earl made known his noble strain, craft and keenness and courage enduring. Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned, hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman. A little lower the loathsome beast he smote with sword; his steel drove in bright and burnished; that blaze began to lose and lessen. At last the king wielded his wits again, war-knife drew, a biting blade by his breastplate hanging, and the Weders'-helm smote that worm asunder, felled the foe, flung forth its life. So had they killed it, kinsmen both, athelings twain: thus an earl should be in danger's day! -- Of deeds of valor this conqueror's-hour of the king was last, of his work in the world. The wound began, which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted, to swell and smart; and soon he found in his breast was boiling, baleful and deep, pain of poison. The prince walked on, wise in his thought, to the wall of rock; then sat, and stared at the structure of giants, where arch of stone and steadfast column upheld forever that hall in earth. Yet here must the hand of the henchman peerless lave with water his winsome lord, the king and conqueror covered with blood, with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet. Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt, his mortal wound; full well he knew his portion now was past and gone of earthly bliss, and all had fled of his file of days, and death was near: "I would fain bestow on son of mine this gear of war, were given me now that any heir should after me come of my proper blood. This people I ruled fifty winters. No folk-king was there, none at all, of the neighboring clans who war would wage me with 'warriors'-friends' {35a} and threat me with horrors. At home I bided what fate might come, and I cared for mine own; feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore ever on oath. For all these things, though fatally wounded, fain am I! From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me, when life from my frame must flee away, for killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go and gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock, Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low, sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved. And fare in haste. I would fain behold the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store, have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down softlier for sight of this splendid hoard my life and the lordship I long have held." XXXVI I HAVE heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan at wish and word of his wounded king, -- war-sick warrior, -- woven mail-coat, battle-sark, bore 'neath the barrow's roof. Then the clansman keen, of conquest proud, passing the seat, {36a} saw store of jewels and glistening gold the ground along; by the wall were marvels, and many a vessel in the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier old: unburnished bowls of bygone men reft of richness; rusty helms of the olden age; and arm-rings many wondrously woven. -- Such wealth of gold, booty from barrow, can burden with pride each human wight: let him hide it who will! -- His glance too fell on a gold-wove banner high o'er the hoard, of handiwork noblest, brilliantly broidered; so bright its gleam, all the earth-floor he easily saw and viewed all these vessels. No vestige now was seen of the serpent: the sword had ta'en him. Then, I heard, the hill of its hoard was reft, old work of giants, by one alone; he burdened his bosom with beakers and plate at his own good will, and the ensign took, brightest of beacons. -- The blade of his lord -- its edge was iron -- had injured deep one that guarded the golden hoard many a year and its murder-fire spread hot round the barrow in horror-billows at midnight hour, till it met its doom. Hasted the herald, the hoard so spurred him his track to retrace; he was troubled by doubt, high-souled hero, if haply he'd find alive, where he left him, the lord of Weders, weakening fast by the wall of the cave. So he carried the load. His lord and king he found all bleeding, famous chief at the lapse of life. The liegeman again plashed him with water, till point of word broke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf spake, sage and sad, as he stared at the gold. -- "For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks, to the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say, for what I behold, to Heaven's Lord, for the grace that I give such gifts to my folk or ever the day of my death be run! Now I've bartered here for booty of treasure the last of my life, so look ye well to the needs of my land! No longer I tarry. A barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise for my ashes. 'Twill shine by the shore of the flood, to folk of mine memorial fair on Hrones Headland high uplifted, that ocean-wanderers oft may hail Beowulf's Barrow, as back from far they drive their keels o'er the darkling wave." From his neck he unclasped the collar of gold, valorous king, to his vassal gave it with bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring, to the youthful thane: bade him use them in joy. "Thou art end and remnant of all our race the Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them, all my line, to the land of doom, earls in their glory: I after them go." This word was the last which the wise old man harbored in heart ere hot death-waves of balefire he chose. From his bosom fled his soul to seek the saints' reward. XXXVII IT was heavy hap for that hero young on his lord beloved to look and find him lying on earth with life at end, sorrowful sight. But the slayer too, awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, could the writhing monster rule it more. For edges of iron had ended its days, hard and battle-sharp, hammers' leaving; {37a} and that flier-afar had fallen to ground hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, no longer lusty aloft to whirl at midnight, making its merriment seen, proud of its prizes: prone it sank by the handiwork of the hero-king. Forsooth among folk but few achieve, -- though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, and never so daring in deed of valor, -- the perilous breath of a poison-foe to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, whenever his watch the warden keeps bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid the price of death for that precious hoard; and each of the foes had found the end of this fleeting life. Befell erelong that the laggards in war the wood had left, trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, fearing before to flourish a spear in the sore distress of their sovran lord. Now in their shame their shields they carried, armor of fight, where the old man lay; and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat at his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good, to wake him with water. {37b} Nowise it availed. Though well he wished it, in world no more could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles nor baffle the will of all-wielding God. Doom of the Lord was law o'er the deeds of every man, as it is to-day. Grim was the answer, easy to get, from the youth for those that had yielded to fear! Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, -- mournful he looked on those men unloved: -- "Who sooth will speak, can say indeed that the ruler who gave you golden rings and the harness of war in which ye stand -- for he at ale-bench often-times bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear which near of far he could find to give, -- threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, on men who failed when the foemen came! Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, God, gave him grace that he got revenge sole with his sword in stress and need. To rescue his life, 'twas little that I could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman. Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly flowed from its head. -- Too few the heroes in throe of contest that thronged to our king! Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, joy of the house and home-delight shall fail your folk; his freehold-land every clansman within your kin shall lose and leave, when lords high-born hear afar of that flight of yours, a fameless deed. Yea, death is better for liegemen all than a life of shame!" XXXVIII THAT battle-toil bade he at burg to announce, at the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow, all the morning earls had sat, daring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain: would they wail as dead, or welcome home, their lord beloved? Little {38a} kept back of the tidings new, but told them all, the herald that up the headland rode. -- "Now the willing-giver to Weder folk in death-bed lies; the Lord of Geats on the slaughter-bed sleeps by the serpent's deed! And beside him is stretched that slayer-of-men with knife-wounds sick: {38b} no sword availed on the awesome thing in any wise to work a wound. There Wiglaf sitteth, Weohstan's bairn, by Beowulf's side, the living earl by the other dead, and heavy of heart a head-watch {38c} keeps o'er friend and foe. -- Now our folk may look for waging of war when once unhidden to Frisian and Frank the fall of the king is spread afar. -- The strife began when hot on the Hugas {38d} Hygelac fell and fared with his fleet to the Frisian land. Him there the Hetwaras humbled in war, plied with such prowess their power o'erwhelming that the bold-in-battle bowed beneath it and fell in fight. To his friends no wise could that earl give treasure! And ever since the Merowings' favor has failed us wholly. Nor aught expect I of peace and faith from Swedish folk. 'Twas spread afar how Ongentheow reft at Ravenswood Haethcyn Hrethling of hope and life, when the folk of Geats for the first time sought in wanton pride the Warlike-Scylfings. Soon the sage old sire {38e} of Ohtere, ancient and awful, gave answering blow; the sea-king {38f} he slew, and his spouse redeemed, his good wife rescued, though robbed of her gold, mother of Ohtere and Onela. Then he followed his foes, who fled before him sore beset and stole their way, bereft of a ruler, to Ravenswood. With his host he besieged there what swords had left, the weary and wounded; woes he threatened the whole night through to that hard-pressed throng: some with the morrow his sword should kill, some should go to the gallows-tree for rapture of ravens. But rescue came with dawn of day for those desperate men when they heard the horn of Hygelac sound, tones of his trumpet; the trusty king had followed their trail with faithful band. XXXIX "THE bloody swath of Swedes and Geats and the storm of their strife, were seen afar, how folk against folk the fight had wakened. The ancient king with his atheling band sought his citadel, sorrowing much: Ongentheow earl went up to his burg. He had tested Hygelac's hardihood, the proud one's prowess, would prove it no longer, defied no more those fighting-wanderers nor hoped from the seamen to save his hoard, his bairn and his bride: so he bent him again, old, to his earth-walls. Yet after him came with slaughter for Swedes the standards of Hygelac o'er peaceful plains in pride advancing, till Hrethelings fought in the fenced town. {39a} Then Ongentheow with edge of sword, the hoary-bearded, was held at bay, and the folk-king there was forced to suffer Eofor's anger. In ire, at the king Wulf Wonreding with weapon struck; and the chieftain's blood, for that blow, in streams flowed 'neath his hair. No fear felt he, stout old Scylfing, but straightway repaid in better bargain that bitter stroke and faced his foe with fell intent. Nor swift enough was the son of Wonred answer to render the aged chief; too soon on his head the helm was cloven; blood-bedecked he bowed to earth, and fell adown; not doomed was he yet, and well he waxed, though the wound was sore. Then the hardy Hygelac-thane, {39b} when his brother fell, with broad brand smote, giants' sword crashing through giants'-helm across the shield-wall: sank the king, his folk's old herdsman, fatally hurt. There were many to bind the brother's wounds and lift him, fast as fate allowed his people to wield the place-of-war. But Eofor took from Ongentheow, earl from other, the iron-breastplate, hard sword hilted, and helmet too, and the hoar-chief's harness to Hygelac carried, who took the trappings, and truly promised rich fee 'mid folk, -- and fulfilled it so. For that grim strife gave the Geatish lord, Hrethel's offspring, when home he came, to Eofor and Wulf a wealth of treasure, Each of them had a hundred thousand {39c} in land and linked rings; nor at less price reckoned mid-earth men such mighty deeds! And to Eofor he gave his only daughter in pledge of grace, the pride of his home. "Such is the feud, the foeman's rage, death-hate of men: so I deem it sure that the Swedish folk will seek us home for this fall of their friends, the fighting-Scylfings, when once they learn that our warrior leader lifeless lies, who land and hoard ever defended from all his foes, furthered his folk's weal, finished his course a hardy hero. -- Now haste is best, that we go to gaze on our Geatish lord, and bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings to the funeral pyre. No fragments merely shall burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels, gold untold and gained in terror, treasure at last with his life obtained, all of that booty the brands shall take, fire shall eat it. No earl must carry memorial jewel. No maiden fair shall wreathe her neck with noble ring: nay, sad in spirit and shorn of her gold, oft shall she pass o'er paths of exile now our lord all laughter has laid aside, all mirth and revel. Many a spear morning-cold shall be clasped amain, lifted aloft; nor shall lilt of harp those warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven, fain o'er the fallen, his feast shall praise and boast to the eagle how bravely he ate when he and the wolf were wasting the slain." So he told his sorrowful tidings, and little {39d} he lied, the loyal man of word or of work. The warriors rose; sad, they climbed to the Cliff-of-Eagles, went, welling with tears, the wonder to view. Found on the sand there, stretched at rest, their lifeless lord, who had lavished rings of old upon them. Ending-day had dawned on the doughty-one; death had seized in woful slaughter the Weders' king. There saw they, besides, the strangest being, loathsome, lying their leader near, prone on the field. The fiery dragon, fearful fiend, with flame was scorched. Reckoned by feet, it was fifty measures in length as it lay. Aloft erewhile it had revelled by night, and anon come back, seeking its den; now in death's sure clutch it had come to the end of its earth-hall joys. By it there stood the stoups and jars; dishes lay there, and dear-decked swords eaten with rust, as, on earth's lap resting, a thousand winters they waited there. For all that heritage huge, that gold of bygone men, was bound by a spell, {39e} so the treasure-hall could be touched by none of human kind, -- save that Heaven's King, God himself, might give whom he would, Helper of Heroes, the hoard to open, -- even such a man as seemed to him meet. XL A PERILOUS path, it proved, he {40a} trod who heinously hid, that hall within, wealth under wall! Its watcher had killed one of a few, {40b} and the feud was avenged in woful fashion. Wondrous seems it, what manner a man of might and valor oft ends his life, when the earl no longer in mead-hall may live with loving friends. So Beowulf, when that barrow's warden he sought, and the struggle; himself knew not in what wise he should wend from the world at last. For {40c} princes potent, who placed the gold, with a curse to doomsday covered it deep, so that marked with sin the man should be, hedged with horrors, in hell-bonds fast, racked with plagues, who should rob their hoard. Yet no greed for gold, but the grace of heaven, ever the king had kept in view. {40d} Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan: -- "At the mandate of one, oft warriors many sorrow must suffer; and so must we. The people's-shepherd showed not aught of care for our counsel, king beloved! That guardian of gold he should grapple not, urged we, but let him lie where he long had been in his earth-hall waiting the end of the world, the hest of heaven. -- This hoard is ours but grievously gotten; too grim the fate which thither carried our king and lord. I was within there, and all I viewed, the chambered treasure, when chance allowed me (and my path was made in no pleasant wise) under the earth-wall. Eager, I seized such heap from the hoard as hands could bear and hurriedly carried it hither back to my liege and lord. Alive was he still, still wielding his wits. The wise old man spake much in his sorrow, and sent you greetings and bade that ye build, when he breathed no more, on the place of his balefire a barrow high, memorial mighty. Of men was he worthiest warrior wide earth o'er the while he had joy of his jewels and burg. Let us set out in haste now, the second time to see and search this store of treasure, these wall-hid wonders, -- the way I show you, -- where, gathered near, ye may gaze your fill at broad-gold and rings. Let the bier, soon made, be all in order when out we come, our king and captain to carry thither -- man beloved -- where long he shall bide safe in the shelter of sovran God." Then the bairn of Weohstan bade command, hardy chief, to heroes many that owned their homesteads, hither to bring firewood from far -- o'er the folk they ruled -- for the famed-one's funeral. " Fire shall devour and wan flames feed on the fearless warrior who oft stood stout in the iron-shower, when, sped from the string, a storm of arrows shot o'er the shield-wall: the shaft held firm, featly feathered, followed the barb." And now the sage young son of Weohstan seven chose of the chieftain's thanes, the best he found that band within, and went with these warriors, one of eight, under hostile roof. In hand one bore a lighted torch and led the way. No lots they cast for keeping the hoard when once the warriors saw it in hall, altogether without a guardian, lying there lost. And little they mourned when they had hastily haled it out, dear-bought treasure! The dragon they cast, the worm, o'er the wall for the wave to take, and surges swallowed that shepherd of gems. Then the woven gold on a wain was laden -- countless quite! -- and the king was borne, hoary hero, to Hrones-Ness. XLI THEN fashioned for him the folk of Geats firm on the earth a funeral-pile, and hung it with helmets and harness of war and breastplates bright, as the boon he asked; and they laid amid it the mighty chieftain, heroes mourning their master dear. Then on the hill that hugest of balefires the warriors wakened. Wood-smoke rose black over blaze, and blent was the roar of flame with weeping (the wind was still), till the fire had broken the frame of bones, hot at the heart. In heavy mood their misery moaned they, their master's death. Wailing her woe, the widow {41a} old, her hair upbound, for Beowulf's death sung in her sorrow, and said full oft she dreaded the doleful days to come, deaths enow, and doom of battle, and shame. -- The smoke by the sky was devoured. The folk of the Weders fashioned there on the headland a barrow broad and high, by ocean-farers far descried: in ten days' time their toil had raised it, the battle-brave's beacon. Round brands of the pyre a wall they built, the worthiest ever that wit could prompt in their wisest men. They placed in the barrow that precious booty, the rounds and the rings they had reft erewhile, hardy heroes, from hoard in cave, -- trusting the ground with treasure of earls, gold in the earth, where ever it lies useless to men as of yore it was. Then about that barrow the battle-keen rode, atheling-born, a band of twelve, lament to make, to mourn their king, chant their dirge, and their chieftain honor. They praised his earlship, his acts of prowess worthily witnessed: and well it is that men their master-friend mightily laud, heartily love, when hence he goes from life in the body forlorn away. Thus made their mourning the men of Geatland, for their hero's passing his hearth-companions: quoth that of all the kings of earth, of men he was mildest and most beloved, to his kin the kindest, keenest for praise. Footnotes: {0a} Not, of course, Beowulf the Great, hero of the epic. {0b} Kenning for king or chieftain of a comitatus: he breaks off gold from the spiral rings -- often worn on the arm -- and so rewards his followers. {1a} That is, "The Hart," or "Stag," so called from decorations in the gables that resembled the antlers of a deer. This hall has been carefully described in a pamphlet by Heyne. The building was rectangular, with opposite doors -- mainly west and east -- and a hearth in the middle of th single room. A row of pillars down each side, at some distance from the walls, made a space which was raised a little above the main floor, and was furnished with two rows of seats. On one side, usually south, was the high-seat midway between the doors. Opposite this, on the other raised space, was another seat of honor. At the banquet soon to be described, Hrothgar sat in the south or chief high-seat, and Beowulf opposite to him. The scene for a flying (see below, v.499) was thus very effectively set. Planks on trestles -- the "board" of later English literature -- formed the tables just in front of the long rows of seats, and were taken away after banquets, when the retainers were ready to stretch themselves out for sleep on the benches. {1b} Fire was the usual end of these halls. See v. 781 below. One thinks of the splendid scene at the end of the Nibelungen, of the Nialssaga, of Saxo's story of Amlethus, and many a less famous instance. {1c} It is to be supposed that all hearers of this poem knew how Hrothgar's hall was burnt, -- perhaps in the unsuccessful attack made on him by his son-in-law Ingeld. {1d} A skilled minstrel. The Danes are heathens, as one is told presently; but this lay of beginnings is taken from Genesis. {1e} A disturber of the border, one who sallies from his haunt in the fen and roams over the country near by. This probably pagan nuisance is now furnished with biblical credentials as a fiend or devil in good standing, so that all Christian Englishmen might read about him. "Grendel" may mean one who grinds and crushes. {1f} Cain's. {1g} Giants. {2a} The smaller buildings within the main enclosure but separate from the hall. {2b} Grendel. {2c} "Sorcerers-of-hell." {2d} Hrothgar, who is the "Scyldings'-friend" of 170. {2e} That is, in formal or prescribed phrase. {3a} Ship. {3b} That is, since Beowulf selected his ship and led his men to the harbor. {3c} One of the auxiliary names of the Geats. {3d} Or: Not thus openly ever came warriors hither; yet... {4a} Hrothgar. {4b} Beowulf's helmet has several boar-images on it; he is the "man of war"; and the boar-helmet guards him as typical representative of the marching party as a whole. The boar was sacred to Freyr, who was the favorite god of the Germanic tribes about the North Sea and the Baltic. Rude representations of warriors show the boar on the helmet quite as large as the helmet itself. {5a} Either merely paved, the strata via of the Romans, or else thought of as a sort of mosaic, an extravagant touch like the reckless waste of gold on the walls and roofs of a hall. {6a} The nicor, says Bugge, is a hippopotamus; a walrus, says Ten Brink. But that water-goblin who covers the space from Old Nick of jest to the Neckan and Nix of poetry and tale, is all one needs, and Nicor is a good name for him. {6b} His own people, the Geats. {6c} That is, cover it as with a face-cloth. "There will be no need of funeral rites." {6d} Personification of Battle. {6e} The Germanic Vulcan. {6f} This mighty power, whom the Christian poet can still revere, has here the general force of "Destiny." {7a} There is no irrelevance here. Hrothgar sees in Beowulf's mission a heritage of duty, a return of the good offices which the Danish king rendered to Beowulf's father in time of dire need. {7b} Money, for wergild, or man-price. {7c} Ecgtheow, Beowulf's sire. {8a} "Began the fight." {8b} Breca. {9a} Murder. {10a} Beowulf, -- the "one." {11a} That is, he was a "lost soul," doomed to hell. {12a} Kenning for Beowulf. {13a} "Guarded the treasure." {13b} Sc. Heremod. {13c} The singer has sung his lays, and the epic resumes its story. The time-relations are not altogether good in this long passage which describes the rejoicings of "the day after"; but the present shift from the riders on the road to the folk at the hall is not very violent, and is of a piece with the general style. {14a} Unferth, Beowulf's sometime opponent in the flyting. {15a} There is no horrible inconsistency here such as the critics strive and cry about. In spite of the ruin that Grendel and Beowulf had made within the hall, the framework and roof held firm, and swift repairs made the interior habitable. Tapestries were hung on the walls, and willing hands prepared the banquet. {15b} From its formal use in other places, this phrase, to take cup in hall, or "on the floor," would seem to mean that Beowulf stood up to receive his gifts, drink to the donor, and say thanks. {15c} Kenning for sword. {15d} Hrothgar. He is also the "refuge of the friends of Ing," below. Ing belongs to myth. {15e} Horses are frequently led or ridden into the hall where folk sit at banquet: so in Chaucer's Squire's tale, in the ballad of King Estmere, and in the romances. {16a} Man-price, wergild. {16b} Beowulf's. {16c} Hrothgar. {16d} There is no need to assume a gap in the Ms. As before about Sigemund and Heremod, so now, though at greater length, about Finn and his feud, a lay is chanted or recited; and the epic poet, counting on his readers' familiarity with the story, -- a fragment of it still exists, -- simply gives the headings. {16e} The exact story to which this episode refers in summary is not to be determined, but the following account of it is reasonable and has good support among scholars. Finn, a Frisian chieftain, who nevertheless has a "castle" outside the Frisian border, marries Hildeburh, a Danish princess; and her brother, Hnaef, with many other Danes, pays Finn a visit. Relations between the two peoples have been strained before. Something starts the old feud anew; and the visitors are attacked in their quarters. Hnaef is killed; so is a son of Hildeburh. Many fall on both sides. Peace is patched up; a stately funeral is held; and the surviving visitors become in a way vassals or liegemen of Finn, going back with him to Frisia. So matters rest a while. Hengest is now leader of the Danes; but he is set upon revenge for his former lord, Hnaef. Probably he is killed in feud; but his clansmen, Guthlaf and Oslaf, gather at their home a force of sturdy Danes, come back to Frisia, storm Finn's stronghold, kill him, and carry back their kinswoman Hildeburh. {16f} The "enemies" must be the Frisians. {16g} Battlefield. -- Hengest is the "prince's thane," companion of Hnaef. "Folcwald's son" is Finn. {16h} That is, Finn would govern in all honor the few Danish warriors who were left, provided, of course, that none of them tried to renew the quarrel or avenge Hnaef their fallen lord. If, again, one of Finn's Frisians began a quarrel, he should die by the sword. {16i} Hnaef. {16j} The high place chosen for the funeral: see description of Beowulf's funeral-pile at the end of the poem. {16k} Wounds. {17a} That is, these two Danes, escaping home, had told the story of the attack on Hnaef, the slaying of Hengest, and all the Danish woes. Collecting a force, they return to Frisia and kill Finn in his home. {17b} Nephew to Hrothgar, with whom he subsequently quarrels, and elder cousin to the two young sons of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow, -- their natural guardian in the event of the king's death. There is something finely feminine in this speech of Wealhtheow's, apart from its somewhat irregular and irrelevant sequence of topics. Both she and her lord probably distrust Hrothulf; but she bids the king to be of good cheer, and, turning to the suspect, heaps affectionate assurances on his probity. "My own Hrothulf" will surely not forget these favors and benefits of the past, but will repay them to the orphaned boy. {19a} They had laid their arms on the benches near where they slept. {20a} He surmises presently where she is. {20b} The connection is not difficult. The words of mourning, of acute grief, are said; and according to Germanic sequence of thought, inexorable here, the next and only topic is revenge. But is it possible? Hrothgar leads up to his appeal and promise with a skillful and often effective description of the horrors which surround the monster's home and await the attempt of an avenging foe. {21a} Hrothgar is probably meant. {21b} Meeting place. {22a} Kenning for "sword." Hrunting is bewitched, laid under a spell of uselessness, along with all other swords. {22b} This brown of swords, evidently meaning burnished, bright, continues to be a favorite adjective in the popular ballads. {23a} After the killing of the monster and Grendel's decapitation. {23b} Hrothgar. {23c} The blade slowly dissolves in blood-stained drops like icicles. {23d} Spear. {24a} That is, "whoever has as wide authority as I have and can remember so far back so many instances of heroism, may well say, as I say, that no better hero ever lived than Beowulf." {25a} That is, he is now undefended by conscience from the temptations (shafts) of the devil. {25b} Kenning for the sun. -- This is a strange role for the raven. He is the warrior's bird of battle, exults in slaughter and carnage; his joy here is a compliment to the sunrise. {26a} That is, he might or might not see Beowulf again. Old as he was, the latter chance was likely; but he clung to the former, hoping to see his young friend again "and exchange brave words in the hall." {27a} With the speed of the boat. {27b} Queen to Hygelac. She is praised by contrast with the antitype, Thryth, just as Beowulf was praised by contrast with Heremod. {27c} Kenning for "wife." {28a} Beowulf gives his uncle the king not mere gossip of his journey, but a statesmanlike forecast of the outcome of certain policies at the Danish court. Talk of interpolation here is absurd. As both Beowulf and Hygelac know, -- and the folk for whom the Beowulf was put together also knew, -- Froda was king of the Heathobards (probably the Langobards, once near neighbors of Angle and Saxon tribes on the continent), and had fallen in fight with the Danes. Hrothgar will set aside this feud by giving his daughter as "peace-weaver" and wife to the young king Ingeld, son of the slain Froda. But Beowulf, on general principles and from his observation of the particular case, foretells trouble. Note: {28b} Play of shields, battle. A Danish warrior cuts down Froda in the fight, and takes his sword and armor, leaving them to a son. This son is selected to accompany his mistress, the young princess Freawaru, to her new home when she is Ingeld's queen. Heedlessly he wears the sword of Froda in hall. An old warrior points it out to Ingeld, and eggs him on to vengeance. At his instigation the Dane is killed; but the murderer, afraid of results, and knowing the land, escapes. So the old feud must break out again. {28c} That is, their disastrous battle and the slaying of their king. {28d} The sword. {28e} Beowulf returns to his forecast. Things might well go somewhat as follows, he says; sketches a little tragic story; and with this prophecy by illustration returns to the tale of his adventure. {28f} Not an actual glove, but a sort of bag. {29a} Hygelac. {29b} This is generally assumed to mean hides, though the text simply says "seven thousand." A hide in England meant about 120 acres, though "the size of the acre varied." {29c} On the historical raid into Frankish territory between 512 and 520 A.D. The subsequent course of events, as gathered from hints of this epic, is partly told in Scandinavian legend. {29d} The chronology of this epic, as scholars have worked it out, would make Beowulf well over ninety years of age when he fights the dragon. But the fifty years of his reign need not be taken as historical fact. {29e} The text is here hopelessly illegible, and only the general drift of the meaning can be rescued. For one thing, we have the old myth of a dragon who guards hidden treasure. But with this runs the story of some noble, last of his race, who hides all his wealth within this barrow and there chants his farewell to life's glories. After his death the dragon takes possession of the hoard and watches over it. A condemned or banished man, desperate, hides in the barrow, discovers the treasure, and while the dragon sleeps, makes off with a golden beaker or the like, and carries it for propitiation to his master. The dragon discovers the loss and exacts fearful penalty from the people round about. {31a} Literally "loan-days," days loaned to man. {31b} Chattuarii, a tribe that dwelt along the Rhine, and took part in repelling the raid of (Hygelac) Chocilaicus. {31c} Onla, son of Ongentheow, who pursues his two nephews Eanmund and Eadgils to Heardred's court, where they have taken refuge after their unsuccessful rebellion. In the fighting Heardred is killed. {32a} That is, Beowulf supports Eadgils against Onela, who is slain by Eadgils in revenge for the "care-paths" of exile into which Onela forced him. {32b} That is, the king could claim no wergild, or man-price, from one son for the killing of the other. {32c} Usual euphemism for death. {32d} Sc. in the grave. {33a} Eofor for Wulf. -- The immediate provocation for Eofor in killing "the hoary Scylfing," Ongentheow, is that the latter has just struck Wulf down; but the king, Haethcyn, is also avenged by the blow. See the detailed description below. {33b} Hygelac. {33c} Shield. {33d} The hollow passage. {34a} That is, although Eanmund was brother's son to Onela, the slaying of the former by Weohstan is not felt as cause of feud, and is rewarded by gift of the slain man's weapons. {34b} Both Wiglaf and the sword did their duty. -- The following is one of the classic passages for illustrating the comitatus as the most conspicuous Germanic institution, and its underlying sense of duty, based partly on the idea of loyalty and partly on the practical basis of benefits received and repaid. {34c} Sc. "than to bide safely here," -- a common figure of incomplete comparison. {34d} Wiglaf's wooden shield. {34e} Gering would translate "kinsman of the nail," as both are made of iron. {35a} That is, swords. {36a} Where Beowulf lay. {37a} What had been left or made by the hammer; well-forged. {37b} Trying to revive him. {38a} Nothing. {38b} Dead. {38c} Death-watch, guard of honor, "lyke-wake." {38d} A name for the Franks. {38e} Ongentheow. {38f} Haethcyn. {39a} The line may mean: till Hrethelings stormed on the hedged shields, -- i.e. the shield-wall or hedge of defensive war -- Hrethelings, of course, are Geats. {39b} Eofor, brother to Wulf Wonreding. {39c} Sc. "value in" hides and the weight of the gold. {39d} Not at all. {39e} Laid on it when it was put in the barrow. This spell, or in our days the "curse," either prevented discovery or brought dire ills on the finder and taker. {40a} Probably the fugitive is meant who discovered the hoard. Ten Brink and Gering assume that the dragon is meant. "Hid" may well mean here "took while in hiding." {40b} That is "one and a few others." But Beowulf seems to be indicated. {40c} Ten Brink points out the strongly heathen character of this part of the epic. Beowulf's end came, so the old tradition ran, from his unwitting interference with spell-bound treasure. {40d} A hard saying, variously interpreted. In any case, it is the somewhat clumsy effort of the Christian poet to tone down the heathenism of his material by an edifying observation. {41a} Nothing is said of Beowulf's wife in the poem, but Bugge surmises that Beowulf finally accepted Hygd's offer of kingdom and hoard, and, as was usual, took her into the bargain. 
42324	----	FRANKENSTEIN: OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. BY MARY W. SHELLEY. AUTHOR OF THE LAST MAN, PERKIN WARBECK, &c. &c. [Transcriber's Note: This text was produced from a photo-reprint of the 1831 edition.] REVISED, CORRECTED, AND ILLUSTRATED WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION, BY THE AUTHOR. LONDON: HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET: BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH; AND CUMMING, DUBLIN. 1831. INTRODUCTION. The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting "Frankenstein" for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so very frequently asked me--"How I, when a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion. It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given me for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air--the indulging in waking dreams--the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator--rather doing as others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye--my childhood's companion and friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed--my dearest pleasure when free. I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then--but in a most common-place style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations. After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should write, not so much with the idea that I could produce any thing worthy of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, in the way of reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my attention. In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of Childe Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him. But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday. "We will each write a ghost story," said Lord Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a key-hole--what to see I forget--something very shocking and wrong of course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task. I busied myself _to think of a story_,--a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror--one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered--vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. _Have you thought of a story?_ I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative. Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindoos give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning ideas suggested to it. Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments of Dr. Darwin, (I speak not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by him,) who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth. Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw--with shut eyes, but acute mental vision,--I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handywork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the dark _parquet_, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story,--my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night! Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. "I have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the morrow I announced that I had _thought of a story_. I began that day with the words, _It was on a dreary night of November_, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream. At first I thought but of a few pages--of a short tale; but Shelley urged me to develope the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him. And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers have nothing to do with these associations. I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative; and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Throughout they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched. M. W. S. _London, October 15, 1831._ PREFACE. The event on which this fiction is founded, has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield. I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece,--Shakspeare, in the Tempest, and Midsummer Night's Dream,--and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry. The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual conversation. It was commenced partly as a source of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind. It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than any thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence. The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has been completed. Marlow, September, 1817. FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. LETTER I. _To Mrs. Saville, England._ St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking. I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There--for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators--there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine. These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose,--a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas's library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life. These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakspeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent. Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so valuable did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing. This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stage-coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs,--a dress which I have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness. Your affectionate brother, R. WALTON. LETTER II. _To Mrs. Saville, England._ Archangel, 28th March, 17--. How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged, appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage. But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas's books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the painters call it) _keeping_; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind. Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory: or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character, that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary; and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart, and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago, he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!" you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command. Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season; so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness, whenever the safety of others is committed to my care. I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow"; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety, or if I should come back to you as worn and woful as the "Ancient Mariner"? You will smile at my allusion; but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean, to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically industrious--pains-taking;--a workman to execute with perseverance and labour:--but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again. Your affectionate brother, ROBERT WALTON. LETTER III. _To Mrs. Saville, England._ MY DEAR SISTER, July 7th, 17--. I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected. No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage. Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent. But success _shall_ crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas: the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man? My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister! R. W. LETTER IV. _To Mrs. Saville, England._ August 5th, 17--. So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession. Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather. About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile: a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice. This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention. About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours. In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but an European. When I appeared on deck, the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea." On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel," said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?" You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole. Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully. Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness; but there are moments when, if any one performs an act of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him. When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle? His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he replied, "To seek one who fled from me." "And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?" "Yes." "Then I fancy we have seen him; for the day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice." This aroused the stranger's attention; and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,--"I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to make enquiries." "Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine." "And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored me to life." Soon after this he enquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge. From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that some one should watch for him, and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight. Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable. I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart. I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record. August 13th, 17--. My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery, without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence. He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery, but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success, and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced, to use the language of my heart; to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul; and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought; for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes; and my voice quivered and failed me, as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers,--a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused;--at length he spoke, in broken accents:--"Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drank also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me,--let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!" Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure. Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told: but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend--of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness, who did not enjoy this blessing. "I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I--I have lost every thing, and cannot begin life anew." As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm settled grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently retired to his cabin. Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures. Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not, if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are, therefore, somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses, that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music. August 19. 17--. Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined, at one time, that the memory of these evils should die with me; but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale; one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking, and console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions, which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature:--nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed." You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer. "I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined." He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story; frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course, and wrecked it--thus! CHAPTER I. I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him, for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend, he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife. There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind, which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Every thing was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame. From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender caresses, and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord, that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion,--remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved,--for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice, as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it, spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and, despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy,--one among the _schiavi ognor frementi_, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated, his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa, a child fairer than pictured cherub--a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them; but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was, that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house--my more than sister--the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures. Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully,--"I have a pretty present for my Victor--to-morrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth as mine--mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me--my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only. CHAPTER II. We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application, and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home--the sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of the seasons; tempest and calm; the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers,--she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember. On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd, and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger, for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs, and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays, and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels. No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the developement of filial love. My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned, not towards childish pursuits, but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states, possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my enquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or, in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world. Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men, were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story, as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?--yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity--so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the titlepage of my book, and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash." If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible, that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself. I have described myself as always having been embued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted, appeared even to my boy's apprehensions, as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined. But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors, I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories, and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations; set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation; and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science, which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics, and the branches of study appertaining to that science, as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars, and ready to envelope me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul, which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction. CHAPTER III. When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness, many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sick bed,--her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper,--Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself:--"My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world." She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil; the void that presents itself to the soul; and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever--that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? and why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of mourning, and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me; and, above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled. She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to us all. She looked steadily on life, and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget. The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me, and to become my fellow student; but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader, and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. He said little; but when he spoke, I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve, not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce. [Illustration: _The day of my departure at length arrived._] We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other, nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said; and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived: but when at morning's dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often, and to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend. I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old familiar faces;" but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance--or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to Mr. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply embued in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly; and, partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchymists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared: "Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?" I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew." So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure; and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home, not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned, not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child, I had not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth, and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of recent enquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchymists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the enquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities, and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry, and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:-- "The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding places. They ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows." Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words of fate, enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being: chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein,--more, far more, will I achieve: treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies, and to devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day, I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public; for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow-professor. He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said, that "these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation; and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure. "I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made: it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested; and I took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny. CHAPTER IV. From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern enquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature, that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge, and made the most abstruse enquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded, and soon became so ardent and eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our enquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy; and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiæ of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised, that among so many men of genius who had directed their enquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual, light. I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hinderance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began. No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption. These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost frantic, impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation: my eye-balls were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion. The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected." I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed. I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Cæsar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed. But I forget that I am moralising in the most interesting part of my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed. My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice of my silence by enquiring into my occupations more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always yielded me supreme delight--so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete. CHAPTER V. It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. [Illustration: "_By the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull, yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs, ... I rushed out of the room._"] How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!--Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed: when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete! Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:-- "Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread."[1] [Footnote 1: Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."] Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!" Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield:--'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge." "It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth." "Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.--But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights." "You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free." I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty; and my bed-room was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him. "My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?" "Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "_he_ can tell.--Oh, save me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit. Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time. This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion. "Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion; but you will forgive me." "You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?" I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think? "Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence." "Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love." "If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your cousin, I believe." CHAPTER VI. Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth:-- "My dearest Cousin, "You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a journey; yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sick bed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes, nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting. "Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you,--but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter into foreign service; but we cannot part with him, at least until his elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;--his time is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him to enter on the profession which he has selected. "Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they never change;--and I think our placid home, and our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. "Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions; I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. "When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her. "One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. "I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. "Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody. "I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,--one line--one word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection, and his many letters: we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat you, write! "ELIZABETH LAVENZA. "Geneva, March 18th, 17--." * * * * * "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter, "I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Ay, ay," continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time." M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master of the oriental languages, as thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome! Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness. The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own! A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. CHAPTER VII. On my return, I found the following letter from my father:-- "My dear Victor, "You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woful news, but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings. "William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered! "I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction. "Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother: he said, that he had been playing with him, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return. "This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer's finger was on his neck. "He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my darling child!' "She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William! "Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling! "Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies. "Your affectionate and afflicted father, "ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN. "Geneva, May 12th, 17--." * * * * * Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?" I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune. "I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?" "To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses." During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he could only express his heart-felt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors." Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend. My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?" I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake! Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased. I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared. I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me. Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent. It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising. Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.--Poor William! he was our darling and our pride!" Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and her I named my cousin. "She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered--" "The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!" "I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder, "but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?" "Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?" "No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will then hear all." He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent." At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William." "We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly." "My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent." "If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted." This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world? We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William." "She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal." "How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept. "Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality." CHAPTER VIII. We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to be decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her who suffered through me. The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness. The trial began; and, after the advocate against her had stated the charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered any one who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock; and, when one enquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly if any thing had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court. Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but, when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke, in an audible, although variable voice. "God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me; and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious." She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an aunt at Chêne, a village situated at about a league from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked her if she had seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account. "I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon? "I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence." Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the court. "I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by, and have lived with his parents ever since and even long before, his birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I see a fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care; and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her; after which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value her." A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal; but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the dæmon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the horror of my situation; and when I perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges, had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not forego their hold. I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question; but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned. I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed myself added, that Justine had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he observed, "was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive." This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes deceived me? and was I really as mad as the whole world would believe me to be, if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result. "My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty should escape. But she has confessed." This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she, "how shall I ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray? her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has committed a murder." Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go alone." The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. "Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now." "And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her voice was suffocated with sobs. "Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment, but your own confession." "I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable." She paused, weeping, and then continued--"I thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death." "Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die!--You, my play-fellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold! No! no! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune." Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do now not fear to die," she said; "that pang is past. God raises my weakness, and gives me courage to endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember me, and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the will of Heaven!" During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room, where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me, and said, "Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?" I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had confessed, he did not credit it." "I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin." Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her's also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine; and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery." Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may Heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so." And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers, and heard the harsh unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as a murderess! From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home--all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones; but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes--who has no thought nor sense of joy, except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances--who would fill the air with blessings, and spend his life in serving you--he bids you weep--to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments! Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts. CHAPTER IX. Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself), was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits, and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life, to inspire me with fortitude, and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke;) "but is it not a duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society." This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view. About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother: should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them? At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head, and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth, had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles. "When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch." I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! while we love--while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing,--what can disturb our peace?" And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune, suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror; lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her. Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe: the very accents of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die--was but a type of me. Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me: but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck--but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes. I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed, and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine: it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine; that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side--the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around, spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear, or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings. I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque, as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries; but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its tremendous _dôme_ overlooked the valley. A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the light-hearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--I found myself fettered again to grief, and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and, more than all, myself--or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair. At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window, watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations: when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came, and blest the giver of oblivion. CHAPTER X. I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills, to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche, or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine; the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--they all gathered round me, and bade me be at peace. Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil, and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy, that gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene. The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects around me. Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us. We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but mutability! It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed--"Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life." As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt. "Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh! that I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!" "I expected this reception," said the dæmon. "All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends." "Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with your creation; come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed." My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another. He easily eluded me, and said-- "Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember, that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous." "Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall." "How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein: I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity: but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale: when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands." "Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances, of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you, or not. Begone! relieve me from the sight of your detested form." "Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me, and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your own speedy ruin." As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used, and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale. CHAPTER XI. "It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me, and troubled me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I believe, descended; but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became more and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook; and then lying down, was overcome by sleep. "It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened, as it were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some clothes; but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept. "Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees.[2] I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path; and I again went out in search of berries. I was still cold, when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me: the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure. [Footnote 2: The moon.] "Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into silence again. "The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing. "One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches; but they were wet, and would not burn. I was pained at this, and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this; and, by touching the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk into sleep. "It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again, I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food; for I found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved. "Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident, and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that covered the ground. "It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw, and fell asleep. "It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low, that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain. "Here then I retreated, and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man. "As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated against the back of the cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig-sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass out: all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that was sufficient for me. "Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night before, to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink, more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm. "Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, until something should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed a paradise, compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure, and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little water, when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The girl was young, and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottagers and farm-house servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but not adorned: she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight of her; and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head, and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the yard. "On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean, but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature: they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions. "Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased, and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour, the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage together. "The old man had, in the mean time, been pensive; but, on the appearance of his companions, he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly despatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love: the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields. "Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening, the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of the birds: I since found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters. "The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rest." CHAPTER XII. "I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these people; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced their actions. "The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed after the first meal. "This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with gentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles. "They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness; but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic. "A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty; and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers; for several times they placed food before the old man, when they reserved none for themselves. "This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption; but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a neighbouring wood. "I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days. "I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden. "By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes, produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick; and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied the words, _fire_, _milk_, _bread_, and _wood_. I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was _father_. The girl was called _sister_, or _Agatha_; and the youth _Felix_, _brother_, or _son_. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words, without being able as yet to understand or apply them; such as _good_, _dearest_, _unhappy_. "I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw few human beings beside them; and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group; and, even to my unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man. "I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the out-house, where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth, and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden; but, as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha. "This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by degrees, I discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read, as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these also; but how was that possible, when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour: for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master of their language; which knowledge might enable me to make them overlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted. "I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace, beauty, and delicate complexions: but how was I terrified, when I viewed myself in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity. "As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer, the snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was more employed; and the heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it. Several new kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which they dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced. "The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its waters. This frequently took place; but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been. "My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning, I attended the motions of the cottagers; and when they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept: the remainder of the day was spent in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the night was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow, and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words _good_ _spirit_, _wonderful_; but I did not then understand the signification of these terms. "My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to these deserving people. When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix, flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings, who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards their love. "These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment than blows and execration. "The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the aspect of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed to have been hid in caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope, and anticipations of joy." CHAPTER XIII. "I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events, that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been, have made me what I am. "Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of beauty. "It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he enquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music, when some one tapped at the door. "It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit, and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question; to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink. "Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him and his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and embraced her affectionately. "I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by, nor herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I did not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should make use of the same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson, most of them, indeed, were those which I had before understood, but I profited by the others. "As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 'Good night, sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible. "The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away, like a nightingale of the woods. "When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music. "The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration, that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most of the words uttered by my protectors. "In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered. "My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that was spoken. "While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as it was taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field for wonder and delight. "The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's 'Ruins of Empires.' I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians; of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of their subsequent degenerating--of the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants. "These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another, as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loathing. "Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank, descent, and noble blood. "The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only one of these advantages; but, without either, he was considered, except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned? "I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me: I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat! "Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch! "Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes; and the birth and growth of children; how the father doated on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the precious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to another in mutual bonds. "But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans. "I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them)." CHAPTER XIV. "Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was. "The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence, respected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in a large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford. "The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged that his religion and wealth, rather than the crime alleged against him, had been the cause of his condemnation. "Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and indignation were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan; who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night, and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and who, by her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not help owning to his own mind, that the captive possessed a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard. "The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on the heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer; yet he looked forward to the probability of the event as to the consummation of his happiness. "During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old man, a servant of her father, who understood French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent; and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate. "I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my residence in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them to you, they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you. "Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intellect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to the female followers of Mahomet. This lady died; but her lessons were indelibly impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again returning to Asia, and being immured within the walls of a haram, allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in society, was enchanting to her. "The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on the night previous to it, he quitted his prison, and before morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the pretence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris. "Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions. "Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in expectation of that event; and in the mean time he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country. "The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged the hopes of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian; but he feared the resentment of Felix, if he should appear lukewarm; for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer, if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris. "The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim, and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turks, that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding. "He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the trial took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortune, and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country. "They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money, to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance. "Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured poverty; and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul. "When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. "A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment, and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French government; he had, consequently hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. "When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike adverse to it. By some papers of her father, which fell into her hands, she heard of the exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany. "She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection; but the poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country, and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover." CHAPTER XV. "Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind. "As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence and generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth and displayed. But, in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the same year. "One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau, containing several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of 'Paradise Lost,' a volume of 'Plutarch's Lives,' and the 'Sorrows of Werter.' The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations. "I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstacy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the 'Sorrows of Werter,' besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed, and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects, that I found in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors, and with the wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it. "As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar, yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathised with, and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none, and related to none. 'The path of my departure was free;' and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stature gigantic? What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them. "The volume of 'Plutarch's Lives,' which I possessed, contained the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the 'Sorrows of Werter.' I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns, and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which I had studied human nature; but this book developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations. "But 'Paradise Lost' excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from, beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. "Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them; but now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You, doubtless, recollect these papers. Here they are. Every thing is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it, is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors, and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even _you_ turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.' "These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer; for the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every day's experience, that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity. "Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants; and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished, when I beheld my person reflected in water, or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade. "I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings, and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him. "Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved, and sympathised with one another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks directed towards me with affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it. "The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention, at this time, was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if, in the absence of his children, I could gain the good-will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my younger protectors. "One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground, and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar, and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. "My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes, or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage: it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me, and I sank to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and, with renewed determination, I approached the door of their cottage. "I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man--'Come in.' "I entered; 'Pardon this intrusion,' said I: 'I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.' "'Enter,' said De Lacey; 'and I will try in what manner I can relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.' "'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.' "I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the interview; when the old man addressed me-- "'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;--are you French?' "'No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.' "'Are they Germans?' "'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen me, and know little of me. I am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.' "'Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.' "'They are kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless, and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.' "'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?' "'I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.' "'Where do these friends reside?' "'Near this spot.' "The old man paused, and then continued, 'If you will unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in your words, which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.' "'Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow-creatures.' "'Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent: judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.' "'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.' "'May I know the names and residence of those friends?' "I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, 'Now is the time!--save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!' "'Great God!' exclaimed the old man, 'who are you?' "At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel." CHAPTER XVI. "Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery. "When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the toils; destroying the objects that obstructed me, and ranging through the wood with a stag-like swiftness. O! what a miserable night I passed! the cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me: now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin. "But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No: from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me, and sent me forth to this insupportable misery. "The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation. "The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared for my approach. But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable; and, after much consideration, I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my party. "These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever acting before my eyes; the females were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me from his father's feet. I awoke exhausted; and, finding that it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in search of food. "When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel, and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the agony of this suspense. "Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country, which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix approached with another man: I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover, from his discourse, the meaning of these unusual appearances. "'Do you consider,' said his companion to him, 'that you will be obliged to pay three months' rent, and to lose the produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of your determination.' "'It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; 'we can never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never recover their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take possession of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.' "Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more. "I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed, and had broken the only link that held me to the world. For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them; but, allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But again, when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger; and, unable to injure any thing human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage; and, after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operations. "As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens: the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche, and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits, that burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree, and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I fired the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it, and licked it with their forked and destroying tongues. "As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of the habitation, I quitted the scene, and sought for refuge in the woods. "And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible. At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers that you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted: I had learned from these the relative situations of the different countries of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town; and towards this place I resolved to proceed. "But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel in a south-westerly direction to reach my destination; but the sun was my only guide. I did not know the names of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! you had endowed me with perceptions and passions, and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the human form. "My travels were long, and the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! how often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened; but I rested not. A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite: no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth, and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings. "I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun which bestowed such joy upon me. "I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from some one in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipt, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place; and, with extreme labour from the force of the current, saved her, and dragged her to shore. She was senseless; and I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired. I sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood. "This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from destruction, and, as a recompense, I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound, which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and gentleness, which I had entertained but a few moments before, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted. "For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge--a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had endured. "After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure. "But my toils now drew near a close; and, in two months from this time, I reached the environs of Geneva. "It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surround it, to meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening, or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura. "At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection, which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me, that this little creature was unprejudiced, and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him, and educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth. "Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed, and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his eyes, and uttered a shrill scream: I drew his hand forcibly from his face, and said, 'Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.' "He struggled violently. 'Let me go,' he cried; 'monster! ugly wretch! you wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces--You are an ogre--Let me go, or I will tell my papa.' "'Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.' "'Hideous monster! let me go. My papa is a Syndic--he is M. Frankenstein--he will punish you. You dare not keep me.' "'Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.' "The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets which carried despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. "I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed, 'I, too, can create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.' "As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned: I remembered that I was for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow; and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust and affright. "Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them. "While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young: not indeed so beautiful as her whose portrait I held; but of an agreeable aspect, and blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over her, and whispered 'Awake, fairest, thy lover is near--he who would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes: my beloved, awake!' "The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act, if her darkened eyes opened, and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me--not I, but she shall suffer: the murder I have committed because I am for ever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her: be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her, and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled. "For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species, and have the same defects. This being you must create." CHAPTER XVII. The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued-- "You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede." The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me. "I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent." "You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and, instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness; and, instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth." A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he calmed himself and proceeded-- "I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not reflect that _you_ are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an hundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!" I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of fine sensations; and did I not as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling, and continued-- "If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment, and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire." "You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be: cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent." "How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man, and dwell as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! my life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my maker." His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathise with him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow. "You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your revenge." "How is this? I must not be trifled with: and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now excluded." I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I concluded that the justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said-- "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile." "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of Heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear." Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! stars and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock me: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness." These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mountain's weight, and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm; but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream; and that thought only had to me the reality of life. CHAPTER XVIII. Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a female without again devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay, and shrunk from taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed had taken place in me: my health, which had hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure; and, on my return, I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart. It was after my return from one of these rambles, that my father, calling me aside, thus addressed me:-- "I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former pleasures, and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still unhappy, and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all." I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued-- "I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort, and the stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man, that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan, may have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love; and, considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel." "My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the expectation of our union." "The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so strong a hold of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour, and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity." I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! to me the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break; or, if I did, what manifold miseries might not impend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck, and bowing me to the ground. I must perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from which I expected peace. I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to England, or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers of that country, whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, I had an insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's house, while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror. I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for ever. These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to visit England; but, concealing the true reasons of this request, I clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy, that resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey, and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself. The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between me and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred presence on me, to remind me of my task, or to contemplate its progress? To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father's age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one reward I promised myself from my detested toils--one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth, and forget the past in my union with her. I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling haunted me, which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departure. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go; and would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends. I was agonised with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the slave of my creature, I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend would follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of his machinations. It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth, therefore, acquiesced: but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval--and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute circumstances, which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return,--a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute, as she bade me a tearful silent farewell. I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes; but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my travels, and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured. After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was alive to every new scene; joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape, and the appearances of the sky. "This is what it is to live," he cried, "now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful!" In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts, and neither saw the descent of the evening star, nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine.--And you, my friend, would be far more amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment. We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage, we passed many willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below Mayence becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly, and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and populous towns occupy the scene. We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairy-land, and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man. "I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country." Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:-- ----"The sounding cataract Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to him An appetite; a feeling, and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrow'd from the eye"[3] [Footnote 3: Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey.] And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its creator;--has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend. Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale. Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to post the remainder of our way; for the wind was contrary, and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery; but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene; they were flat, but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich, places which I had heard of even in my country. At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history. CHAPTER XIX. London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time; but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers. If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow-men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish. But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive, and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonisation and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was for ever busy; and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one, who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate. After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland, who had formerly been our visiter at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country, and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation; and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments, and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland. We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer, were all novelties to us. From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city, which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees. I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past, and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind; and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and intolerable to myself. We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs, and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears, to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a free and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but every thing is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps, which always attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble, when pronounced by Henry; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated. From Derby, still journeying northward, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. "I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine." But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties. We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland, and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants, when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford: for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper." Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. "I had rather be with you," he said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence." Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me, and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the main land, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession; an incident which would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days; and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them, lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom. CHAPTER XX. I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the dæmon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the dæmon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice-- "You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?" "Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness." "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master;--obey!" "The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a dæmon, whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage." The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! you may hate; but beware! your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; but revenge remains--revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict." "Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable." "It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words--"_I will be with you on your wedding-night._" That then was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,--of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her,--tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a dæmon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was; that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments; and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the dæmon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness; and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea: I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water; and, fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, every thing was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but quickly found that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the world, that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already fulfilled!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell: I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance; but, as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I carefully traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: "My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am?" "You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice. "May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you." I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied; "surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably." "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be; but is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I enquired the way to the inn; but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Come, Sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account of yourself." "Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country?" "Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night." This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection. CHAPTER XXI. I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity: and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on examination, they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of * * * from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor----" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around, and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:-- "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if every body did the same." I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me: no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French-- "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to make you more comfortable?" "I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving." "I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge." "That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?" "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality; seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path." As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say-- "Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva: nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.--But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any kind." "This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event: tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?" "Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; "and some one, a friend, is come to visit you." I know not by what chain of thought, the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony-- "Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him enter!" Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone-- "I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance." "My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure: "is my father indeed come? How kind, how very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?" My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried-- "Are you then safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?" My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval--" The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears. "Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry." We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh! very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit--of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved; and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey: for I was a shattered wreck,--the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton; and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight; and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around: the cloudy sky above; the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future, imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. CHAPTER XXII. The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care and attentions were indefatigable; but he did not know the origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! they were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them, whose joy it was to shed their blood, and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me, and hunt me from the world, did they know my unhallowed acts, and the crimes which had their source in me! My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. "Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad; and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation, and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy, and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those I have recorded, would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again." "I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race." The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world; and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:-- "My dear Friend, "It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity. "Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you; but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. "Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin. "You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual happiness, with simple truth--Do you not love another? "You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you, and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eternally miserable, unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think, that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold, by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. "Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer to-morrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. "ELIZABETH LAVENZA. "Geneva, May 18th, 17--." * * * * * This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend--"_I will be with you on your wedding night!_" Such was my sentence, and on that night would the dæmon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt, which would pursue me until death. Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed _to be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retard it a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply." In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection; yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it; and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage; sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke, nor looked at any one, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent. "Have you, then, some other attachment?" "None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin." "My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom we have lost, to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived." Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned: nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible; and that when he had pronounced the words, "I shall be with you on your wedding-night," I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it; and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father, that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim. As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's exertions, a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood. In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my person, in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice; and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnisation drew nearer, and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent. Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the mean time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride. After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my father's; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian, and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial embarkation. Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it. I took the hand of Elizabeth: "You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair, that this one day at least permits me to enjoy." "Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! how happy and serene all nature appears!" Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie. The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung. The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp me, and cling to me for ever. CHAPTER XXIII. It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not shrink from the conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, was extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence; but there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and trembling she asked, "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" "Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night, and all will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful." I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance from the house; but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back, and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I had lost. After an interval, I arose, and, as if by instinct, crawled into the room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around--I hung over it, and joined my sad tears to theirs--all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an oar myself; for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lower: but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight--his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way: he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but I awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable dæmon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness:--"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my agony, and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history, briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I said, "This is the being whom I accuse, and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion." This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit." "I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated:--"You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself; and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up your mind to disappointment." "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction." I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. "Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. CHAPTER XXIV. My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon, who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me." I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper--"I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have determined to live, and I am satisfied." I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps; and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate; but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the dæmon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over," (these words were legible in one of these inscriptions;) "you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive." Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search, until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage! As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words:--"Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food; for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred." My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on Heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him: so much so, that when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the sea-shore. I enquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,--amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the Frozen Ocean; and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay: I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread--for my task is unfulfilled. Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live--swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had even power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel aright. * * * * * WALTON, _in continuation_. August 26th, 17--. You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor. His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has then really existence! I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation: but on this point he was impenetrable. "Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own." Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity." Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium: he believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth. Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall. "When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise." Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea. "I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die." * * * * * September 2d. My beloved Sister, I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause. And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: Heaven bless you, and make you so! My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair. September 5th. A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,--I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me, to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said-- "What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your names adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour, and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable, and cannot withstand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe." He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them farther north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return. They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in languor, and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die than return shamefully,--my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships. September 7th. The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience. September 12th. It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory;--I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards England, and towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England." "Do you then really return?" "Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return." "Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted. It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said--"Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention, because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue. "Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion. "That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed." His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night, my sister. Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay. He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. "That is also my victim!" he exclaimed: "in his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me." His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived. "And do you dream?" said the dæmon; "do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse?--He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of the deed--oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change, without torture such as you cannot even imagine. "After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she died!--nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!" I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings; and, when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power." "Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being; "yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone. "You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice. "But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more. "Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death? "Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever. "But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell." He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance. THE END. LONDON: Printed by A. & R Spottiswoode, New-Street-Square. [Transcriber's Note: Possible printer errors corrected: Line 2863: "I do no not fear to die" to "I do now not fear to die" Line 6375: "fulfil the wishes of you parents" to "your parents"] 
5164	----	THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY BY RICHARD MARSH WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN WILLIAMSON CONTENTS BOOK I The House with the Open Window CHAPTER I, OUTSIDE CHAPTER II, INSIDE CHAPTER III, THE MAN IN THE BED CHAPTER IV, A LONELY VIGIL CHAPTER V, AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY CHAPTER VI, A SINGULAR FELONY CHAPTER VII, THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM CHAPTER VIII, THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER IX, THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET BOOK II The Haunted Man CHAPTER X, REJECTED CHAPTER XI, A MIDNIGHT EPISODE CHAPTER XII, A MORNING VISITOR CHAPTER XIII, THE PICTURE CHAPTER XIV, THE DUCHESS' BALL CHAPTER XV, MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS CHAPTER XVI, ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR CHAPTER XVII, MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE? CHAPTER XVIII, THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE CHAPTER XIX, THE LADY RAGES CHAPTER XX, A HEAVY FATHER CHAPTER XXI, THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT CHAPTER XXII, THE HAUNTED MAN BOOK III The Terror By Night and the Terror by Day CHAPTER XXIII, THE WAY HE TOLD HER CHAPTER XXIV, A WOMAN'S VIEW CHAPTER XXV, THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER XXVI, A FATHER'S NO CHAPTER XXVII, THE TERROR BY NIGHT CHAPTER XXVIII, THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET CHAPTER XXIX, THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE CHAPTER XXX, THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT CHAPTER XXXI, THE TERROR BY DAY BOOK IV In Pursuit CHAPTER XXXII, A NEW CLIENT CHAPTER XXXIII, WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE CHAPTER XXXIV, AFTER TWENTY YEARS CHAPTER XXXV, A BRINGER OF TIDINGS CHAPTER XXXVI, WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE CHAPTER XXXVII, WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR CHAPTER XXXVIII, THE REST OF THE FIND CHAPTER XXXIX, MISS LOUISA COLEMAN CHAPTER XL, WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW CHAPTER XLI, THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB CHAPTER XLII, THE QUARRY DOUBLES CHAPTER XLIII, THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S CHAPTER XLIV, THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED CHAPTER XLV, ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW CHAPTER XLVI, THE SUDDEN STOPPING CHAPTER XLVII, THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE CHAPTER XLVIII, THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER BOOK I The House with the Open Window The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt CHAPTER I OUTSIDE 'No room!--Full up!' He banged the door in my face. That was the final blow. To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged even for a job which would give me money enough to buy a little food; and to have tramped and to have begged in vain,--that was bad. But, sick at heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, to have been compelled to pocket any little pride I might have left, and solicit, as the penniless, homeless tramp which indeed I was, a night's lodging in the casual ward,--and to solicit it in vain!--that was worse. Much worse. About as bad as bad could be. I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my face. I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had hardly expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable that I could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to that abode of all ignominy, the tramp's ward, was to have attained a depth of misery of which never even in nightmares I had dreamed. As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me out of the shadow of the wall. 'Won't 'e let yer in?' 'He says it's full.' 'Says it's full, does 'e? That's the lay at Fulham,--they always says it's full. They wants to keep the number down.' I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands were in his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was husky. 'Do you mean that they say it's full when it isn't,--that they won't let me in although there's room?' 'That's it,--bloke's a-kiddin' yer.' 'But, if there's room, aren't they bound to let me in?' 'Course they are,--and, blimey, if I was you I'd make 'em. Blimey I would!' He broke into a volley of execrations. 'But what am I to do?' 'Why, give 'em another rouser--let 'em know as you won't be kidded!' I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I rang the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled pauper, who had previously responded to my summons, stood in the open doorway. Had he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians himself he could not have addressed me with greater scorn. 'What, here again! What's your little game? Think I've nothing better to do than to wait upon the likes of you?' 'I want to be admitted.' 'Then you won't be admitted!' 'I want to see someone in authority.' 'Ain't yer seein' someone in authority?' 'I want to see someone besides you,--I want to see the master.' 'Then you won't see the master!' He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre, I thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I continued to address him. 'Are you sure that the ward is full?' 'Full two hours ago!' 'But what am I to do?' 'I don't know what you're to do!' 'Which is the next nearest workhouse?' 'Kensington.' Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his arm he thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was closed. The man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the scene. Now he spoke. 'Nice bloke, ain't he?' 'He's only one of the paupers,--has he any right to act as one of the officials?' 'I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,--a long sight wuss! They thinks they owns the 'ouses, blimey they do. Oh it's a----fine world, this is!' He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion of rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to overflowing. My companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen curiosity. 'Ain't you got no money?' 'Not a farthing.' 'Done much of this sort of thing?' 'It's the first time I've been to a casual ward,--and it doesn't seem as if I'm going to get in now.' 'I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.--What are yer goin' to do?' 'How far is it to Kensington?' 'Work'us?--about three mile;--but, if I was you, I'd try St George's.' 'Where's that?' 'In the Fulham Road. Kensington's only a small place, they do you well there, and it's always full as soon as the door's opened;--you'd 'ave more chawnce at St George's.' He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as little disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he began again. 'I've travelled from Reading this----day, I 'ave,--tramped every----foot!--and all the way as I come along, I'll 'ave a shakedown at 'Ammersmith, I says,--and now I'm as fur off from it as ever! This is a----fine country, this is,--I wish every----soul in it was swept into the----sea, blimey I do! But I ain't goin' to go no further,--I'll 'ave a bed in 'Ammersmith or I'll know the reason why.' 'How are you going to manage it,--have you got any money?' 'Got any money?--My crikey!--I look as though I 'ad,--I sound as though I 'ad too! I ain't 'ad no brads, 'cept now and then a brown, this larst six months.' 'How are you going to get a bed then?' 'Ow am I going to?--why, like this way.' He picked up two stones, one in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass which was over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it, and through the lamp beyond. 'That's 'ow I'm goin' to get a bed.' The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness, 'Who done that?' 'I done it, guvnor,--and, if you like, you can see me do the other. It might do your eyesight good.' Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the stone in his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me to go. He was earning a night's rest at a price which, even in my extremity, I was not disposed to pay. When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the scene, and the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of frankness, which, in that direction, left little to be desired. I slunk away unnoticed. But had not gone far before I had almost decided that I might as well have thrown in my fortune with the bolder wretch, and smashed a window too. Indeed, more than once my feet faltered, as I all but returned to do the feat which I had left undone. A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly have chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching me to the skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than a little distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted. It was one in which I was a stranger, I had come to Hammersmith as a last resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find some occupation which would enable me to keep body and soul together in every other part of London, and that now only Hammersmith was left. And, at Hammersmith, even the workhouse would have none of me! Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had taken the first turning to the left,--and, at the moment, had been glad to take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which I was entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if it had never been properly made. Houses were few and far between. Those which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect light, amid the general desolation, to be cottages which were crumbling to decay. Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that, if I only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham Green. How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a creature seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was as if I was in a land of desolation. I suppose it was between eleven o'clock and midnight. I had not given up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,--and in Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers. Then I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next thing I could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted to spend the night in the open air, without food, when the morning came I should be broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a night's free board and lodging. It was really hunger which drove me to the workhouse door. That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night preceding nothing had passed my lips save water from the public fountains,--with the exception of a crust of bread which a man had given me whom I had found crouching at the root of a tree in Holland Park. For three days I had been fasting,--practically all the time upon my feet. It seemed to me that if I had to go hungry till the morning I should collapse,--there would be an end. Yet, in that strange and inhospitable place, where was I to get food at that time of night, and how? I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet dragged more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither strength nor courage left. And within there was that frightful craving, which was as though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings, dazed and giddy. If only death had come upon me quickly, painlessly, how true a friend I should have thought it! It was the agony of dying inch by inch which was so hard to bear. It was some minutes before I could collect myself sufficiently to withdraw from the support of the railings, and to start afresh. I stumbled blindly over the uneven road. Once, like a drunken man, I lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless state that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed to let things slide, accept the good the gods had sent me, and make a night of it just there. A long night, I fancy, it would have been, stretching from time unto eternity. Having regained my feet, I had gone perhaps another couple of hundred yards along the road--Heaven knows that it seemed to me just then a couple of miles!--when there came over me again that overpowering giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of hunger. I staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just there, was at the side of the path. Without it I should have fallen in a heap. The attack appeared to last for hours; I suppose it was only seconds; and, when I came to myself, it was as though I had been aroused from a swoon of sleep,--aroused, to an extremity of pain. I exclaimed aloud, 'For a loaf of bread what wouldn't I do!' I looked about me, in a kind of frenzy. As I did so I for the first time became conscious that behind me was a house. It was not a large one. It was one of those so-called villas which are springing up in multitudes all round London, and which are let at rentals of from twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was detached. So far as I could see, in the imperfect light, there was not another building within twenty or thirty yards of either side of it. It was in two storeys. There were three windows in the upper storey. Behind each the blinds were closely drawn. The hall door was on my right. It was approached by a little wooden gate. The house itself was so close to the public road that by leaning over the wall I could have touched either of the windows on the lower floor. There were two of them. One of them was a bow window. The bow window was open. The bottom centre sash was raised about six inches. CHAPTER II INSIDE I realised, and, so to speak, mentally photographed all the little details of the house in front of which I was standing with what almost amounted to a gleam of preternatural perception. An instant before, the world swam before my eyes. I saw nothing. Now I saw everything, with a clearness which, as it were, was shocking. Above all, I saw the open window. I stared at it, conscious, as I did so, of a curious catching of the breath. It was so near to me; so very near. I had but to stretch out my hand to thrust it through the aperture. Once inside, my hand would at least be dry. How it rained out there! My scanty clothing was soaked; I was wet to the skin! I was shivering. And, each second, it seemed to rain still faster. My teeth were chattering. The damp was liquefying the very marrow in my bones. And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry! There was not a soul in sight. Not a human being anywhere near. I listened; there was not a sound. I alone was at the mercy of the sodden night. Of all God's creatures the only one unsheltered from the fountains of Heaven which He had opened. There was not one to see what I might do; not one to care. I need fear no spy. Perhaps the house was empty; nay, probably. It was my plain duty to knock at the door, rouse the inmates, and call attention to their oversight,--the open window. The least they could do would be to reward me for my pains. But, suppose the place was empty, what would be the use of knocking? It would be to make a useless clatter. Possibly to disturb the neighbourhood, for nothing. And, even if the people were at home, I might go unrewarded. I had learned, in a hard school, the world's ingratitude. To have caused the window to be closed--the inviting window, the tempting window, the convenient window!--and then to be no better for it after all, but still to be penniless, hopeless, hungry, out in the cold and the rain--better anything than that. In such a situation, too late, I should say to myself that mine had been the conduct of a fool. And I should say it justly too. To be sure. Leaning over the low wall I found that I could very easily put my hand inside the room. How warm it was in there! I could feel the difference of temperature in my fingertips. Very quietly I stepped right over the wall. There was just room to stand in comfort between the window and the wall. The ground felt to the foot as if it were cemented. Stooping down, I peered through the opening. I could see nothing. It was black as pitch inside. The blind was drawn right up; it seemed incredible that anyone could be at home, and have gone to bed, leaving the blind up, and the window open. I placed my ear to the crevice. How still it was! Beyond doubt, the place was empty. I decided to push the window up another inch or two, so as to enable me to reconnoitre. If anyone caught me in the act, then there would be an opportunity to describe the circumstances, and to explain how I was just on the point of giving the alarm. Only, I must go carefully. In such damp weather it was probable that the sash would creak. Not a bit of it. It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it had been oiled. This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I raised it more than I intended. In fact, as far as it would go. Not by a sound did it betray me. Bending over the sill I put my head and half my body into the room. But I was no forwarder. I could see nothing. Not a thing. For all I could tell the room might be unfurnished. Indeed, the likelihood of such an explanation began to occur to me. I might have chanced upon an empty house. In the darkness there was nothing to suggest the contrary. What was I to do? Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be said to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter. Who, with a heart in his bosom, would deny it me? Hardly the most punctilious landlord. Raising myself by means of the sill I slipped my legs into the room. The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room was not entirely unfurnished. The floor was carpeted. I have had my feet on some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me, somehow, even then, of the turf in Richmond Park,--it caressed my instep, and sprang beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had ascertained that--the room was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat? Or should I push my researches further? It would have been rapture to have thrown off my clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to sleep. But,--I was so hungry; so famine-goaded; what would I not have given to have lighted on something good to eat! I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my hands, lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing. When I had taken three or four such steps, without encountering an obstacle, or, indeed, anything at all, I began, all at once, to wish I had not seen the house; that I had passed it by; that I had not come through the window; that I were safely out of it again. I became, on a sudden, aware, that something was with me in the room. There was nothing, ostensible, to lead me to such a conviction; it may be that my faculties were unnaturally keen; but, all at once, I knew that there was something there. What was more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though unseeing, I was seen; that my every movement was being watched. What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even guess. It was as though something in my mental organisation had been stricken by a sudden paralysis. It may seem childish to use such language; but I was overwrought, played out; physically speaking, at my last counter; and, in an instant, without the slightest warning, I was conscious of a very curious sensation, the like of which I had never felt before, and the like of which I pray that I never may feel again,--a sensation of panic fear. I remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring to move, fearing to draw my breath. I felt that the presence with me in the room was something strange, something evil. I do not know how long I stood there, spell-bound, but certainly for some considerable space of time. By degrees, as nothing moved, nothing was seen, nothing was heard, and nothing happened, I made an effort to better play the man. I knew that, at the moment, I played the cur. And endeavoured to ask myself of what it was I was afraid. I was shivering at my own imaginings. What could be in the room, to have suffered me to open the window and to enter unopposed? Whatever it was, was surely to the full as great a coward as I was, or why permit, unchecked, my burglarious entry. Since I had been allowed to enter, the probability was that I should be at liberty to retreat,--and I was sensible of a much keener desire to retreat than I had ever had to enter. I had to put the greatest amount of pressure upon myself before I could summon up sufficient courage to enable me to even turn my head upon my shoulders,--and the moment I did so I turned it back again. What constrained me, to save my soul I could not have said,--but I was constrained. My heart was palpitating in my bosom; I could hear it beat. I was trembling so that I could scarcely stand. I was overwhelmed by a fresh flood of terror. I stared in front of me with eyes in which, had it been light, would have been seen the frenzy of unreasoning fear. My ears were strained so that I listened with an acuteness of tension which was painful. Something moved. Slightly, with so slight a sound, that it would scarcely have been audible to other ears save mine. But I heard. I was looking in the direction from which the movement came, and, as I looked, I saw in front of me two specks of light. They had not been there a moment before, that I would swear. They were there now. They were eyes,--I told myself they were eyes. I had heard how cats' eyes gleam in the dark, though I had never seen them, and I said to myself that these were cats' eyes; that the thing in front of me was nothing but a cat. But I knew I lied. I knew that these were eyes, and I knew they were not cats' eyes, but what eyes they were I did not know,--nor dared to think. They moved,--towards me. The creature to which the eyes belonged was coming closer. So intense was my desire to fly that I would much rather have died than stood there still; yet I could not control a limb; my limbs were as if they were not mine. The eyes came on,--noiselessly. At first they were between two and three feet from the ground; but, on a sudden, there was a squelching sound, as if some yielding body had been squashed upon the floor. The eyes vanished,--to reappear, a moment afterwards, at what I judged to be a distance of some six inches from the floor. And they again came on. So it seemed that the creature, whatever it was to which the eyes belonged, was, after all, but small. Why I did not obey the frantic longing which I had to flee from it, I cannot tell; I only know, I could not. I take it that the stress and privations which I had lately undergone, and which I was, even then, still undergoing, had much to do with my conduct at that moment, and with the part I played in all that followed. Ordinarily I believe that I have as high a spirit as the average man, and as solid a resolution; but when one has been dragged through the Valley of Humiliation, and plunged, again and again, into the Waters of Bitterness and Privation, a man can be constrained to a course of action of which, in his happier moments, he would have deemed himself incapable. I know this of my own knowledge. Slowly the eyes came on, with a strange slowness, and as they came they moved from side to side as if their owner walked unevenly. Nothing could have exceeded the horror with which I awaited their approach,--except my incapacity to escape them. Not for an instant did my glance pass from them,--I could not have shut my eyes for all the gold the world contains!--so that as they came closer I had to look right down to what seemed to be almost the level of my feet. And, at last, they reached my feet. They never paused. On a sudden I felt something on my boot, and, with a sense of shrinking, horror, nausea, rendering me momentarily more helpless, I realised that the creature was beginning to ascend my legs, to climb my body. Even then what it was I could not tell,--it mounted me, apparently, with as much ease as if I had been horizontal instead of perpendicular. It was as though it were some gigantic spider,--a spider of the nightmares; a monstrous conception of some dreadful vision. It pressed lightly against my clothing with what might, for all the world, have been spider's legs. There was an amazing host of them,--I felt the pressure of each separate one. They embraced me softly, stickily, as if the creature glued and unglued them, each time it moved. Higher and higher! It had gained my loins. It was moving towards the pit of my stomach. The helplessness with which I suffered its invasion was not the least part of my agony,--it was that helplessness which we know in dreadful dreams. I understood, quite well, that if I did but give myself a hearty shake, the creature would fall off; but I had not a muscle at my command. As the creature mounted its eyes began to play the part of two small lamps; they positively emitted rays of light. By their rays I began to perceive faint outlines of its body. It seemed larger than I had supposed. Either the body itself was slightly phosphorescent, or it was of a peculiar yellow hue. It gleamed in the darkness. What it was there was still nothing to positively show, but the impression grew upon me that it was some member of the spider family, some monstrous member, of the like of which I had never heard or read. It was heavy, so heavy indeed, that I wondered how, with so slight a pressure, it managed to retain its hold,--that it did so by the aid of some adhesive substance at the end of its legs I was sure,--I could feel it stick. Its weight increased as it ascended,--and it smelt! I had been for some time aware that it emitted an unpleasant, foetid odour; as it neared my face it became so intense as to be unbearable. It was at my chest. I became more and more conscious of an uncomfortable wobbling motion, as if each time it breathed its body heaved. Its forelegs touched the bare skin about the base of my neck; they stuck to it,--shall I ever forget the feeling? I have it often in my dreams. While it hung on with those in front it seemed to draw its other legs up after it. It crawled up my neck, with hideous slowness, a quarter of an inch at a time, its weight compelling me to brace the muscles of my back. It reached my chin, it touched my lips,--and I stood still and bore it all, while it enveloped my face with its huge, slimy, evil-smelling body, and embraced me with its myriad legs. The horror of it made me mad. I shook myself like one stricken by the shaking ague. I shook the creature off. It squashed upon the floor. Shrieking like some lost spirit, turning, I dashed towards the window. As I went, my foot, catching in some obstacle, I fell headlong to the floor. Picking myself up as quickly as I could I resumed my flight,--rain or no rain, oh to get out of that room! I already had my hand upon the sill, in another instant I should have been over it,--then, despite my hunger, my fatigues, let anyone have stopped me if they could!--when someone behind me struck a light. CHAPTER III THE MAN IN THE BED The illumination which instantly followed was unexpected. It startled me, causing a moment's check, from which I was just recovering when a voice said, 'Keep still!' There was a quality in the voice which I cannot describe. Not only an accent of command, but a something malicious, a something saturnine. It was a little guttural, though whether it was a man speaking I could not have positively said; but I had no doubt it was a foreigner. It was the most disagreeable voice I had ever heard, and it had on me the most disagreeable effect; for when it said, 'Keep still!' I kept still. It was as though there was nothing else for me to do. 'Turn round!' I turned round, mechanically, like an automaton. Such passivity was worse than undignified, it was galling; I knew that well. I resented it with secret rage. But in that room, in that presence, I was invertebrate. When I turned I found myself confronting someone who was lying in bed. At the head of the bed was a shelf. On the shelf was a small lamp which gave the most brilliant light I had ever seen. It caught me full in the eyes, having on me such a blinding effect that for some seconds I could see nothing. Throughout the whole of that strange interview I cannot affirm that I saw clearly; the dazzling glare caused dancing specks to obscure my vision. Yet, after an interval of time, I did see something; and what I did see I had rather have left unseen. I saw someone in front of me lying in a bed. I could not at once decide if it was a man or a woman. Indeed at first I doubted if it was anything human. But, afterwards, I knew it to be a man,--for this reason, if for no other, that it was impossible such a creature could be feminine. The bedclothes were drawn up to his shoulders; only his head was visible. He lay on his left side, his head resting on his left hand; motionless, eyeing me as if he sought to read my inmost soul. And, in very truth, I believe he read it. His age I could not guess; such a look of age I had never imagined. Had he asserted that he had been living through the ages, I should have been forced to admit that, at least, he looked it. And yet I felt that it was quite within the range of possibility that he was no older than myself,--there was a vitality in his eyes which was startling. It might have been that he had been afflicted by some terrible disease, and it was that which had made him so supernaturally ugly. There was not a hair upon his face or head, but, to make up for it, the skin, which was a saffron yellow, was an amazing mass of wrinkles. The cranium, and, indeed, the whole skull, was so small as to be disagreeably suggestive of something animal. The nose, on the other hand, was abnormally large; so extravagant were its dimensions, and so peculiar its shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. A characteristic of the face--and an uncomfortable one!--was that, practically, it stopped short at the mouth. The mouth, with its blubber lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents and purposes, there was none. This deformity--for the absence of chin amounted to that--it was which gave to the face the appearance of something not human,--that, and the eyes. For so marked a feature of the man were his eyes, that, ere long, it seemed to me that he was nothing but eyes. His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his face,--remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spell-bound. I felt that they could do with me as they would; and they did. Their gaze was unfaltering, having the bird-like trick of never blinking; this man could have glared at me for hours and never moved an eyelid. It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless. 'Shut the window.' I did as he bade me. 'Pull down the blind.' I obeyed. 'Turn round again.' I was still obedient. 'What is your name?' Then I spoke,--to answer him. There was this odd thing about the words I uttered, that they came from me, not in response to my will power, but in response to his. It was not I who willed that I should speak; it was he. What he willed that I should say, I said. Just that, and nothing more. For the time I was no longer a man; my manhood was merged in his. I was, in the extremest sense, an example of passive obedience. 'Robert Holt.' 'What are you?' 'A clerk.' 'You look as if you were a clerk.' There was a flame of scorn in his voice which scorched me even then. 'What sort of a clerk are you?' 'I am out of a situation.' 'You look as if you were out of a situation.' Again the scorn. 'Are you the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You are a thief.' 'I am not a thief.' 'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting no constraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?' 'Because it was open.' 'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?' 'No.' 'Then why through this?' 'Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.' The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,--which, in fact, he did. 'Have you no home?' 'No.' 'Money?' 'No.' 'Friends?' 'No.' 'Then what sort of a clerk are you?' I did not answer him,--I did not know what it was he wished me to say. I was the victim of bad luck, nothing else,--I swear it. Misfortune had followed hard upon misfortune. The firm by whom I had been employed for years suspended payment. I obtained a situation with one of their creditors, at a lower salary. They reduced their staff, which entailed my going. After an interval I obtained a temporary engagement; the occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment, the pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over London in search of work,--work of any kind would have been welcome, so long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul together. And I had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance as a casual,--how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,--had he wished he would have made me tell him. It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,--it is conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly their own,--that I know. 'Undress!' When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed, letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was meant for a smile, was a satyr's smile, and which filled me with a sensation of shuddering repulsion. 'What a white skin you have,--how white! What would I not give for a skin as white as that,--ah yes!' He paused, devouring me with his glances; then continued. 'Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak; put it on.' I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,--garments which might have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality was providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a peg. My hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it on, its ample folds falling to my feet. 'In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and drink.' On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like pressed beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and some thin, sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to criticise; I crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he watching me, in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when I had eaten and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his face that satyr's grin. 'I would that I could eat and drink like that,--ah yes!--Put back what is left.' I put it back,--which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there was so little to put. 'Look me in the face.' I looked him in the face,--and immediately became conscious, as I did so, that something was going from me,--the capacity, as it were, to be myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all space--till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air--cutting the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to the ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log. And the light went out. CHAPTER IV A LONELY VIGIL I knew that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor, indeed, the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness during the long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of the lamp, and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling sound, as if the man in the bed was settling himself between the sheets. Then all was still. And throughout that interminable night I remained, my brain awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day. What had happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of the external evidences of death my instinct told me,--I knew I did. Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had actually died,--as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I had imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far from certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I continually asked myself if I could be dead,--the inquiry pressed itself on me with awful iteration. Does the body die, and the brain--the I, the ego--still live on? God only knows. But, then! the agony of the thought. The hours passed. By slow degrees, the silence was eclipsed. Sounds of traffic, of hurrying footsteps,--life!--were ushers of the morn. Outside the window sparrows twittered,--a cat mewed, a dog barked--there was the clatter of a milk can. Shafts of light stole past the blind, increasing in intensity. It still rained, now and again it pattered against the pane. The wind must have shifted, because, for the first time, there came, on a sudden, the clang of a distant clock striking the hour,--seven. Then, with the interval of a lifetime between each chiming, eight,--nine,--ten. So far, in the room itself there had not been a sound. When the clock had struck ten, as it seemed to me, years ago, there came a rustling noise, from the direction of the bed. Feet stepped upon the floor,--moving towards where I was lying. It was, of course, now broad day, and I, presently, perceived that a figure, clad in some queer coloured garment, was standing at my side, looking down at me. It stooped, then knelt. My only covering was unceremoniously thrown from off me, so that I lay there in my nakedness. Fingers prodded me then and there, as if I had been some beast ready for the butcher's stall. A face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes. Then, whether I was dead or living, I said to myself that this could be nothing human,--nothing fashioned in God's image could wear such a shape as that. Fingers were pressed into my cheeks, they were thrust into my mouth, they touched my staring eyes, shut my eyelids, then opened them again, and--horror of horrors!--the blubber lips were pressed to mine--the soul of something evil entered into me in the guise of a kiss. Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said, whether speaking to me or to himself I could not tell, 'Dead!--dead!--as good as dead!--and better! We'll have him buried.' He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that he was gone. And he continued gone throughout the day. I had no actual knowledge of his issuing out into the street, but he must have done so, because the house appeared deserted. What had become of the dreadful creature of the night before I could not guess. My first fear was that he had left it behind him in the room with me,--it might be, as a sort of watchdog. But, as the minutes and the hours passed, and there was still no sign or sound of anything living, I concluded that, if the thing was there, it was, possibly, as helpless as myself, and that during its owner's absence, at any rate, I had nothing to fear from its too pressing attentions. That, with the exception of myself, the house held nothing human, I had strong presumptive proof more than once in the course of the day. Several times, both in the morning and the afternoon, people without endeavoured to attract the attention of whoever was within. Vehicles--probably tradesmen's carts--drew up in front, their stopping being followed by more or less assiduous assaults upon the knocker and the bell. But in every case their appeals remained unheeded. Whatever it was they wanted, they had to go unsatisfied away. Lying there, torpid, with nothing to do but listen, I was, possibly, struck by very little, but it did occur to me that one among the callers was more persistent than the rest. The distant clock had just struck noon when I heard the gate open, and someone approached the front door. Since nothing but silence followed, I supposed that the occupant of the place had returned, and had chosen to do so as silently as he had gone. Presently, however, there came from the doorstep a slight but peculiar call, as if a rat was squeaking. It was repeated three times, and then there was the sound of footsteps quietly retreating, and the gate re-closing. Between one and two the caller came again; there was a repetition of the same signal,--that it was a signal I did not doubt; followed by the same retreat. About three the mysterious visitant returned. The signal was repeated, and, when there was no response, fingers tapped softly against the panels of the front door. When there was still no answer, footsteps stole softly round the side of the house, and there came the signal from the rear,--and then, again, tapping of fingers against what was, apparently, the back door. No notice being taken of these various proceedings, the footsteps returned the way they went, and, as before, the gate was closed. Shortly after darkness had fallen this assiduous caller returned, to make a fourth and more resolute attempt to call attention to his presence. From the peculiar character of his manoeuvres it seemed that he suspected that whoever was within had particular reasons for ignoring him without. He went through the familiar pantomime of the three squeaky calls both at the front door and the back,--followed by the tapping of the fingers on the panels. This time, however, he also tried the window panes,--I could hear, quite distinctly, the clear, yet distinct, noise of what seemed like knuckles rapping against the windows behind. Disappointed there, he renewed his efforts at the front. The curiously quiet footsteps came round the house, to pause before the window of the room in which I lay,--and then something singular occurred. While I waited for the tapping, there came, instead, the sound of someone or something, scrambling on to the window-sill,--as if some creature, unable to reach the window from the ground, was endeavouring to gain the vantage of the sill. Some ungainly creature, unskilled in surmounting such an obstacle as a perpendicular brick wall. There was the noise of what seemed to be the scratching of claws, as if it experienced considerable difficulty in obtaining a hold on the unyielding surface. What kind of creature it was I could not think,--I was astonished to find that it was a creature at all. I had taken it for granted that the persevering visitor was either a woman or a man. If, however, as now seemed likely, it was some sort of animal, the fact explained the squeaking sounds,--though what, except a rat, did squeak like that was more than I could say--and the absence of any knocking or ringing. Whatever it was, it had gained the summit of its desires,--the window-sill. It panted as if its efforts at climbing had made it short of breath. Then began the tapping. In the light of my new discovery, I perceived, clearly enough, that the tapping was hardly that which was likely to be the product of human fingers,--it was sharp and definite, rather resembling the striking of the point of a nail against the glass. It was not loud, but in time--it continued with much persistency--it became plainly vicious. It was accompanied by what I can only describe as the most extraordinary noises. There were squeaks, growing angrier and shriller as the minutes passed; what seemed like gaspings for breath; and a peculiar buzzing sound like, yet unlike, the purring of a cat. The creature's resentment at its want of success in attracting attention was unmistakable. The tapping became like the clattering of hailstones; it kept up a continuous noise with its cries and pantings; there was the sound as of some large body being rubbed against the glass, as if it were extending itself against the window, and endeavouring, by force of pressure, to gain an entrance through the pane. So violent did its contortions become that I momentarily anticipated the yielding of the glass, and the excited assailant coming crashing through. Considerably to my relief the window proved more impregnable than seemed at one time likely. The stolid resistance proved, in the end, to be too much either for its endurance or its patience. Just as I was looking for some fresh manifestation of fury, it seemed rather to tumble than to spring off the sill; then came, once more, the same sound of quietly retreating footsteps; and what, under the circumstances, seemed odder still, the same closing of the gate. During the two or three hours which immediately ensued nothing happened at all out of the way,--and then took place the most surprising incident of all. The clock had struck ten some time before. Since before the striking of the hour nothing and no one had passed along what was evidently the little frequented road in front of that uncanny house. On a sudden two sounds broke the stillness without,--of someone running, and of cries. Judging from his hurrying steps someone seemed to be flying for his life,--to the accompaniment of curious cries. It was only when the runner reached the front of the house that, in the cries, I recognised the squeaks of the persistent caller. I imagined that he had returned, as before, alone, to renew his attacks upon the window,--until it was made plain, as it quickly was, that, with him, was some sort of a companion. Immediately there arose, from without, the noise of battle. Two creatures, whose cries were, to me, of so unusual a character, that I found it impossible to even guess at their identity, seemed to be waging war to the knife upon the doorstep. After a minute or two of furious contention, victory seemed to rest with one of the combatants, for the other fled, squeaking as with pain. While I listened, with strained attention, for the next episode in this queer drama, expecting that now would come another assault upon the window, to my unbounded surprise I heard a key thrust in the keyhole, the lock turned, and the front door thrown open with a furious bang. It was closed as loudly as it was opened. Then the door of the room in which I was, was dashed open, with the same display of excitement, and of clamour, footsteps came hurrying in, the door was slammed to with a force which shook the house to its foundations, there was a rustling as of bed-clothes, the brilliant illumination of the night before, and a voice, which I had only too good reason to remember said, 'Stand up.' I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards the bed. There, between the sheets, with his head resting on his hand, in the attitude in which I had seen him last, was the being I had made acquaintance with under circumstances which I was never likely to forget,--the same, yet not the same. CHAPTER V AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY That the man in the bed was the one whom, to my cost, I had suffered myself to stumble on the night before, there could, of course, not be the faintest doubt. And yet, directly I saw him, I recognised that some astonishing alteration had taken place in his appearance. To begin with, he seemed younger,--the decrepitude of age had given place to something very like the fire of youth. His features had undergone some subtle change. His nose, for instance, was not by any means so grotesque; its beak-like quality was less conspicuous. The most part of his wrinkles had disappeared, as if by magic. And, though his skin was still as yellow as saffron, his contours had rounded,--he had even come into possession of a modest allowance of chin. But the most astounding novelty was that about the face there was something which was essentially feminine; so feminine, indeed, that I wondered if I could by any possibility have blundered, and mistaken a woman for a man; some ghoulish example of her sex, who had so yielded to her depraved instincts as to have become nothing but a ghastly reminiscence of womanhood. The effect of the changes which had come about in his appearance--for, after all, I told myself that it was impossible that I could have been such a simpleton as to have been mistaken on such a question as gender--was heightened by the self-evident fact that, very recently, he had been engaged in some pitched battle; some hand to hand, and, probably, discreditable encounter, from which he had borne away uncomfortable proofs of his opponent's prowess. His antagonist could hardly have been a chivalrous fighter, for his countenance was marked by a dozen different scratches which seemed to suggest that the weapons used had been someone's finger-nails. It was, perhaps, because the heat of the battle was still in his veins that he was in such a state of excitement. He seemed to be almost overwhelmed by the strength of his own feelings. His eyes seemed literally to flame with fire. The muscles of his face were working as if they were wholly beyond his own control. When he spoke his accent was markedly foreign; the words rushed from his lips in an inarticulate torrent; he kept repeating the same thing over and over again in a fashion which was not a little suggestive of insanity. 'So you're not dead!--you're not dead:--you're alive!--you're alive! Well,--how does it feel to be dead? I ask you!--Is it not good to be dead? To keep dead is better,--it is the best of all! To have made an end of all things, to cease to strive and to cease to weep, to cease to want and to cease to have, to cease to annoy and to cease to long, to no more care,--no!--not for anything, to put from you the curse of life,--forever!--is that not the best? Oh yes!--I tell you!--do I not know? But for you such knowledge is not yet. For you there is the return to life, the coming out of death,--you shall live on!--for me!--Live on!' He made a movement with his hand, and, directly he did so, it happened as on the previous evening, that a metamorphosis took place in the very abysses of my being. I woke from my torpor, as he put it, I came out of death, and was alive again. I was far, yet, from being my own man; I realised that he exercised on me a degree of mesmeric force which I had never dreamed that one creature could exercise on another; but, at least, I was no longer in doubt as to whether I was or was not dead. I knew I was alive. He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which occupied my brain,--and, for all I know, he was. 'Robert Holt, you are a thief.' 'I am not.' My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,--it was so long since it had sounded in my ears. 'You are a thief! Only thieves come through windows,--did you not come through the window?' I was still,--what would my contradiction have availed me? 'But it is well that you came through the window,--well you are a thief,--well for me! for me! It is you that I am wanting,--at the happy moment you have dropped yourself into my hands,--in the nick of time. For you are my slave,--at my beck and call,--my familiar spirit, to do with as I will,--you know this,--eh?' I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I felt that if I could only get away from him; only release myself from the bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove myself from the horrible glamour of his near neighbourhood; only get one or two square meals and have an opportunity of recovering from the enervating stress of mental and bodily fatigue;--I felt that then I might be something like his match, and that, a second time, he would endeavour in vain to bring me within the compass of his magic. But, as it was, I was conscious that I was helpless, and the consciousness was agony. He persisted in reiterating his former falsehood. 'I say you are a thief!--a thief, Robert Holt, a thief! You came through a window for your own pleasure, now you will go through a window for mine,--not this window, but another.' Where the jest lay I did not perceive; but it tickled him, for a grating sound came from his throat which was meant for laughter. 'This time it is as a thief that you will go,--oh yes, be sure.' He paused, as it seemed, to transfix me with his gaze. His unblinking eyes never for an instant quitted my face. With what a frightful fascination they constrained me,--and how I loathed them! When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his speech,--something bitter, cruel, unrelenting. 'Do you know Paul Lessingham?' He pronounced the name as if he hated it,--and yet as if he loved to have it on his tongue. 'What Paul Lessingham?' 'There is only one Paul Lessingham! THE Paul Lessingham,--the GREAT Paul Lessingham!' He shrieked, rather than said this, with an outburst of rage so frenzied that I thought, for the moment, that he was going to spring on me and rend me. I shook all over. I do not doubt that, as I replied, my voice was sufficiently tremulous. 'All the world knows Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the statesman.' As he glared at me his eyes dilated. I still stood in expectation of a physical assault. But, for the present, he contented himself with words. 'To-night you are going through his window like a thief!' I had no inkling of his meaning,--and, apparently, judging from his next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt. 'You do not understand?--no!--it is simple!--what could be simpler? I say that to-night--to-night!--you are going through his window like a thief. You came through my window,--why not through the window of Paul Lessingham, the politician--the statesman.' He repeated my words as if in mockery. I am--I make it my boast!--of that great multitude which regards Paul Lessingham as the greatest living force in practical politics; and which looks to him, with confidence, to carry through that great work of constitutional and social reform which he has set himself to do. I daresay that my tone, in speaking of him, savoured of laudation,--which, plainly, the man in the bed resented. What he meant by his wild words about my going through Paul Lessingham's window like a thief, I still had not the faintest notion. They sounded like the ravings of a madman. As I continued silent, and he yet stared, there came into his tone another note,--a note of tenderness,--a note of which I had not deemed him capable. 'He is good to look at, Paul Lessingham,--is he not good to look at?' I was aware that, physically, Mr Lessingham was a fine specimen of manhood, but I was not prepared for the assertion of the fact in such a quarter,--nor for the manner in which the temporary master of my fate continued to harp and enlarge upon the theme. 'He is straight,--straight as the mast of a ship,--he is tall,--his skin is white; he is strong--do I not know that he is strong--how strong!--oh yes! Is there a better thing than to be his wife? his well-beloved? the light of his eyes? Is there for a woman a happier chance? Oh no, not one! His wife!--Paul Lessingham!' As, with soft cadences, he gave vent to these unlooked-for sentiments, the fashion of his countenance was changed. A look of longing came into his face--of savage, frantic longing--which, unalluring though it was, for the moment transfigured him. But the mood was transient. 'To be his wife,--oh yes!--the wife of his scorn! the despised and rejected!' The return to the venom of his former bitterness was rapid,--I could not but feel that this was the natural man. Though why a creature such as he was should go out of his way to apostrophise, in such a manner, a publicist of Mr Lessingham's eminence, surpassed my comprehension. Yet he stuck to his subject like a leech,--as if it had been one in which he had an engrossing personal interest. 'He is a devil,--hard as the granite rock,--cold as the snows of Ararat. In him there is none of life's warm blood,--he is accursed! He is false,--ay, false as the fables of those who lie for love of lies,--he is all treachery. Her whom he has taken to his bosom he would put away from him as if she had never been,--he would steal from her like a thief in the night,--he would forget she ever was! But the avenger follows after, lurking in the shadows, hiding among the rocks, waiting, watching, till his time shall come. And it shall come!--the day of the avenger!--ay, the day!' Raising himself to a sitting posture, he threw his arms above his head, and shrieked with a demoniac fury. Presently he became a trifle calmer. Reverting to his recumbent position, resting his head upon his hand, he eyed me steadily; then asked me a question which struck me as being, under the circumstances, more than a little singular. 'You know his house,--the house of the great Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the statesman?' 'I do not.' 'You lie!--you do!' The words came from him with a sort of snarl,--as if he would have lashed me across the face with them. 'I do not. Men in my position are not acquainted with the residences of men in his. I may, at some time, have seen his address in print; but, if so, I have forgotten it.' He looked at me intently, for some moments, as if to learn if I spoke the truth; and apparently, at last, was satisfied that I did. 'You do not know it?--Well!--I will show it you,--I will show the house of the great Paul Lessingham.' What he meant I did not know; but I was soon to learn,--an astounding revelation it proved to be. There was about his manner something hardly human; something which, for want of a better phrase, I would call vulpine. In his tone there was a mixture of mockery and bitterness, as if he wished his words to have the effect of corrosive sublimate, and to sear me as he uttered them. 'Listen with all your ears. Give me your whole attention. Hearken to my bidding, so that you may do as I bid you. Not that I fear your obedience,--oh no!' He paused,--as if to enable me to fully realise the picture of my helplessness conjured up by his jibes. 'You came through my window, like a thief. You will go through my window, like a fool. You will go to the house of the great Paul Lessingham. You say you do not know it? Well, I will show it you. I will be your guide. Unseen, in the darkness and the night, I will stalk beside you, and will lead you to where I would have you go.--You will go just as you are, with bare feet, and head uncovered, and with but a single garment to hide your nakedness. You will be cold, your feet will be cut and bleeding,--but what better does a thief deserve? If any see you, at the least they will take you for a madman; there will be trouble. But have no fear; bear a bold heart. None shall see you while I stalk at your side. I will cover you with the cloak of invisibility,--so that you may come in safety to the house of the great Paul Lessingham.' He paused again. What he said, wild and wanton though it was, was beginning to fill me with a sense of the most extreme discomfort. His sentences, in some strange, indescribable way, seemed, as they came from his lips, to warp my limbs; to enwrap themselves about me; to confine me, tighter and tighter, within, as it were, swaddling clothes; to make me more and more helpless. I was already conscious that whatever mad freak he chose to set me on, I should have no option but to carry it through. 'When you come to the house, you will stand, and look, and seek for a window convenient for entry. It may be that you will find one open, as you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,--that is your affair, not mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house.' The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which he again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,--endowed me with the power to show that there still was in me something of a man; though every second the strands of my manhood, as it seemed, were slipping faster through the fingers which were strained to clutch them. 'I will not.' He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,--until they seemed all pupil. 'You will.--Do you hear?--I say you will.' 'I am not a thief, I am an honest man,--why should I do this thing?' 'Because I bid you.' 'Have mercy!' 'On whom--on you, or on Paul Lessingham?--Who, at any time, has shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?' He stopped, and then again went on,--reiterating his former incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain. 'You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and, being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the room he calls his study.' 'How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.' The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing in great drops upon my brow. 'I will show it you.' 'Shall you go with me?' 'Ay,--I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You will not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.' His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to nothing less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I was in no condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued. 'When you have gained the study, you will go to a certain drawer, which is in a certain bureau, in a corner of the room--I see it now; when you are there you shall see it too--and you will open it.' 'Should it be locked?' 'You still will open it.' 'But how shall I open it if it is locked?' 'By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again that that is your affair, not mine.' I made no attempt to answer him. Even supposing that he forced me, by the wicked, and unconscionable exercise of what, I presumed, were the hypnotic powers with which nature had to such a dangerous degree endowed him, to carry the adventure to a certain stage, since he could hardly, at an instant's notice, endow me with the knack of picking locks, should the drawer he alluded to be locked--which might Providence permit!--nothing serious might issue from it after all. He read my thoughts. 'You will open it,--though it be doubly and trebly locked, I say that you will open it.--In it you will find--' he hesitated, as if to reflect--'some letters; it may be two or three,--I know not just how many,--they are bound about by a silken ribbon. You will take them out of the drawer, and, having taken them, you will make the best of your way out of the house, and bear them back to me.' 'And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious proceedings,--for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham himself, what then?' 'Paul Lessingham?--You need have no fear if you encounter him.' 'I need have no fear!--If he finds me, in his own house, at dead of night, committing burglary!' 'You need have no fear of him.' 'On your account, or on my own?--At least he will have me haled to gaol.' 'I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.' 'How, then, shall I escape his righteous vengeance? He is not the man to suffer a midnight robber to escape him scatheless,--shall I have to kill him?' 'You will not touch him with a finger,--nor will he touch you.' 'By what spell shall I prevent him?' 'By the spell of two words.' 'What words are they?' 'Should Paul Lessingham chance to come upon you, and find you in his house, a thief, and should seek to stay you from whatever it is you may be at, you will not flinch nor flee from him, but you will stand still, and you will say--' Something in the crescendo accents of his voice, something weird and ominous, caused my heart to press against my ribs, so that when he stopped, in my eagerness I cried out, 'What?' 'THE BEETLE!' As the words came from him in a kind of screech, the lamp went out, and the place was all in darkness, and I knew, so that the knowledge filled me with a sense of loathing, that with me, in the room, was the evil presence of the night before. Two bright specks gleamed in front of me; something flopped from off the bed on to the ground; the thing was coming towards me across the floor. It came slowly on, and on, and on. I stood still, speechless in the sickness of my horror. Until, on my bare feet, it touched me with slimy feelers, and my terror lest it should creep up my naked body lent me voice, and I fell shrieking like a soul in agony. It may be that my shrieking drove it from me. At least, it went. I knew it went. And all was still. Until, on a sudden, the lamp flamed out again, and there, lying, as before, in bed, glaring at me with his baleful eyes, was the being whom, in my folly, or in my wisdom,--whichever it was!--I was beginning to credit with the possession of unhallowed, unlawful powers. 'You will say that to him; those two words; they only; no more. And you will see what you will see. But Paul Lessingham is a man of resolution. Should he still persist in interference, or seek to hinder you, you will say those two words again. You need do no more. Twice will suffice, I promise you.--Now go.--Draw up the blind; open the window; climb through it. Hasten to do what I have bidden you. I wait here for your return,--and all the way I shall be with you.' CHAPTER VI A SINGULAR FELONY I went to the window; I drew up the blind, unlatching the sash, I threw it open; and clad, or, rather, unclad as I was, I clambered through it into the open air. I was not only incapable of resistance, I was incapable of distinctly formulating the desire to offer resistance. Some compelling influence moved me hither and hither, with completest disregard of whether I would or would not. And yet, when I found myself without, I was conscious of a sense of exultation at having escaped from the miasmic atmosphere of that room of unholy memories. And a faint hope began to dawn within my bosom that, as I increased the distance between myself and it, I might shake off something of the nightmare helplessness which numbed and tortured me. I lingered for a moment by the window; then stepped over the short dividing wall into the street; and then again I lingered. My condition was one of dual personality,--while, physically, I was bound, mentally, to a considerable extent, I was free. But this measure of freedom on my mental side made my plight no better. For, among other things, I realised what a ridiculous figure I must be cutting, barefooted and bareheaded, abroad, at such an hour of the night, in such a boisterous breeze,--for I quickly discovered that the wind amounted to something like a gale. Apart from all other considerations, the notion of parading the streets in such a condition filled me with profound disgust. And I do believe that if my tyrannical oppressor had only permitted me to attire myself in my own garments, I should have started with a comparatively light heart on the felonious mission on which he apparently was sending me. I believe, too, that the consciousness of the incongruity of my attire increased my sense of helplessness, and that, had I been dressed as Englishmen are wont to be, who take their walks abroad, he would not have found in me, on that occasion, the facile instrument which, in fact, he did. There was a moment, in which the gravelled pathway first made itself known to my naked feet, and the cutting wind to my naked flesh, when I think it possible that, had I gritted my teeth, and strained my every nerve, I might have shaken myself free from the bonds which shackled me, and bade defiance to the ancient sinner who, for all I knew, was peeping at me through the window. But so depressed was I by the knowledge of the ridiculous appearance I presented that, before I could take advantage of it the moment passed,--not to return again that night. I did catch, as it were, at its fringe, as it was flying past me, making a hurried movement to one side,--the first I had made, of my own initiative, for hours. But it was too late. My tormentor,--as if, though unseen, he saw--tightened his grip, I was whirled round, and sped hastily onwards in a direction in which I certainly had no desire of travelling. All the way I never met a soul. I have since wondered whether in that respect my experience was not a normal one; whether it might not have happened to any. If so, there are streets in London, long lines of streets, which, at a certain period of the night, in a certain sort of weather--probably the weather had something to do with it--are clean deserted; in which there is neither foot-passenger nor vehicle,--not even a policeman. The greater part of the route along which I was driven--I know no juster word--was one with which I had some sort of acquaintance. It led, at first, through what, I take it, was some part of Walham Green; then along the Lillie Road, through Brompton, across the Fulham Road, through the network of streets leading to Sloane Street, across Sloane Street into Lowndes Square. Who goes that way goes some distance, and goes through some important thorough fares; yet not a creature did I see, nor, I imagine, was there a creature who saw me. As I crossed Sloane Street, I fancied that I heard the distant rumbling of a vehicle along the Knightsbridge Road, but that was the only sound I heard. It is painful even to recollect the plight in which I was when I was stopped,--for stopped I was, as shortly and as sharply, as the beast of burden, with a bridle in its mouth, whose driver puts a period to his career. I was wet,--intermittent gusts of rain were borne on the scurrying wind; in spite of the pace at which I had been brought, I was chilled to the bone; and--worst of all!--my mud-stained feet, all cut and bleeding, were so painful--for, unfortunately, I was still susceptible enough to pain--that it was agony to have them come into contact with the cold and the slime of the hard, unyielding pavement. I had been stopped on the opposite side of the square,--that nearest to the hospital; in front of a house which struck me as being somewhat smaller than the rest. It was a house with a portico; about the pillars of this portico was trelliswork, and on the trelliswork was trained some climbing plant. As I stood, shivering, wondering what would happen next, some strange impulse mastered me, and, immediately, to my own unbounded amazement, I found myself scrambling up the trellis towards the verandah above. I am no gymnast, either by nature or by education; I doubt whether, previously, I had ever attempted to climb anything more difficult than a step ladder. The result was, that, though the impulse might be given me, the skill could not, and I had only ascended a yard or so when, losing my footing, I came slithering down upon my back. Bruised and shaken though I was, I was not allowed to inquire into my injuries. In a moment I was on my feet again, and again I was impelled to climb,--only, however, again to come to grief. This time the demon, or whatever it was, that had entered into me, seeming to appreciate the impossibility of getting me to the top of that verandah, directed me to try another way. I mounted the steps leading to the front door, got on to the low parapet which was at one side, thence on to the sill of the adjacent window,--had I slipped then I should have fallen a sheer descent of at least twenty feet to the bottom of the deep area down below. But the sill was broad, and--if it is proper to use such language in connection with a transaction of the sort in which I was engaged--fortune favoured me. I did not fall. In my clenched fist I had a stone. With this I struck the pane of glass, as with a hammer. Through the hole which resulted, I could just insert my hand, and reach the latch within. In another minute the sash was raised, and I was in the house,--I had committed burglary. As I look back and reflect upon the audacity of the whole proceeding, even now I tremble. Hapless slave of another's will although in very truth I was, I cannot repeat too often that I realised to the full just what it was that I was being compelled to do--a fact which was very far from rendering my situation less distressful!--and every detail of my involuntary actions was projected upon my brain in a series of pictures, whose clear-cut outlines, so long as memory endures, will never fade. Certainly no professional burglar, nor, indeed, any creature in his senses, would have ventured to emulate my surprising rashness. The process of smashing the pane of glass--it was plate glass--was anything but a noiseless one. There was, first, the blow itself, then the shivering of the glass, then the clattering of fragments into the area beneath. One would have thought that the whole thing would have made din enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers. But, here, again the weather was on my side. About that time the wind was howling wildly,--it came shrieking across the square. It is possible that the tumult which it made deadened all other sounds. Anyhow, as I stood within the room which I had violated, listening for signs of someone being on the alert, I could hear nothing. Within the house there seemed to be the silence of the grave. I drew down the window, and made for the door. It proved by no means easy to find. The windows were obscured by heavy curtains, so that the room inside was dark as pitch. It appeared to be unusually full of furniture,--an appearance due, perhaps, to my being a stranger in the midst of such Cimmerian blackness. I had to feel my way, very gingerly indeed, among the various impedimenta. As it was I seemed to come into contact with most of the obstacles there were to come into contact with, stumbling more than once over footstools, and over what seemed to be dwarf chairs. It was a miracle that my movements still continued to be unheard,--but I believe that the explanation was, that the house was well built; that the servants were the only persons in it at the time; that their bedrooms were on the top floor; that they were fast asleep; and that they were little likely to be disturbed by anything that might occur in the room which I had entered. Reaching the door at last, I opened it,--listening for any promise of being interrupted--and--to adapt a hackneyed phrase--directed by the power which shaped my end, I went across the hall and up the stairs. I passed up the first landing, and, on the second, moved to a door upon the right. I turned the handle, it yielded, the door opened, I entered, closing it behind me. I went to the wall just inside the door, found a handle, jerked it, and switched on the electric light,--doing, I make no doubt, all these things, from a spectator's point of view, so naturally, that a judge and jury would have been with difficulty persuaded that they were not the product of my own volition. In the brilliant glow of the electric light I took a leisurely survey of the contents of the room. It was, as the man in the bed had said it would be, a study,--a fine, spacious apartment, evidently intended rather for work than for show. There were three separate writing-tables, one very large and two smaller ones, all covered with an orderly array of manuscripts and papers. A typewriter stood at the side of one. On the floor, under and about them, were piles of books, portfolios, and official-looking documents. Every available foot of wall space on three sides of the room was lined with shelves, full as they could hold with books. On the fourth side, facing the door, was a large lock-up oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old bureau. So soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an arrow from a bow,--indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that I was propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow. It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers and the doors was a flap to let down. It was to this flap my attention was directed. I put out my hand to open it; it was locked at the top. I pulled at it with both hands; it refused to budge. So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of a thief to open. I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that nothing, and no one, could make me such a thing. Yet now that I found myself confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that pressure, irresistible pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by any and every means, access to its interior. I had no option but to yield. I looked about me in search of some convenient tool with which to ply the felon's trade. I found it close beside me. Leaning against the wall, within a yard of where I stood, were examples of various kinds of weapons,--among them, spear-heads. Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I forced the point between the flap and the bureau. Using the leverage thus obtained, I attempted to prise it open. The flap held fast; the spear-head snapped in two. I tried another, with the same result; a third, to fail again. There were no more. The most convenient thing remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet. This I took, brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon the refractory flap. The hatchet went through,--before I had done with it, it was open with a vengeance. But I was destined on the occasion of my first--and, I trust, last--experience of the burglar's calling, to carry the part completely through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to find that at the back were several small drawers, on one of which my observation was brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite impossible to disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and, once more, I had to search for something which would serve as a rough-and-ready substitute for the missing key. There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,--I could hardly for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question was such a little one that to have done so would have been to shiver it to splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather case, were a pair of revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes stand in actual peril of their lives. It is possible that Mr Lessingham, conscious of continually threatened danger, carried them about with him as a necessary protection. They were serviceable weapons, large, and somewhat weighty,--of the type with which, I believe, upon occasion the police are armed. Not only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the case itself there was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to charge them all again. I was handling the weapons, wondering--if, in my condition, the word was applicable--what use I could make of them to enable me to gain admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from the street without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a whirring within my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to explain to me to what service to apply the revolvers, and I, perforce, strained every nerve to grasp the meaning of my invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels drew rapidly nearer, and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling by, stopped,--in front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a convulsion of frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied moment, I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard, from the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,--it was as if I had been rooted to the ground. A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If I could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but gone at once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings and goings were not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear raging within, outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood, turning the revolvers over and over, asking myself what it could be that I was intended to do with them. All at once it came to me in an illuminating flash,--I was to fire at the lock of the drawer, and blow it open. A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The servants had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly sleep through the discharge of a revolver in a room below them,--not to speak of the person who had just entered the premises, and whose footsteps were already audible as he came up the stairs. I struggled to make a dumb protest against the insensate folly which was hurrying me to infallible destruction, without success. For me there was only obedience. With a revolver in either hand I marched towards the bureau as unconcernedly as if I would not have given my life to have escaped the denouement which I needed but a slight modicum of common sense to be aware was close at hand. I placed the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the keyhole of the drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed me, and pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about which a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me, immediately following the report of the pistol, I glanced over my shoulder. The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the handle in his hand. CHAPTER VII THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM He was in evening dress. He carried a small portfolio in his left hand. If the discovery of my presence startled him, as it could scarcely have failed to do, he allowed no sign of surprise to escape him. Paul Lessingham's impenetrability is proverbial. Whether on platforms addressing excited crowds, or in the midst of heated discussion in the House of Commons, all the world knows that his coolness remains unruffled. It is generally understood that he owes his success in the political arena in no slight measure to the adroitness which is born of his invulnerable presence of mind. He gave me a taste of its quality then. Standing in the attitude which has been familiarised to us by caricaturists, his feet apart, his broad shoulders well set back, his handsome head a little advanced, his keen blue eyes having in them something suggestive of a bird of prey considering just when, where, and how to pounce, he regarded me for some seconds in perfect silence,--whether outwardly I flinched I cannot say; inwardly I know I did. When he spoke, it was without moving from where he stood, and in the calm, airy tones in which he might have addressed an acquaintance who had just dropped in. 'May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your company?' He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his question in another form. 'Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you here?' As I still stood speechless, motionless, meeting his glance without a twitching of an eyebrow, nor a tremor of the hand, I imagine that he began to consider me with an even closer intentness than before. And that the--to say the least of it--peculiarity of my appearance, caused him to suspect that he was face to face with an adventure of a peculiar kind. Whether he took me for a lunatic I cannot certainly say; but, from his manner, I think it possible he did. He began to move towards me from across the room, addressing me with the utmost suavity and courtesy. 'Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are holding in your hand.' As he came on, something entered into me, and forced itself from between my lips, so that I said, in a low, hissing voice, which I vow was never mine, 'THE BEETLE!' Whether it was, or was not, owing, in some degree, to a trick of my imagination, I cannot determine, but, as the words were spoken, it seemed to me that the lights went low, so that the place was all in darkness, and I again was filled with the nauseous consciousness of the presence of something evil in the room. But if, in that matter, my abnormally strained imagination played me a trick, there could be no doubt whatever as to the effect which the words had on Mr Lessingham. When the mist of the blackness--real or supposititious--had passed from before my eyes, I found that he had retreated to the extremest limits of the room, and was crouching, his back against the bookshelves, clutching at them, in the attitude of a man who has received a staggering blow, from which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of recovering. A most extraordinary change had taken place in the expression of his face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror seemed struggling for the mastery. I was filled with a most discomforting qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of me, and realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god of my political idolatry. 'Who are you?--In God's name, who are you?' His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe. 'Who are you?--Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of God, I bid you say!' As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to stand up straight. So far from exhibiting the impassivity for which he was renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the limbs in his body seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a man afflicted with the shivering ague,--his very fingers were twitching aimlessly, as they were stretched out on either side of him, as if seeking for support from the shelves against which he leaned. 'Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here? what concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should come and play these childish tricks with me? why? why?' The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity. When he saw that I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what sounded to me like a stream of inchoate abuse. 'Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,--it's worse than nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness! For that alone I could have you punished, and I will!--and try to play the fool? Do you think I am a boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may try to conjure up? If so, you're wrong, as whoever sent you might have had sense enough to let you know. If you tell me who you are, and who sent you here, and what it is you want, I will be merciful; if not, the police shall be sent for, and the law shall take its course,--to the bitter end!--I warn you.--Do you hear? You fool! tell me who you are?' The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of childish fury. He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that his passion was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it. He drew himself straight up. With a pocket-handkerchief which he took from an inner pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips. Then, clutching it tightly in his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness which, under any other circumstances, I should have found unbearable. 'Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the role you have set yourself to play?' His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his character. 'If it be so, I presume that I, at least have liberty to speak. When I find a gentleman, even one gifted with your eloquence of silence, playing the part of burglar, I think you will grant that a few words on my part cannot justly be considered to be out of place.' Again he paused. I could not but feel that he was employing the vehicle of somewhat cumbrous sarcasm to gain time, and to give himself the opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible, his pristine courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me, the mysterious utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest foundations, was made plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole business with a sort of cynical levity. 'To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or through any portion of it, in that costume,--or, rather, in that want of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street,--would it not?--even in the Rue de Rabagas,--was it not the Rue de Rabagas?' He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was wholly lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what immediately followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in the moon,--though I should probably have found great difficulty in convincing him of my ignorance. 'I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas,--that, of course;--is it not of course? The little house with the blue-grey Venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is there still the piano? with the tinny treble,--indeed, the whole atmosphere, was it not tinny?--You agree with me?--I have not forgotten. I am not even afraid to remember,--you perceive it?' A new idea seemed to strike him,--born, perhaps, of my continued silence. 'You look English,--is it possible that you are not English? What are you then--French? We shall see!' He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I flatter myself that,--as the present narrative should show--I have not made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to improve my, originally, modest education, I regret that I have never had so much as a ghost of a chance to acquire an even rudimentary knowledge of any language except my own. Recognising, I suppose, from my looks, that he was addressing me in a tongue to which I was a stranger, after a time he stopped, added something with a smile, and then began to talk to me in a lingo to which, in a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for this time I had not the faintest notion what it was,--it might have been gibberish for all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he had succeeded no better than before, he returned to English. 'You do not know French?--nor the patois of the Rue de Rabagas? Very good,--then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow of silence, or are you dumb,--except upon occasion? Your face is English,--what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore, that English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So listen, sir, to what I have to say,--do me the favour to listen carefully.' He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear, modulated tones there was a ring of something like a threat,--a something which went very far beyond his words. 'You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten,--that is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still more. Go back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I have forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour to induce me to remember,--be very sure upon that point, say that nothing will be gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of delusion, of disease. I was in a condition, mentally and bodily, in which pranks could have been played upon me by any trickster. Such pranks were played. I know that now quite well. I do not pretend to be proficient in the modus operandi of the hankey-pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all the same,--one susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your friend, and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of his old method,--nor of his new one either.--You hear me, sir?' I remained motionless and silent,--an attitude which, plainly, he resented. 'Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke to me just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort to measures which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.--You hear me, sir?' Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,--to his increased annoyance. 'So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it excellently well, but that you do understand what is said to you is clear.--Come to business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the packet of letters which you have stolen from my desk.' He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince himself as much as me,--and about his last words there was almost a flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding. 'Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to refuse?--in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me into supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know better.--Once more, are you going to give me that revolver and those letters?' Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater,--and his agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was not destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of which the world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed himself to be as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and esteemed, as he easily could have done. 'Do you think I stand in awe of you?--you!--of such a thing as you! Do as I tell you, or I myself will make you,--and, at the same time, teach you a much-needed lesson.' He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance. He might not have been aware of it, but the repetitions of the threats were, in themselves, confessions of weakness. He came a step or two forward,--then, stopping short, began to tremble. The perspiration broke out upon his brow; he made spasmodic little dabs at it with his crumpled-up handkerchief. His eyes wandered hither and thither, as if searching for something which they feared to see yet were constrained to seek. He began to talk to himself, out loud, in odd disconnected sentences,--apparently ignoring me entirely. 'What was that?--It was nothing.--It was my imagination.--My nerves are out of order.--I have been working too hard.--I am not well.--WHAT'S THAT?' This last inquiry came from him in a half-stifled shriek,--as the door opened to admit the head and body of an elderly man in a state of considerable undress. He had the tousled appearance of one who had been unexpectedly roused out of slumber, and unwillingly dragged from bed. Mr Lessingham stared at him as if he had been a ghost, while he stared back at Mr Lessingham as if he found a difficulty in crediting the evidence of his own eyes. It was he who broke the silence,--stutteringly. 'I am sure I beg your pardon, sir, but one of the maids thought that she heard the sound of a shot, and we came down to see if there was anything the matter,--I had no idea, sir, that you were here.' His eyes travelled from Mr Lessingham towards me,--suddenly increasing, when they saw me, to about twice their previous size. 'God save us!--who is that?' The man's self-evident cowardice possibly impressed Mr Lessingham with the conviction that he himself was not cutting the most dignified of figures. At any rate, he made a notable effort to, once more, assume a bearing of greater determination. 'You are quite right, Matthews, quite right. I am obliged by your watchfulness. At present you may leave the room--I propose to deal with this fellow myself,--only remain with the other men upon the landing, so that, if I call, you may come to my assistance.' Matthews did as he was told, he left the room,--with, I fancy, more rapidity than he had entered it. Mr Lessingham returned to me, his manner distinctly more determined, as if he found his resolution reinforced by the near neighbourhood of his retainers, 'Now, my man, you see how the case stands, at a word from me you will be overpowered and doomed to undergo a long period of imprisonment. Yet I am still willing to listen to the dictates of mercy. Put down that revolver, give me those letters,--you will not find me disposed to treat you hardly.' For all the attention I paid him, I might have been a graven image. He misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand, the cause of my silence. 'Come, I see that you suppose my intentions to be harsher than they really are,--do not let us have a scandal, and a scene,--be sensible!--give me those letters!' Again he moved in my direction; again, after he had taken a step or two, to stumble and stop, and look about him with frightened eyes; again to begin to mumble to himself aloud. 'It's a conjurer's trick!--Of course!--Nothing more,--What else could it be?--I'm not to be fooled.--I'm older than I was. I've been overdoing it,--that's all.' Suddenly he broke into cries. 'Matthews! Matthews!--Help! help!' Matthews entered the room, followed by three other men, younger than himself. Evidently all had slipped into the first articles of clothing they could lay their hands upon, and each carried a stick, or some similar rudimentary weapon. Their master spurred them on. 'Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!--knock him down!--take the letters from him!--don't be afraid!--I'm not afraid!' In proof of it, he rushed at me, as it seemed half blindly. As he did so I was constrained to shout out, in tones which I should not have recognised as mine, 'THE BEETLE!' And that moment the room was all in darkness, and there were screams as of someone in an agony of terror or of pain. I felt that something had come into the room, I knew not whence nor how,--something of horror. And the next action of which I was conscious was, that under cover of the darkness, I was flying from the room, propelled by I knew not what. CHAPTER VIII THE MAN IN THE STREET Whether anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as I came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the landing, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effort was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is that not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by anyone. In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flying through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how nor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across this room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes under them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet again,--until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by curtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,--but I was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the fastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, so far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open I stepped through it on to the verandah without,--to find that I was on the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below. I tried the road down which I had tried up,--proceeding with a breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was, probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it had been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,--then down I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when I had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance--scraping, as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process--I lost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling, rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracle I was not seriously injured,--but in that sense, certainly, that night the miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was up again,--mud and all. Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the shoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me,--and I looked back at him. 'After the ball,--eh?' Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face. Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half mocking smile. 'Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle's pillar?--Is it simple burglary, or simpler murder?--Tell me the glad tidings that you've killed St Paul, and I'll let you go.' Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,--there was some excuse for thinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike were strange. 'Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?--Away with you!' He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I was away. I neither stayed nor paused. I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to know just what it was,--I should, too, like to have seen it done. In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the house with the open window,--the packet of letters--which were like to have cost me so dear!--gripped tightly in my hand. CHAPTER IX THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET I pulled up sharply,--as if a brake had been suddenly, and even mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill. In front of the window I stood shivering. A shower had recently commenced,--the falling rain was being blown before the breeze. I was in a terrible sweat,--yet tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and bleeding,--as piteous an object as you would care to see. Every limb in my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless, helpless, hapless heap. But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me. As I stood there, like some broken and beaten hack, waiting for the word of command, it came. It was as if some strong magnetic current had been switched on to me through the window to draw me into the room. Over the low wall I went, over the sill,--once more I stood in that chamber of my humiliation and my shame. And once again I was conscious of that awful sense of the presence of an evil thing. How much of it was fact, and how much of it was the product of imagination I cannot say; but, looking back, it seems to me that it was as if I had been taken out of the corporeal body to be plunged into the inner chambers of all nameless sin. There was the sound of something flopping from off the bed on to the ground, and I knew that the thing was coming at me across the floor. My stomach quaked, my heart melted within me,--the very anguish of my terror gave me strength to scream,--and scream! Sometimes, even now, I seem to hear those screams of mine ringing through the night, and I bury my face in the pillow, and it is as though I was passing through the very Valley of the Shadow. The thing went back,--I could hear it slipping and sliding across the floor. There was silence. And, presently, the lamp was lit, and the room was all in brightness. There, on the bed, in the familiar attitude between the sheets, his head resting on his hand, his eyes blazing like living coals, was the dreadful cause of all my agonies. He looked at me with his unpitying, unblinking glance. 'So!--Through the window again!--like a thief!--Is it always through that door that you come into a house?' He paused,--as if to give me time to digest his gibe. 'You saw Paul Lessingham,--well?--the great Paul Lessingham!--Was he, then, so great?' His rasping voice, with its queer foreign twang, reminded me, in some uncomfortable way, of a rusty saw,--the things he said, and the manner in which he said them, were alike intended to add to my discomfort. It was solely because the feat was barely possible that he only partially succeeded. 'Like a thief you went into his house,--did I not tell you that you would? Like a thief he found you,--were you not ashamed? Since, like a thief he found you, how comes it that you have escaped,--by what robber's artifice have you saved yourself from gaol?' His manner changed,--so that, all at once, he seemed to snarl at me. 'Is he great?--well!--is he great,--Paul Lessingham? You are small, but he is smaller,--your great Paul Lessingham!--Was there ever a man so less than nothing?' With the recollection fresh upon me of Mr Lessingham as I had so lately seen him I could not but feel that there might be a modicum of truth in what, with such an intensity of bitterness, the speaker suggested. The picture which, in my mental gallery, I had hung in the place of honour, seemed, to say the least, to have become a trifle smudged. As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the slightest difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my mind. 'That is so,--you and he, you are a pair,--the great Paul Lessingham is as great a thief as you,--and greater!--for, at least, than you he has more courage.' For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden fierceness, 'Give me what you have stolen!' I moved towards the bed--most unwillingly--and held out to him the packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer. Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set himself to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared me straight in the face. 'What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close at my side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would you not take me for a wife?' There was something about the manner in which this was said which was so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could possibly be mistaken in the creature's sex. I would have given much to have been able to strike him across the face,--or, better, to have taken him by the neck, and thrown him through the window, and rolled him in the mud. He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him. 'So!--that is what you have stolen!--That is what you have taken from the drawer in the bureau--the drawer which was locked--and which you used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give it to me,--thief!' He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as he did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet over and over, glaring at it as he did so,--it was strange what a relief it was to have his glance removed from off my face. 'You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you could see it,--did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing,--yes, worth knowing!--since you found it worth your while to hide it up so closely.' As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink ribbon,--a fact on which he presently began to comment. 'With what a pretty string you have encircled it,--and how neatly it is tied! Surely only a woman's hand could tie a knot like that,--who would have guessed yours were such agile fingers?--So! An endorsement on the cover! What's this?--let's see what's written!--"The letters of my dear love, Marjorie Lindon."' As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which were enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I suppose that rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His jaw dropped open so that his yellow fangs gleamed though his parted lips,--he held his breath so long that each moment I looked to see him fall down in a fit; the veins stood out all over his face and head like seams of blood. I know not how long he continued speechless. When his breath returned, it was with chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him near to strangulation. 'The letters of his dear love!--of his dear love!--his!--Paul Lessingham's!--So!--It is as I guessed,--as I knew,--as I saw!--Marjorie Lindon!--Sweet Marjorie!--His dear love!--Paul Lessingham's dear love!--She with the lily face, the corn-hued hair!--What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to write Paul Lessingham?' Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open. It contained, perhaps, eight or nine letters,--some mere notes, some long epistles. But, short or long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over and over again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading them. They were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of whiteness, with untrimmed edges, On each sheet a crest and an address were stamped in gold, and all the sheets were of the same shape and size. I told myself that if anywhere, at any time, I saw writing paper like that again, I should not fail to know it. The caligraphy was, like the paper, unusual, bold, decided, and, I should have guessed, produced by a J pen. All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,--like some savage beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of reading,--for the season,--he let his passion have full vent. 'So!--That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to write Paul Lessingham!--Paul Lessingham!' Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which the speaker dwelt upon the name,--it was demoniac. 'It is enough!--it is the end!--it is his doom! He shall be ground between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish, and all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream of the bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for her--for Marjorie Lindon!--for his dear love!--it shall come to pass that she shall wish that she was never born,--nor he!--and the gods of the shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her suffering!--It shall be! it shall be! It is I that say it,--even I!' In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had actually forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside, he saw me, and remembered,--and was prompt to take advantage of an opportunity to wreak his rage upon a tangible object. 'It is you!--you thief!--you still live!--to make a mock of one of the children of the gods!' He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my throat with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the floor; I felt his breath mingle with mine * * * and then God, in His mercy, sent oblivion. BOOK II The Haunted Man The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire CHAPTER X REJECTED It was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet corner--which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the hall. Before I had got into my stride she checked me,--touching my sleeve with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes. 'Stop, please!' But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty Cazell. I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I was wound up to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk till he does talk,--to the girl he wants to marry. It is my impression that I gave her recollections of the Restoration poets. She seemed surprised,--not having previously detected in me the poetic strain, and insisted on cutting in. 'Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.' Then I did let fly. 'Sorry that I love you!--why? Why should you be sorry that you have become the one thing needful in any man's eyes,--even in mine? The one thing precious,--the one thing to be altogether esteemed! Is it so common for a woman to come across a man who would be willing to lay down his life for her that she should be sorry when she finds him?' 'I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I have had my--my doubts.' 'Doubts!--I thank you.' 'You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.' 'Like me!--Bah!' 'I cannot help liking you,--though it may be "bah."' 'I don't want you to like me,--I want you to love me.' 'Precisely,--that is your mistake.' 'My mistake!--in wanting you to love me!--when I love you--' 'Then you shouldn't,--though I can't help thinking that you are mistaken even there.' 'Mistaken!--in supposing that I love you!--when I assert and reassert it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me to do to prove I love you,--take you in my arms and crush you to my bosom, and make a spectacle of you before every creature in the place?' 'I'd rather you wouldn't, and perhaps you wouldn't mind not talking quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what you're shouting about.' 'You shouldn't torture me.' She opened and shut her fan,--as she looked down at it I am disposed to suspect that she smiled. 'I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of course, you are my friend.' 'I am not your friend.' 'Pardon me, you are.' 'I say I'm not,--if I can't be something else, I'll be no friend.' She went on,--calmly ignoring me,--playing with her fan. 'As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in which a friend is welcome.' 'What's the matter? Who's been worrying you,--your father?' 'Well,--he has not,--as yet; but he may be soon.' 'What's in the wind?' 'Mr Lessingham.' She dropped her voice,--and her eyes. For the moment I did not catch her meaning. 'What?' 'Your friend, Mr Lessingham.' 'Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.' 'What!--Not when I am going to be his wife?' That took me aback. I had had my suspicions that Paul Lessingham was more with Marjorie than he had any right to be, but I had never supposed that she could see anything desirable in a stick of a man like that. Not to speak of a hundred and one other considerations,--Lessingham on one side of the House, and her father on the other; and old Lindon girding at him anywhere and everywhere--with his high-dried Tory notions of his family importance,--to say nothing of his fortune. I don't know if I looked what I felt,--if I did, I looked uncommonly blank. 'You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me such a communication.' She chose to disregard my irony. 'I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a difficult position I am in.' 'I offer you my hearty congratulations.' 'And I thank you for them, Mr Atherton, in the spirit in which they are offered, because from you I know they mean so much.' I bit my lip,--for the life of me I could not tell how she wished me to read her words. 'Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one of the public?' 'You do not. It is made to you, in confidence, as my friend,--as my greatest friend; because a husband is something more than friend.' My pulses tingled. 'You will be on my side?' She had paused,--and I stayed silent. 'On your side,--or Mr Lessingham's?' 'His side is my side, and my side is his side;--you will be on our side?' 'I am not sure that I altogether follow you.' 'You are the first I have told. When papa hears it is possible that there will be trouble,--as you know. He thinks so much of you and of your opinion; when that trouble comes I want you to be on our side,--on my side.' 'Why should I?--what does it matter? You are stronger than your father,--it is just possible that Lessingham is stronger than you; together, from your father's point of view, you will be invincible.' 'You are my friend,--are you not my friend?' 'In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.' 'Thank you;--I did not think you so unkind.' 'And you,--are you kind? I make you an avowal of my love, and, straightway, you ask me to act as chorus to the love of another.' 'How could I tell you loved me,--as you say! I had no notion. You have known me all your life, yet you have not breathed a word of it till now.' 'If I had spoken before?' I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,--almost amounting to a shrug. 'I do not know that it would have made any difference.--I do not pretend that it would. But I do know this, I believe that you yourself have only discovered the state of your own mind within the last half-hour.' If she had slapped my face she could not have startled me more. I had no notion if her words were uttered at random, but they came so near the truth they held me breathless. It was a fact that only during the last few minutes had I really realised how things were with me,--only since the end of that first waltz that the flame had burst out in my soul which was now consuming me. She had read me by what seemed so like a flash of inspiration that I hardly knew what to say to her. I tried to be stinging. 'You flatter me, Miss Lindon, you flatter me at every point. Had you only discovered to me the state of your mind a little sooner I should not have discovered to you the state of mine at all.' 'We will consider it terra incognita.' 'Since you wish it.' Her provoking calmness stung me,--and the suspicion that she was laughing at me in her sleeve. I gave her a glimpse of the cloven hoof. 'But, at the same time, since you assert that you have so long been innocent, I beg that you will continue so no more. At least, your innocence shall be without excuse. For I wish you to understand that I love you, that I have loved you, that I shall love you. Any understanding you may have with Mr Lessingham will not make the slightest difference. I warn you, Miss Lindon, that, until death, you will have to write me down your lover.' She looked at me, with wide open eyes,--as if I almost frightened her. To be frank, that was what I wished to do. 'Mr Atherton!' 'Miss Lindon?' 'That is not like you at all.' 'We seem to be making each other's acquaintance for the first time.' She continued to gaze at me with her big eyes,--which, to be candid, I found it difficult to meet. On a sudden her face was lighted by a smile,--which I resented. 'Not after all these years,--not after all these years! I know you, and though I daresay you're not flawless, I fancy you'll be found to ring pretty true.' Her manner was almost sisterly,--elder-sisterly. I could have shaken her. Hartridge coming to claim his dance gave me an opportunity to escape with such remnants of dignity as I could gather about me. He dawdled up,--his thumbs, as usual, in his waistcoat pockets. 'I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.' She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got up, and left her, without a word. As I crossed the hall I chanced on Percy Woodville. He was in his familiar state of fluster, and was gaping about him as if he had mislaid the Koh-i-noor, and wondered where in thunder it had got to. When he saw it was I he caught me by the arm. 'I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?' 'I have.' 'No!--Have you?--By Jove!--Where? I've been looking for her all over the place, except in the cellars and the attics,--and I was just going to commence on them. This is our dance.' 'In that case, she's shunted you.' 'No!--Impossible!' His mouth went like an O,--and his eyes ditto, his eyeglass clattering down on to his shirt front. 'I expect the mistake's mine. Fact is, I've made a mess of my programme. It's either the last dance, or this dance, or the next, that I've booked with her, but I'm hanged if I know which. Just take a squint at it, there's a good chap, and tell me which one you think it is.' I 'took a squint'--since he held the thing within an inch of my nose I could hardly help it; one 'squint,' and that was enough--and more. Some men's ball programmes are studies in impressionism, Percy's seemed to me to be a study in madness. It was covered with hieroglyphics, but what they meant, or what they did there anyhow, it was absurd to suppose that I could tell,--I never put them there!--Proverbially, the man's a champion hasher. 'I regret, my dear Percy, that I am not an expert in cuneiform writing. If you have any doubt as to which dance is yours, you'd better ask the lady,--she'll feel flattered.' Leaving him to do his own addling I went to find my coat,--I panted to get into the open air; as for dancing I felt that I loathed it. Just as I neared the cloak-room someone stopped me. It was Dora Grayling. 'Have you forgotten that this is our dance?' I had forgotten,--clean. And I was not obliged by her remembering. Though as I looked at her sweet, grey eyes, and at the soft contours of her gentle face, I felt that I deserved well kicking. She is an angel,--one of the best!--but I was in no mood for angels. Not for a very great deal would I have gone through that dance just then, nor, with Dora Grayling, of all women in the world, would I have sat it out.--So I was a brute and blundered. 'You must forgive me, Miss Grayling, but--I am not feeling very well, and--I don't think I'm up to any more dancing.--Good-night.' CHAPTER XI A MIDNIGHT EPISODE The weather out of doors was in tune with my frame of mind,--I was in a deuce of a temper, and it was a deuce of a night. A keen north-east wind, warranted to take the skin right off you, was playing catch-who-catch-can with intermittent gusts of blinding rain. Since it was not fit for a dog to walk, none of your cabs for me,--nothing would serve but pedestrian exercise. So I had it. I went down Park Lane,--and the wind and rain went with me,--also, thoughts of Dora Grayling. What a bounder I had been,--and was! If there is anything in worse taste than to book a lady for a dance, and then to leave her in the lurch, I should like to know what that thing is,--when found it ought to be made a note of. If any man of my acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a felony in the first degree, I should cut him. I wished someone would try to cut me,--I should like to see him at it. It was all Marjorie's fault,--everything! past, present, and to come. I had known that girl when she was in long frocks--I had, at that period of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them; when she was advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she returned to long. And all that time,--well, I was nearly persuaded that the whole of the time I had loved her. If I had not mentioned it, it was because I had suffered my affection, 'like the worm, to lie hidden in the bud,'--or whatever it is the fellow says. At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the faintest notion that she would ever seriously consider such a man as Lessingham I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why, he was old enough to be her father,--at least he was a good many years older than I was. And a wretched Radical! It is true that on certain points I, also, am what some people would call a Radical,--but not a Radical of the kind he is. Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I have admired traits in his character, until I learnt this thing of him. I am even prepared to admit that he is a man of ability,--in his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But to think of him in connection with such a girl as Marjorie Lindon,--preposterous! Why, the man's as dry as a stick,--drier! And cold as an iceberg. Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a lover!--how I could fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the benches in a roar. Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable of even playing such a part; as for being the thing,--absurd! If you were to sink a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, you would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties and of politics. What my Marjorie--if everyone had his own, she is mine, and, in that sense, she always will be mine--what my Marjorie could see in such a dry-as-dust out of which even to construct the rudiments of a husband was beyond my fathoming. Suchlike agreeable reflections were fit company for the wind and the wet, so they bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him and his house,--on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained me. 'May your following,' I cried,--it is an absolute fact that the words were shouted!--'both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches! May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject you!--Jehoram!--what's that?' I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden, a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window was crashed open from within,--the one over the front door, and someone came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a case of intended suicide I made sure,--and I began to be in hopes that I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever witnessed,--I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet. I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that singularly agile stranger,--if he was not made of india-rubber he ought to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up,--it was all I could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket. Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen,--at least, in the streets of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a position to say,--all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which he strove to wrap round him. Save for that,--and mud!--he was bare as the palm of my hand, Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I have seen strange expressions on men's faces, but never before one such as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the devil. It was not the look of a madman,--far from it; it was something worse. It was the expression on the man's countenance, as much as anything else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him,--some nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was supernatural. I spoke to him again;--not a word issued from those rigid lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes,--eyes which I was tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let him go. I know not why,--I did. He had remained as motionless as a statue while I held him,--indeed, for any evidence of life he gave, he might have been a statue; but, when my grasp was loosed, how he ran! He had turned the corner and was out of sight before I could say, 'How do!' It was only then,--when he had gone, and I had realised the extra-double-express-flash-of-lightning rate at which he had taken his departure--that it occurred to me of what an extremely sensible act I had been guilty in letting him go at all. Here was an individual who had been committing burglary, or something very like it, in the house of a budding cabinet minister, and who had tumbled plump into my arms, so that all I had to do was to call a policeman and get him quodded,--and all that I had done was something of a totally different kind. 'You're a nice type of an ideal citizen!' I was addressing myself, 'A first chop specimen of a low-down idiot,--to connive at the escape of the robber who's been robbing Paul. Since you've let the villain go, the least you can do is to leave a card on the Apostle, and inquire how he's feeling.' I went to Lessingham's front door and knocked,--I knocked once, I knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and the third time, I give you my word, I made the echoes ring,--but still there was not a soul that answered. 'If this is a case of a seven or seventy-fold murder, and the gentleman in the cloak has made a fair clearance of every living creature the house contains, perhaps it's just as well I've chanced upon the scene,--still I do think that one of the corpses might get up to answer the door. If it is possible to make noise enough to waken the dead, you bet I'm on to it.' And I was,--I punished that knocker! until I warrant the pounding I gave it was audible on the other side of Green Park. And, at last, I woke the dead,--or, rather, I roused Matthews to a consciousness that something was going on. Opening the door about six inches, through the interstice he protruded his ancient nose. 'Who's there?' 'Nothing, my dear sir, nothing and no one. It must have been your vigorous imagination which induced you to suppose that there was,--you let it run away with you.' Then he knew me,--and opened the door about two feet. 'Oh, it's you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought it might have been the police.' 'What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law,--at last?' A most discreet servant, Matthews,--just the fellow for a budding cabinet minister. He glanced over his shoulder,--I had suspected the presence of a colleague at his back, now I was assured. He put his hand up to his mouth,--and I thought how exceedingly discreet he looked, in his trousers and his stockinged feet, and with his hair all rumpled, and his braces dangling behind, and his nightshirt creased. 'Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.' 'The deuce you have!--From whom?' Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an air which was flatteringly confidential. 'From Mr Lessingham, sir.' 'Possibly Mr Lessingham is not aware that a robbery has been committed on his premises, that the burglar has just come out of his drawing-room window with a hop, skip, and a jump, bounded out of the window like a tennis-ball, flashed round the corner like a rocket,' Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which way discretion lay, whether fore or aft. 'Thank you, sir. I believe that Mr Lessingham is aware of something of the kind.' He seemed to come to a sudden resolution, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'The fact is, sir, that I fancy Mr Lessingham's a good deal upset.' 'Upset?' I stared at him. There was something in his manner I did not understand. 'What do you mean by upset? Has the scoundrel attempted violence?' 'Who's there?' The voice was Lessingham's, calling to Matthews from the staircase, though, for an instant, I hardly recognised it, it was so curiously petulant. Pushing past Matthews, I stepped into the hall. A young man, I suppose a footman, in the same undress as Matthews, was holding a candle,--it seemed the only light about the place. By its glimmer I perceived Lessingham standing half-way up the stairs. He was in full war paint,--as he is not the sort of man who dresses for the House, I took it that he had been mixing pleasure with business. 'It's I, Lessingham,--Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has jumped out of your drawing-room window?' It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice had lost its petulance. 'Has he escaped?' 'Clean,--he's a mile away by now.' It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a note of relief. 'I wondered if he had. Poor fellow! more sinned against than sinning! Take my advice, Atherton, and keep out of politics. They bring you into contact with all the lunatics at large. Good night! I am much obliged to you for knocking us up. Matthews, shut the door.' Tolerably cool, on my honour,--a man who brings news big with the fate of Rome does not expect to receive such treatment. He expects to be listened to with deference, and to hear all that there is to hear, and not to be sent to the right-about before he has had a chance of really opening his lips. Before I knew it--almost!--the door was shut, and I was on the doorstep. Confound the Apostle's impudence! next time he might have his house burnt down--and him in it!--before I took the trouble to touch his dirty knocker. What did he mean by his allusion to lunatics in politics,--did he think to fool me? There was more in the business than met the eye,--and a good deal more than he wished to meet mine,--hence his insolence. The creature. What Marjorie Lindon could see in such an opusculum surpassed my comprehension; especially when there was a man of my sort walking about, who adored the very ground she trod upon. CHAPTER XII A MORNING VISITOR All through the night, waking and sleeping, and in my dreams, I wondered what Marjorie could see in him! In those same dreams I satisfied myself that she could, and did, see nothing in him, but everything in me,--oh the comfort! The misfortune was that when I awoke I knew it was the other way round,--so that it was a sad awakening. An awakening to thoughts of murder. So, swallowing a mouthful and a peg, I went into my laboratory to plan murder--legalised murder--on the biggest scale it ever has been planned. I was on the track of a weapon which would make war not only an affair of a single campaign, but of a single half-hour. It would not want an army to work it either. Once let an individual, or two or three at most, in possession of my weapon-that-was-to-be, get within a mile or so of even the largest body of disciplined troops that ever yet a nation put into the field, and--pouf!--in about the time it takes you to say that they would be all dead men. If weapons of precision, which may be relied upon to slay, are preservers of the peace--and the man is a fool who says that they are not!--then I was within reach of the finest preserver of the peace imagination ever yet conceived. What a sublime thought to think that in the hollow of your own hand lies the life and death of nations,--and it was almost in mine. I had in front of me some of the finest destructive agents you could wish to light upon--carbon-monoxide, chlorine-trioxide, mercuric-oxide, conine, potassamide, potassium-carboxide, cyanogen--when Edwards entered. I was wearing a mask of my own invention, a thing that covered ears and head and everything, something like a diver's helmet--I was dealing with gases a sniff of which meant death; only a few days before, unmasked, I had been doing some fool's trick with a couple of acids--sulphuric and cyanide of potassium--when, somehow, my hand slipped, and, before I knew it, minute portions of them combined. By the mercy of Providence I fell backwards instead of forwards;--sequel, about an hour afterwards Edwards found me on the floor, and it took the remainder of that day, and most of the doctors in town, to bring me back to life again. Edwards announced his presence by touching me on the shoulder,--when I am wearing that mask it isn't always easy to make me hear. 'Someone wishes to see you, sir.' 'Then tell someone that I don't wish to see him.' Well-trained servant, Edwards,--he walked off with the message as decorously as you please. And then I thought there was an end,--but there wasn't. I was regulating the valve of a cylinder in which I was fusing some oxides when, once more, someone touched me on the shoulder. Without turning I took it for granted it was Edwards back again. 'I have only to give a tiny twist to this tap, my good fellow, and you will be in the land where the bogies bloom. Why will you come where you're not wanted?' Then I looked round. 'Who the devil are you?' For it was not Edwards at all, but quite a different class of character. I found myself confronting an individual who might almost have sat for one of the bogies I had just alluded to. His costume was reminiscent of the 'Algerians' whom one finds all over France, and who are the most persistent, insolent and amusing of pedlars. I remember one who used to haunt the repetitions at the Alcazar at Tours,--but there! This individual was like the originals, yet unlike,--he was less gaudy, and a good deal dingier, than his Gallic prototypes are apt to be. Then he wore a burnoose,--the yellow, grimy-looking article of the Arab of the Soudan, not the spick and span Arab of the boulevard. Chief difference of all, his face was clean shaven,--and whoever saw an Algerian of Paris whose chiefest glory was not his well-trimmed moustache and beard? I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these gentlemen call French,--but he didn't. 'You are Mr Atherton?' 'And you are Mr--Who?--how did you come here? Where's my servant?' The fellow held up his hand. As he did so, as if in accordance with a pre-arranged signal, Edwards came into the room looking excessively startled. I turned to him. 'Is this the person who wished to see me?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Didn't I tell you to say that I didn't wish to see him?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Then why didn't you do as I told you?' 'I did, sir.' 'Then how comes he here?' 'Really, sir,'--Edwards put his hand up to his head as if he was half asleep--'I don't quite know.' 'What do you mean by you don't know? Why didn't you stop him?' 'I think, sir, that I must have had a touch of sudden faintness, because I tried to put out my hand to stop him, and--I couldn't.' 'You're an idiot.--Go!' And he went. I turned to the stranger. 'Pray, sir, are you a magician?' He replied to my question with another. 'You, Mr Atherton,--are you also a magician?' He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension. 'I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe,' He inclined his head--though I doubt if he understood. 'Be so good as to tell me, briefly, what it is you wish with me.' He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words only,--'Marjorie Lindon.' The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved name brought the blood into my cheeks. 'You come from Miss Lindon?' He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not particularly explanatory,--so I repeated my question. 'Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?' Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again nothing was written on it but a name,--'Paul Lessingham.' 'Well?--I see,--Paul Lessingham.--What then?' 'She is good,--he is bad,--is it not so?' He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared. 'Pray how do you happen to know?' 'He shall never have her,--eh?' 'What on earth do you mean?' 'Ah!--what do I mean!' 'Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who the devil are you?' 'It is as a friend I come to you.' 'Then in that case you may go; I happen to be over-stocked in that line just now.' 'Not with the kind of friend I am!' 'The saints forefend!' 'You love her,--you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him in her arms?' I took off my mask,--feeling that the occasion required it. As I did so he brushed aside the hanging folds of the hood of his burnoose, so that I saw more of his face. I was immediately conscious that in his eyes there was, in an especial degree, what, for want of a better term, one may call the mesmeric quality. That his was one of those morbid organisations which are oftener found, thank goodness, in the east than in the west, and which are apt to exercise an uncanny influence over the weak and the foolish folk with whom they come in contact,--the kind of creature for whom it is always just as well to keep a seasoned rope close handy. I was, also, conscious that he was taking advantage of the removal of my mask to try his strength on me,--than which he could not have found a tougher job. The sensitive something which is found in the hypnotic subject happens, in me, to be wholly absent. 'I see you are a mesmerist.' He started. 'I am nothing,--a shadow!' 'And I'm a scientist. I should like, with your permission--or without it!--to try an experiment or two on you.' He moved further back. There came a gleam into his eyes which suggested that he possessed his hideous power to an unusual degree,--that, in the estimation of his own people, he was qualified to take his standing as a regular devil-doctor. 'We will try experiments together, you and I,--on Paul Lessingham.' 'Why on him?' 'You do not know?' 'I do not.' 'Why do you lie to me?' 'I don't lie to you,--I haven't the faintest notion what is the nature of your interest in Mr Lessingham.' 'My interest?--that is another thing; it is your interest of which we are speaking.' 'Pardon me,--it is yours.' 'Listen! you love her,--and he! But at a word from you he shall not have her,--never! It is I who say it,--I!' 'And, once more, sir, who are you?' 'I am of the children of Isis!' 'Is that so?--It occurs to me that you have made a slight mistake,--this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.' 'Do I not know?--what does it matter?--you shall see! There will come a time when you will want me,--you will find that you cannot bear to think of him in her arms,--her whom you love! You will call to me, and I shall come, and of Paul Lessingham there shall be an end.' While I was wondering whether he was really as mad as he sounded, or whether he was some impudent charlatan who had an axe of his own to grind, and thought that he had found in me a grindstone, he had vanished from the room. I moved after him. 'Hang it all!--stop!' I cried. He must have made pretty good travelling, because, before I had a foot in the hall, I heard the front door slam, and, when I reached the street, intent on calling him back, neither to the right nor to the left was there a sign of him to be seen. CHAPTER XIII THE PICTURE 'I wonder what that nice-looking beggar really means, and who he happens to be?' That was what I said to myself when I returned to the laboratory. 'If it is true that, now and again, Providence does write a man's character on his face, then there can't be the slightest shred of a doubt that a curious one's been written on his. I wonder what his connection has been with the Apostle,--or if it's only part of his game of bluff.' I strode up and down,--for the moment my interest in the experiments I was conducting had waned. 'If it was all bluff I never saw a better piece of acting,--and yet what sort of finger can such a precisian as St Paul have in such a pie? The fellow seemed to squirm at the mere mention of the rising-hope-of-the-Radicals' name. Can the objection be political? Let me consider,--what has Lessingham done which could offend the religious or patriotic susceptibilities of the most fanatical of Orientals? Politically, I can recall nothing. Foreign affairs, as a rule, he has carefully eschewed. If he has offended--and if he hasn't the seeming was uncommonly good!--the cause will have to be sought upon some other track. But, then, what track?' The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement grew. 'Absurd!--The rascal has had no more connection with St Paul than St Peter. The probability is that he's a crackpot; and if he isn't, he has some little game on foot--in close association with the hunt of the oof-bird!--which he tried to work off on me, but couldn't. As for--for Marjorie--my Marjorie!--only she isn't mine, confound it!--if I had had my senses about me, I should have broken his head in several places for daring to allow her name to pass his lips,--the unbaptised Mohammedan!--Now to return to the chase of splendid murder!' I snatched up my mask--one of the most ingenious inventions, by the way, of recent years; if the armies of the future wear my mask they will defy my weapon!--and was about to re-adjust it in its place, when someone knocked at the door. 'Who's there?--Come in!' It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised. 'I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought you were engaged. I didn't know that--that gentleman had gone.' 'He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.--Why the deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?' 'Really, sir, I don't know. I gave him your message, and--he looked at me, and--that is all I remember till I found myself standing in this room.' Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his palm well greased,--but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I thought,--my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant, at my own front door,--a man worth studying. Edwards continued. 'There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,--Mr Lessingham.' 'Mr Lessingham!' At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. 'Show him in.' Presently in came Paul. I am free to confess,--I have owned it before!--that, in a sense, I admire that man,--so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my eye--speaking as a mere biologist like the suggestion conveyed by his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life,--of reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall back at pleasure. The fellow's lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile; clean built, well hung,--the sort of man who might be relied upon to make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint,--mental or physical--though to do that you would have to be spry!--but in a staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the kind of man whom I would trust,--unless I knew that he was on the job,--which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain. He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round him even in moments of extremest peril,--and for whatever he does he has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of it, of being a man of iron nerve,--and with some reason; yet I am not so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse,--to rise, the moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster. And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some cause. He was a man of position,--destined, probably, to rise much higher; a man of parts,--with capacity to make the most of them; not ill-looking; with agreeable manners,--when he chose; and he came within the lady's definition of a gentleman, 'he always did the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.' And yet--! Well, I take it that we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy's sake do not let us all give ourselves away. He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed,--black frock coat, black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow, gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if was not childlike, at any rate was bland. 'I am not disturbing you?' 'Not at all.' 'Sure?--I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty purchased,--wisely--What is it, now?' 'Death.' 'No?--really?--what do you mean?' 'If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.' 'I see,--a new projectile.--How long is this race to continue between attack and defence?' 'Until the sun grows cold.' 'And then?' 'There'll be no defence,--nothing to defend.' He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes. 'The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a cheerful one.' He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a table. 'By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,--I have come to apologise.' 'I don't know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you--queer.' 'Yes.' He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the superstition about his iron nerve. 'I was worried, and not well. Besides, one doesn't care to be burgled, even by a maniac.' 'Was he a maniac?' 'Did you see him?' 'Very clearly.' 'Where?' 'In the street.' 'How close were you to him?' 'Closer than I am to you.' 'Indeed. I didn't know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to stop him?' 'Easier said than done,--he was off at such a rate.' 'Did you see how he was dressed,--or, rather, undressed?' 'I did.' 'In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a fanatic would have attempted burglary in such a costume?' 'Did he take anything?' 'Absolutely nothing.' 'It seems to have been a curious episode.' He moved his eyebrows,--according to members of the House the only gesture in which he has been known to indulge. 'We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning it to anyone,--to anyone.' He repeated the last two words, as if to give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. 'I am communicating with the police. Until they move I don't want it to get into the papers,--or to be talked about. It's a worry,--you understand?' I nodded. He changed the theme. 'This that you're engaged upon,--is it a projectile or a weapon?' 'If you are a member of the next government you will possibly know; if you aren't you possibly won't.' 'I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?' 'I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep secret.' 'You mean that business of last night? If a trifle of that sort gets into the papers, or gets talked about,--which is the same thing!--you have no notion how we are pestered. It becomes an almost unbearable nuisance. Jones the Unknown can commit murder with less inconvenience to himself than Jones the Notorious can have his pocket picked,--there is not so much exaggeration in that as there sounds.--Good-bye,--thanks for your promise.' I had given him no promise, but that was by the way. He turned as to go,--then stopped. 'There's another thing,--I believe you're a specialist on questions of ancient superstitions and extinct religions.' 'I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.' 'Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of Isis?' 'Neither I nor any man,--with scientific certainty. As you know, she had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the same. What, precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or anything about it, none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics, and so on, which remain are very far from being exhaustive, and our knowledge of those which do remain, is still less so.' 'I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely legendary?' 'To what marvels do you particularly refer?' 'Weren't supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?' 'Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were attributed to all the priests of all the creeds.' 'I see.' Presently he continued. 'I presume that her cult is long since extinct,--that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-day.' I hesitated,--I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if he really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a cover for something else,--you see, I knew my Paul. 'That is not so sure.' He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of his. 'You think that she still is worshipped? 'I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in Africa--Africa is a large order!--homage is paid to Isis, quite in the good old way.' 'Do you know that as a fact?' 'Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?--Are you aware that you are treating me as if I was on the witness stand?--Have you any special purpose in making these inquiries?' He smiled. 'In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.' 'What is the story?' 'I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you; when I am I will. You will find it interesting,--as an instance of a singular survival.--Didn't the followers of Isis believe in transmigration?' 'Some of them,--no doubt.' 'What did they understand by transmigration?' 'Transmigration.' 'Yes,--but of the soul or of the body?' 'How do you mean?--transmigration is transmigration. Are you driving at something in particular? If you'll tell me fairly and squarely what it is I'll do my best to give you the information you require; as it is, your questions are a bit perplexing.' 'Oh, it doesn't matter,--as you say, "transmigration is transmigration."' I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in his manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself had started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the table. 'Hadn't the followers of Isis a--what shall I say?--a sacred emblem?' 'How?' 'Hadn't they an especial regard for some sort of a--wasn't it some sort of a--beetle?' 'You mean Scarabaeus sacer,--according to Latreille, Scarabaeus Egyptiorum? Undoubtedly,--the scarab was venerated throughout Egypt,--indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the figure of Apis, the bull.' 'Weren't the priests of Isis--or some of them--supposed to assume, after death, the form of a--scarabaeus?' 'I never heard of it.' 'Are you sure?--think!' 'I shouldn't like to answer such a question positively, offhand, but I don't, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of the kind.' 'Don't laugh at me--I'm not a lunatic!--but I understand that recent researches have shown that even in some of the most astounding of the ancient legends there was a substratum of fact. Is it absolutely certain that there could be no shred of truth in such a belief?' 'In what belief?' 'In the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death the form of a scarabaeus?' 'It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your bounden duty to give to the world,--or, at any rate, to that portion of the world which is represented by me. Come,--tell us all about it!--what are you afraid of?' 'I am afraid of nothing,--and some day you shall be told,--but not now. At present, answer my question.' 'Then repeat your question,--clearly.' 'Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of truth in the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death the form of a beetle?' 'I know no more than the man in the moon,--how the dickens should I? Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that after death the body takes the shape of worms--and so, in a sense, it does,--and, sometimes, eels.' 'That is not what I mean.' 'Then what do you mean?' 'Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?' 'Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?' 'Or a follower of Isis?' 'Before, or after death?' He hesitated. I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of interest,--to be frank, I was keenly interested too!--but, on a sudden there came into his eyes a glint of something that was almost terror. When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted awkwardness. 'In--in the very act of dying.' 'In the very act of dying?' 'If--he had seen a follower of Isis in--the very act of dying, assume--the form of a--a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?' I stared,--as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,--yet I was almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more extraordinary still. 'Look here, Lessingham, I can see you've a capital tale to tell,--so tell it, man! Unless I'm mistaken, it's not the kind of tale in which ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,--anyhow, it's hardly fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it unappeased.' He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more, until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless mask,--somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland and self-contained. 'I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle. I suppose I have.' 'But what is the taradiddle?--don't you see I'm burning?' 'Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have permission to unloose it, my tongue is tied.' He picked up his hat and umbrella from where he had placed them on the table. Holding them in his left hand, he advanced to me with his right outstretched. 'It is very good of you to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such interruptions mean,--believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?' On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of paper,--the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this he stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred. On the instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him. His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor. He retreated, gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him, until he reached the wall on the other side of the room. A more amazing spectacle than he presented I never saw. 'Lessingham!' I exclaimed. 'What's wrong with you?' My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of epilepsy,--though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be hard to find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be the immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper, I stared at it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there previously, I had not put it there,--where had it come from? The curious thing was that, on it, produced apparently by some process of photogravure, was an illustration of a species of beetle with which I felt that I ought to be acquainted, and yet was not. It was of a dull golden green; the colour was so well brought out,--even to the extent of seeming to scintillate, and the whole thing was so dexterously done that the creature seemed alive. The semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid that it needed a second glance to be assured that it was a mere trick of the reproducer. Its presence there was odd,--after what we had been talking about it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to suppose that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like Lessingham. With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was,--pressing his back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till he was actually crouching on his haunches. 'Lessingham!--come, man, what's wrong with you?' Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face which one associates with abject terror. 'Atherton?--Is it you?--It's all right,--quite right.--I'm well,--very well.' As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect. 'Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of being very well.' He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his lips. 'It's the pressure of overwork,--I've had one or two attacks like this,--but it's nothing, only--a local lesion.' I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him which was very odd indeed. 'Only a local lesion!--If you take my strongly-urged advice you'll get a medical opinion without delay,--if you haven't been wise enough to have done so already.' 'I'll go to-day;--at once; but I know it's only mental overstrain.' 'You're sure it's nothing to do with this?' I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy. 'Take it away! take it away!' he screamed. I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then I found my tongue. 'Lessingham!--It's only a picture!--Are you stark mad?' He persisted in his ejaculations. 'Take it away! take it away!--Tear it up!--Burn it!' His agitation was so unnatural,--from whatever cause it arose!--that, fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered, I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and, striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief. 'Lessingham,' I said, 'you're either mad already, or you're going mad,--which is it?' 'I think it's neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It's--it's that story of which I was speaking; it--it seems curious, but I'll tell you all about it--some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an interesting instance of a singular survival.' He made an obvious effort to become more like his usual self. 'It is extremely unfortunate, Atherton, that I should have troubled you with such a display of weakness,--especially as I am able to offer you so scant an explanation. One thing I would ask of you,--to observe strict confidence. What has taken place has been between ourselves. I am in your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can rely on you not to speak of it to anyone,--and, in particular, not to breathe a hint of it to Miss Lindon.' 'Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?' 'Can you not guess?' I hunched my shoulder. 'If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why silence would be unfair to her?' 'It is for me to speak, if for anyone. I shall not fail to do what should be done.--Give me your promise that you will not hint a word to her of what you have so unfortunately seen?' I gave him the promise he required. . . . . . . . There was no more work for me that day. The Apostle, his divagations, his example of the coleoptera, his Arabian friend,--these things were as microbes which, acting on a system already predisposed for their reception, produced high fever; I was in a fever,--of unrest. Brain in a whirl!--Marjorie, Paul, Isis, beetle, mesmerism, in delirious jumble. Love's upsetting!--in itself a sufficiently severe disease; but when complications intervene, suggestive of mystery and novelties, so that you do not know if you are moving in an atmosphere of dreams or of frozen facts,--if, then, your temperature does not rise, like that rocket of M. Verne's,--which reached the moon, then you are a freak of an entirely genuine kind, and if the surgeons do not preserve you, and place you on view, in pickle, they ought to, for the sake of historical doubters, for no one will believe that there ever was a man like you, unless you yourself are somewhere around to prove them Thomases. Myself,--I am not that kind of man. When I get warm I grow heated, and when I am heated there is likely to be a variety show of a gaudy kind. When Paul had gone I tried to think things out, and if I had kept on trying something would have happened--so I went on the river instead. CHAPTER XIV THE DUCHESS' BALL That night was the Duchess of Datchet's ball--the first person I saw as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling. I went straight up to her. 'Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night, I have come to make to you my apologies,--to sue for your forgiveness!' 'My forgiveness?' Her head went back,--she has a pretty bird-like trick of cocking it a little on one side. 'You were not well. Are you better?' 'Quite.--You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.' She rose. A man came up,--a stranger to me; she's one of the best hunted women in England,--there's a million with her. 'This is my dance, Miss Grayling.' She looked at him. 'You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten that I was already engaged.' I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went, and left him staring. 'It's he who's the sufferer now,' I whispered, as we went round,--she can waltz! 'You think so? It was I last night,--I did not mean, if I could help it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.' She went all red,--adding, as an afterthought, 'Nowadays so few men really dance. I expect it's because you dance so well.' 'Thank you.' We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu shelter which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked. There's something sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one to talk about one's self,--before I was half aware of it I was telling her of all my plans and projects,--actually telling her of my latest notion which, ultimately, was to result in the destruction of whole armies as by a flash of lightning. She took an amount of interest in it which was surprising. 'What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not theory but practice,--one can prove one's facts on paper, or on a small scale in a room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale, by actual experiment. If, for instance, I could take my plant to one of the forests of South America, where there is plenty of animal life but no human, I could demonstrate the soundness of my position then and there.' 'Why don't you?' 'Think of the money it would cost.' 'I thought I was a friend of yours.' 'I had hoped you were.' 'Then why don't you let me help you?' 'Help me?--How?' 'By letting you have the money for your South American experiment;--it would be an investment on which I should expect to receive good interest.' I fidgeted. 'It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.' She became quite frigid. 'Please don't be absurd!--I perceive quite clearly that you are snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you know how.' 'Miss Grayling!' 'I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.' 'I assure you--' 'Pray don't. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been different; she would at least have received a civil answer. But we are not all Miss Lindon.' I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,--I had not the faintest notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a surprising passion--and it suited her!--I thought I had never seen her look prettier,--I could do nothing else but stare. So she went on,--with just as little reason. 'Here is someone coming to claim this dance,--I can't throw all my partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be impossible for you to dance with me again?' 'Miss Grayling!--I shall be only too delighted.' She handed me her card. 'Which may I have?' 'For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly can.' 'They all seem taken.' 'That doesn't matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put your own instead.' It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked myself for the next waltz but two--who it was who would have to give way to me I did not trouble to inquire. 'Mr Atherton!--is that you?' It was,--it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her I knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,--the mere sight of her sent the blood tingling through my veins. Turning to her attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow. 'Is there an empty chair?' She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in a stupid tremblement. 'You remember that last night I told you that I might require your friendly services in diplomatic intervention?' I nodded,--I felt that the allusion was unfair. 'Well, the occasion's come,--or, at least, it's very near.' She was still,--and I said nothing to help her. 'You know how unreasonable papa can be.' I did,--never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey Lindon,--or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared to admit it to his child. 'You know what an absurd objection he has to--Paul.' There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow's Christian name,--when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me--of all men,--of the fellow in such a tone was--like a woman. 'Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?' 'Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa thinks so much of you--I want you to sound Paul's praises in his ear--to prepare him for what must come.' Was ever rejected lover burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. 'Sydney, you have always been my friend,--my truest, dearest friend. When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.' Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her touch, I burned. 'But I don't understand what cause there has been for secrecy,--why should there have been any secrecy from the first?' 'It was Paul's wish that papa should not be told.' 'Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?' 'Sydney!' 'Or does he fear your father?' 'You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been prejudiced against him all along, you know that his political position is just now one of the greatest difficulty, that every nerve and muscle is kept on the continual strain, that it is in the highest degree essential that further complications of every and any sort should be avoided. He is quite aware that his suit will not be approved of by papa, and he simply wishes that nothing shall be said about it till the end of the session,--that is all' 'I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,--politician first, and lover afterwards.' 'Well!--why not?--would you have him injure the cause he has at heart for want of a little patience?' 'It depends what cause it is he has at heart.' 'What is the matter with you?--why do you speak to me like that?--it is not like you at all.' She looked at me shrewdly, with flashing eyes. 'Is it possible that you are--jealous?--that you were in earnest in what you said last night?--I thought that was the sort of thing you said to every girl.' I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press her to my bosom then and there,--to think that she should taunt me with having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl. 'What do you know of Mr Lessingham?' 'What all the world knows,--that history will be made by him.' 'There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not desire to be associated. What do you know of his private life,--it was to that that I was referring.' 'Really,--you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just as he is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.' 'If you do know that, it is sufficient.' 'I do know it,--all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he comes in contact is aware--must be aware, that he is incapable of a dishonourable thought or action.' 'Take my advice, don't appreciate any man too highly. In the book of every man's life there is a page which he would wish to keep turned down.' 'There is no such page in Paul's,--there may be in yours; I think that probable.' 'Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my case, the page may extend to several. There is nothing Apostolic about me,--not even the name.' 'Sydney!--you are unendurable!--It is the more strange to hear you talk like this since Paul regards you as his friend.' 'He flatters me.' 'Are you not his friend?' 'Is it not sufficient to be yours?' 'No,--who is against Paul is against me.' 'That is hard.' 'How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the wife,--when the husband and the wife are one.' 'But as yet you are not one.--Is my cause so hopeless?' 'What do you call your cause?--are you thinking of that nonsense you were talking about last night?' She laughed! 'You call it nonsense.--You ask for sympathy, and give--so much!' 'I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,--I promise it! My poor, dear Sydney!--don't be so absurd! Do you think that I don't know you? You're the best of friends, and the worst of lovers,--as the one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my certain knowledge, with how many girls have you been in love,--and out again. It is true that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, you have never been in love with me before,--but that's the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear Sydney, you'll be in love with someone else tomorrow,--if you're not half-way there to-night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that direction, all the experience I have had of you has in nowise strengthened my prophetic instinct. Cheer up!--one never knows!--Who is this that's coming?' It was Dora Grayling who was coming,--I went off with her without a word,--we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to me. 'I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and--disagreeable. Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant side.' 'The blame was mine,--what sort of side do I show you? You are far kinder to me than I deserve,--now, and always. 'That is what you say.' 'Pardon me, it's true,--else how comes it that, at this time of day, I'm without a friend in all the world?' 'You!--without a friend!--I never knew a man who had so many!--I never knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking well!' 'Miss Grayling!' 'As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you have done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions, think of--but never mind! The world knows you have done great things, and it confidently looks to you to do still greater. You talk of being friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour--as a great favour!--to be allowed to do something to show my friendship, you--well, you snub me.' 'I snub you!' 'You know you snubbed me.' 'Do you really mean that you take an interest in--in my work?' 'You know I mean it.' She turned to me, her face all glowing,--and I did know it. 'Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?' 'Will I!--won't I!' 'With your aunt?' 'Yes, with my aunt.' 'I'll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and then if you still think there's anything in it, I'll accept your offer about that South American experiment,--that is, if it still holds good.' 'Of course it still holds good.' 'And we'll be partners.' 'Partners?--Yes,--we will be partners.' 'It will cost a terrific sum.' 'There are some things which never can cost too much.' 'That's not my experience.' 'I hope it will be mine.' 'It's a bargain?' 'On my side, I promise you that it's a bargain.' When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking as long as my arm. He took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his handkerchief,--and directly he put it back he took it out and rubbed it again, I believe that I never saw him in such a state of fluster,--and, when one speaks of Woodville, that means something. 'Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.' He looked it. 'All of a heap!--I've had a blow which I shall never get over!' 'Then get under.' Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me their most private matters,--even to what they owe their washerwomen for the ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone can tell,--heaven knows I am not sympathetic. 'Don't be an idiot!--you don't know what I'm suffering!--I'm as nearly as possible stark mad.' 'That's all right, old chap,--I've seen you that way more than once before.' 'Don't talk like that,--you're not a perfect brute!' 'I bet you a shilling that I am.' 'Don't torture me,--you're not. Atherton!' He seized me by the lapels of my coat, seeming half beside himself,--fortunately he had drawn me into a recess, so that we were noticed by few observers. 'What do you think has happened?' 'My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?' 'She's refused me!' 'Has she!--Well I never!--Buck up,--try some other address,--there are quite as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.' 'Atherton, you're a blackguard.' He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually bobbing at his eyes with it,--the idea of Percy Woodville being dissolved in tears was excruciatingly funny,--but, just then, I could hardly tell him so. 'There's not a doubt of it,--it's my way of being sympathetic. Don't be so down, man,--try her again!' 'It's not the slightest use--I know it isn't--from the way she treated me.' 'Don't be so sure--women often say what they mean least. Who's the lady?' 'Who?--Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has there ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but Marjorie Lindon!' 'Marjorie Lindon?' I fancy that my jaw dropped open,--that, to use his own vernacular, I was 'all of a heap.' I felt like it. I strode away--leaving him mazed--and all but ran into Marjorie's arms. 'I'm just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?' I saw her to the carriage. 'Are you off?--can I give you a lift?' 'Thank you,--I am not thinking of being off.' 'I'm going to the House of Commons,--won't you come?' 'What are you going there for?' Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,--and she knew that I knew, as her words showed. 'You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when Paul is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.' 'He is a fortunate man.' 'Indeed,--and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is inadequately described as fortunate.--But I must be off. He expected to be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago that there has been a delay, but that he will be up within half-an-hour.--Till our next meeting.' As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville. He had his hat on. 'Where are you off to?' 'I'm off to the House.' 'To hear Paul Lessingham?' 'Damn Paul Lessingham!' 'With all my heart!' 'There's a division expected,--I've got to go.' 'Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,--Marjorie Lindon.' 'No!--you don't say so!--by Jove!--I say, Atherton, I wish I could make a speech,--I never can. When I'm electioneering I have to have my speeches written for me, and then I have to read 'em. But, by Jove, if I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew anything about the thing, or could get someone to tell me something, hang me if I wouldn't speak,--I'd show her I'm not the fool she thinks I am!' 'Speak, Percy, speak!--you'd knock 'em silly, sir!--I tell you what I'll do,--I'll come with you! I'll to the House as well!--Paul Lessingham shall have an audience of three.' CHAPTER XV MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS The House was full. Percy and I went upstairs,--to the gallery which is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called 'distinguished strangers,'--those curious animals. Trumperton was up, hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the lamp as of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,--except the men in the Press Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety per cent, of its wisdom. It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered Lessingham. The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur of sounds which, I have no doubt, some of the press-men interpreted next day as 'loud and continued applause.' There was movement in the House, possibly expressive of relief; a hum of voices; men came flocking in. Then, from the Opposition benches, there rose a sound which was applause,--and I perceived that, on a cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham was standing up bareheaded. I eyed him critically,--as a collector might eye a valuable specimen, or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four and twenty hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to me, he was the most interesting man the world contained. When I remembered how I had seen him that same morning, a nerveless, terror-stricken wretch, grovelling, like some craven cur, upon the floor, frightened, to the verge of imbecility, by a shadow, and less than a shadow, I was confronted by two hypotheses. Either I had exaggerated his condition then, or I exaggerated his condition now. So far as appearance went, it was incredible that this man could be that one. I confess that my feeling rapidly became one of admiration. I love the fighter. I quickly recognised that here we had him in perfection. There was no seeming about him then,--the man was to the manner born. To his finger-tips a fighting man. I had never realised it so clearly before. He was coolness itself. He had all his faculties under complete command. While never, for a moment, really exposing himself, he would be swift in perceiving the slightest weakness in his opponents' defence, and, so soon as he saw it, like lightning, he would slip in a telling blow. Though defeated, he would hardly be disgraced; and one might easily believe that their very victories would be so expensive to his assailants, that, in the end, they would actually conduce to his own triumph. 'Hang me!' I told myself, 'if, after all, I am surprised if Marjorie does see something in him.' For I perceived how a clever and imaginative young woman, seeing him at his best, holding his own, like a gallant knight, against overwhelming odds, in the lists in which he was so much at home, might come to think of him as if he were always and only there, ignoring altogether the kind of man he was when the joust was finished. It did me good to hear him, I do know that,--and I could easily imagine the effect he had on one particular auditor who was in the Ladies' Cage. It was very far from being an 'oration' in the American sense; it had little or nothing of the fire and fury of the French Tribune; it was marked neither by the ponderosity nor the sentiment of the eloquent German; yet it was as satisfying as are the efforts of either of the three, producing, without doubt, precisely the effect which the speaker intended. His voice was clear and calm, not exactly musical, yet distinctly pleasant, and it was so managed that each word he uttered was as audible to every person present as if it had been addressed particularly to him. His sentences were short and crisp; the words which he used were not big ones, but they came from him with an agreeable ease; and he spoke just fast enough to keep one's interest alert without invoking a strain on the attention. He commenced by making, in the quietest and most courteous manner, sarcastic comments on the speeches and methods of Trumperton and his friends which tickled the House amazingly. But he did not make the mistake of pushing his personalities too far. To a speaker of a certain sort nothing is easier than to sting to madness. If he likes, his every word is barbed. Wounds so given fester; they are not easily forgiven;--it is essential to a politician that he should have his firmest friends among the fools; or his climbing days will soon be over. Soon his sarcasms were at an end. He began to exchange them for sweet-sounding phrases. He actually began to say pleasant things to his opponents; apparently to mean them. To put them in a good conceit with themselves. He pointed out how much truth there was in what they said; and then, as if by accident, with what ease and at how little cost, amendments might be made. He found their arguments, and took them for his own, and flattered them, whether they would or would not, by showing how firmly they were founded upon fact; and grafted other arguments upon them, which seemed their natural sequelae; and transformed them, and drove them hither and thither; and brought them--their own arguments!--to a round, irrefragable conclusion, which was diametrically the reverse of that to which they themselves had brought them. And he did it all with an aptness, a readiness, a grace, which was incontestable. So that, when he sat down, he had performed that most difficult of all feats, he had delivered what, in a House of Commons' sense, was a practical, statesmanlike speech, and yet one which left his hearers in an excellent humour. It was a great success,--an immense success. A parliamentary triumph of almost the highest order. Paul Lessingham had been coming on by leaps and bounds. When he resumed his seat, amidst applause which, this time, really was applause, there were, probably, few who doubted that he was destined to go still farther. How much farther it is true that time alone could tell; but, so far as appearances went, all the prizes, which are as the crown and climax of a statesman's career, were well within his reach. For my part, I was delighted. I had enjoyed an intellectual exercise,--a species of enjoyment not so common as it might be. The Apostle had almost persuaded me that the political game was one worth playing, and that its triumphs were things to be desired. It is something, after all, to be able to appeal successfully to the passions and aspirations of your peers; to gain their plaudits; to prove your skill at the game you yourself have chosen; to be looked up to and admired. And when a woman's eyes look down on you, and her ears drink in your every word, and her heart beats time with yours,--each man to his own temperament, but when that woman is the woman whom you love, to know that your triumph means her glory, and her gladness, to me that would be the best part of it all. In that hour,--the Apostle's hour!--I almost wished that I were a politician too! The division was over. The business of the night was practically done. I was back again in the lobby! The theme of conversation was the Apostle's speech,--on every side they talked of it. Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never saw her look more beautiful,--or happier. She seemed to be alone. 'So you have come, after all!--Wasn't it splendid?--wasn't it magnificent? Isn't it grand to have such great gifts, and to use them to such good purpose?--Speak, Sydney! Don't feign a coolness which is foreign to your nature!' I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she delighted to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine. 'It was not a bad speech, of a kind.' 'Of a kind!' How her eyes flashed fire! With what disdain she treated me! 'What do you mean by "of a kind?" My dear Sydney, are you not aware that it is an attribute of small minds to attempt to belittle those which are greater? Even if you are conscious of inferiority, it's unwise to show it. Mr Lessingham's was a great speech, of any kind; your incapacity to recognise the fact simply reveals your lack of the critical faculty.' 'It is fortunate for Mr Lessingham that there is at least one person in whom the critical faculty is so bountifully developed. Apparently, in your judgment, he who discriminates is lost.' I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead, laughing, she placed her hand upon my shoulder. 'Poor Sydney!--I understand!--It is so sad!--Do you know you are like a little boy who, when he is beaten, declares that the victor has cheated him. Never mind! as you grow older, you will learn better.' She stung me almost beyond bearing,--I cared not what I said. 'You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are older.' 'What do you mean?' Before I could have told her--if I had meant to tell; which I did not--Lessingham came up. 'I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer than I expected.' 'Not at all,--though I am quite ready to get away; it's a little tiresome waiting here.' This with a mischievous glance towards me,--a glance which compelled Lessingham to notice me. 'You do not often favour us.' 'I don't. I find better employment for my time.' 'You are wrong. It's the cant of the day to underrate the House of Commons, and the work which it performs; don't you suffer yourself to join in the chorus of the simpletons. Your time cannot be better employed than in endeavouring to improve the body politic.' 'I am obliged to you.--I hope you are feeling better than when I saw you last.' A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He showed no other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment. 'Thank you.--I am very well.' Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that what I meant was meant unpleasantly. 'Come,--let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not well.' She had just slipped her arm through Lessingham's when her father approached. Old Lindon stared at her on the Apostle's arm, as if he could hardly believe that it was she. 'I thought that you were at the Duchess'?' 'So I have been, papa; and now I'm here.' 'Here!' Old Lindon began to stutter and stammer, and to grow red in the face, as is his wont when at all excited. 'W--what do you mean by here?--wh--where's the carriage?' 'Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,--unless the horses have run away.' 'I--I--I'll take you down to it. I--I don't approve of y--your w--w--waiting in a place like this.' 'Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.--I shall see you afterwards.--Good bye.' Anything cooler than the way in which she walked off I do not think I ever saw. This is the age of feminine advancement. Young women think nothing of twisting their mothers round their fingers, let alone their fathers; but the fashion in which that young woman walked off, on the Apostle's arm, and left her father standing there, was, in its way, a study. Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had gone. Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood staring after them, growing redder and redder, till the veins stood out upon his face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure threatened. Then, with a gasp, he turned to me. 'Damned scoundrel!' I took it for granted that he alluded to the gentleman,--even though his following words hardly suggested it. 'Only this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him, and n--now he's w--walked off with her! C--confounded adventurer! That's what he is, an adventurer, and before many hours have passed I'll take the liberty to tell him so!' Jamming his fists into his pockets, and puffing like a grampus in distress, he took himself away,--and it was time he did, for his words were as audible as they were pointed, and already people were wondering what the matter was. Woodville came up as Lindon was going,--just as sorely distressed as ever. 'She went away with Lessingham,--did you see her?' 'Of course I saw her. When a man makes a speech like Lessingham's any girl would go away with him,--and be proud to. When you are endowed with such great powers as he is, and use them for such lofty purposes, she'll walk away with you,--but, till then, never.' He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass. 'It's bitter hard. When I knew that she was there, I'd half a mind to make a speech myself, upon my word I had, only I didn't know what to speak about, and I can't speak anyhow,--how can a fellow speak when he's shoved into the gallery?' 'As you say, how can he?--he can't stand on the railing and shout,--even with a friend holding him behind.' 'I know I shall speak one day,--bound to; and then she won't be there.' 'It'll be better for you if she isn't.' 'Think so?--Perhaps you're right. I'd be safe to make a mess of it, and then, if she were to see me at it, it'd be the devil! 'Pon my word, I've been wishing, lately, I was clever.' He rubbed his nose with the rim of his eyeglass, looking the most comically disconsolate figure. 'Put black care behind you, Percy!--buck up, my boy! The division's over--you are free--now we'll go "on the fly."' And we did 'go on the fly.' CHAPTER XVI ATHERTON'S MAGIC VAPOUR I bore him off to supper at the Helicon. All the way in the cab he was trying to tell me the story of how he proposed to Marjorie,--and he was very far from being through with it when we reached the club. There was the usual crowd of supperites, but we got a little table to ourselves, in a corner of the room, and before anything was brought for us to eat he was at it again. A good many of the people were pretty near to shouting, and as they seemed to be all speaking at once, and the band was playing, and as the Helicon supper band is not piano, Percy did not have it quite all to himself, but, considering the delicacy of his subject, he talked as loudly as was decent,--getting more so as he went on. But Percy is peculiar. 'I don't know how many times I've tried to tell her,--over and over again.' 'Have you now?' 'Yes, pretty near every time I met her,--but I never seemed to get quite to it, don't you know.' 'How was that?' 'Why, just as I was going to say, "Miss Lindon, may I offer you the gift of my affection---"' 'Was that how you invariably intended to begin?' 'Well, not always--one time like that, another time another way. Fact is, I got off a little speech by heart, but I never got a chance to reel it off, so I made up my mind to just say anything.' 'And what did you say?' 'Well, nothing,--you see, I never got there. Just as I was feeling my way, she'd ask me if I preferred big sleeves to little ones, or top hats to billycocks, or some nonsense of the kind.' 'Would she now?' 'Yes,--of course I had to answer, and by the time I'd answered the chance was lost.' Percy was polishing his eye-glass. 'I tried to get there so many times, and she choked me off so often, that I can't help thinking that she suspected what it was that I was after.' 'You think she did?' 'She must have done. Once I followed her down Piccadilly, and chivied her into a glove shop in the Burlington Arcade. I meant to propose to her in there,--I hadn't had a wink of sleep all night through dreaming of her, and I was just about desperate.' 'And did you propose?' 'The girl behind the counter made me buy a dozen pairs of gloves instead. They turned out to be three sizes too large for me when they came home. I believe she thought I'd gone to spoon the glove girl,--she went out and left me there. That girl loaded me with all sorts of things when she was gone,--I couldn't get away. She held me with her blessed eye. I believe it was a glass one.' 'Miss Linden's--or the glove girl's?' 'The glove girl's. She sent me home a whole cartload of green ties, and declared I'd ordered them. I shall never forget that day. I've never been up the Arcade since, and never mean to.' 'You gave Miss Lindon a wrong impression.' 'I don't know. I was always giving her wrong impressions. Once she said that she knew I was not a marrying man, that I was the sort of chap who never would marry, because she saw it in my face.' 'Under the circumstances, that was trying.' 'Bitter hard.' Percy sighed again. 'I shouldn't mind if I wasn't so gone. I'm not a fellow who does get gone, but when I do get gone, I get so beastly gone.' 'I tell you what, Percy,--have a drink!' 'I'm a teetotaler,--you know I am.' 'You talk of your heart being broken, and of your being a teetotaler in the same breath,--if your heart were really broken you'd throw teetotalism to the winds.' 'Do you think so,--why?' 'Because you would,--men whose hearts are broken always do,--you'd swallow a magnum at the least.' Percy groaned. 'When I drink I'm always ill,--but I'll have a try.' He had a try,--making a good beginning by emptying at a draught the glass which the waiter had just now filled. Then he relapsed into melancholy. 'Tell me, Percy,--honest Indian!--do you really love her?' 'Love her?' His eyes grew round as saucers. 'Don't I tell you that I love her?' 'I know you tell me, but that sort of thing is easy telling. What does it make you feel like, this love you talk so much about?' 'Feel like?--Just anyhow,--and nohow. You should look inside me, and then you'd know.' 'I see.--It's like that, is it?--Suppose she loved another man, what sort of feeling would you feel towards him?' 'Does she love another man?' 'I say, suppose.' 'I dare say she does. I expect that's it.--What an idiot I am not to have thought of that before.' He sighed,--and refilled his glass. 'He's a lucky chap, whoever he is. I'd--I'd like to tell him so.' 'You'd like to tell him so?' 'He's such a jolly lucky chap, you know.' 'Possibly,--but his jolly good luck is your jolly bad luck. Would you be willing to resign her to him without a word?' 'If she loves him.' 'But you say you love her.' 'Of course I do.' 'Well then?' 'You don't suppose that, because I love her, I shouldn't like to see her happy?--I'm not such a beast!--I'd sooner see her happy than anything else in all the world.' 'I see,--Even happy with another?--I'm afraid that my philosophy is not like yours. If I loved Miss Lindon, and she loved, say, Jones, I'm afraid I shouldn't feel like that towards Jones at all.' 'What would you feel like?' 'Murder.--Percy, you come home with me,--we've begun the night together, let's end it together,--and I'll show you one of the finest notions for committing murder on a scale of real magnificence you ever dreamed of. I should like to make use of it to show my feelings towards the supposititious Jones,--he'd know what I felt for him when once he had been introduced to it.' Percy went with me without a word. He had not had much to drink, but it had been too much for him, and he was in a condition of maundering sentimentality. I got him into a cab. We dashed along Piccadilly. He was silent, and sat looking in front of him with an air of vacuous sullenness which ill-became his cast of countenance. I bade the cabman pass though Lowndes Square. As we passed the Apostle's I pulled him up. I pointed out the place to Woodville. 'You see, Percy, that's Lessingham's house!--that's the house of the man who went away with Marjorie!' 'Yes.' Words came from him slowly, with a quite unnecessary stress on each. 'Because he made a speech.--I'd like to make a speech.--One day I'll make a speech.' 'Because he made a speech,--only that, and nothing more! When a man speaks with an Apostle's tongue, he can witch any woman in the land.--Hallo, who's that?--Lessingham, is that you?' I saw, or thought I saw, someone, or something, glide up the steps, and withdraw into the shadow of the doorway, as if unwilling to be seen. When I hailed no one answered. I called again. 'Don't be shy, my friend!' I sprang out of the cab, ran across the pavement, and up the steps. To my surprise, there was no one in the doorway. It seemed incredible, but the place was empty. I felt about me with my hands, as if I had been playing at blind man's buff, and grasped at vacancy. I came down a step or two. 'Ostensibly, there's a vacuum,--which nature abhors.--I say, driver, didn't you see someone come up the steps?' 'I thought I did, sir,--I could have sworn I did.' 'So could I.--It's very odd.' 'Perhaps whoever it was has gone into the 'ouse, sir.' 'I don't see how. We should have heard the door open, if we hadn't seen it,--and we should have seen it, it's not so dark as that.--I've half a mind to ring the bell and inquire.' 'I shouldn't do that if I was you, sir,--you jump in, and I'll get along. This is Mr Lessingham's,--the great Mr Lessingham's.' I believe the cabman thought that I was drunk,--and not respectable enough to claim acquaintance with the great Mr Lessingham. 'Wake up, Woodville! Do you know I believe there's some mystery about this place,--I feel assured of it. I feel as if I were in the presence of something uncanny,--something which I can neither see, nor touch, nor hear.' The cabman bent down from his seat, wheedling me. 'Jump in, sir, and we'll be getting along.' I jumped in, and we got along,--but not far. Before we had gone a dozen yards, I was out again, without troubling the driver to stop. He pulled up, aggrieved. 'Well, sir, what's the matter now? You'll be damaging yourself before you've done, and then you'll be blaming me.' I had caught sight of a cat crouching in the shadow of the railings,--a black one. That cat was my quarry. Either the creature was unusually sleepy, or slow, or stupid, or it had lost its wits--which a cat seldom does lose!--anyhow, without making an attempt to escape it allowed me to grab it by the nape of the neck. So soon as we were inside my laboratory, I put the cat into my glass box. Percy stared. 'What have you put it there for?' 'That, my dear Percy, is what you are shortly about to see. You are about to be the witness of an experiment which, to a legislator--such as you are!--ought to be of the greatest possible interest. I am going to demonstrate, on a small scale, the action of the force which, on a large scale, I propose to employ on behalf of my native land.' He showed no signs of being interested. Sinking into a chair, he recommenced his wearisome reiteration. 'I hate cats!--Do let it go!--I'm always miserable when there's a cat in the room.' 'Nonsense,--that's your fancy! What you want's a taste of whisky--you'll be as chirpy as a cricket.' 'I don't want anything more to drink!--I've had too much already!' I paid no heed to what he said. I poured two stiff doses into a couple of tumblers. Without seeming to be aware of what it was that he was doing he disposed of the better half of the one I gave him at a draught. Putting his glass upon the table, he dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned. 'What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?' 'Think?--nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she has so much better fish to fry?' 'I'm feeling frightfully ill!--I'll be drunk before I've done!' 'Then be drunk!--only, for gracious sake, be lively drunk, not deadly doleful.--Cheer up, Percy!' I clapped him on the shoulder,--almost knocking him off his seat on to the floor. 'I am now going to show you that little experiment of which I was speaking!--You see that cat?' 'Of course I see it!--the beast!--I wish you'd let it go!' 'Why should I let it go?--Do you know whose cat that is? That cat's Paul Lessingham's.' 'Paul Lessingham's?' 'Yes, Paul Lessingham's,--the man who made the speech,--the man whom Marjorie went away with.' 'How do you know it's his?' 'I don't know it is, but I believe it is,--I choose to believe it is!--I intend to believe it is!--It was outside his house, therefore it's his cat,--that's how I argue. I can't get Lessingham inside that box, so I get his cat instead.' 'Whatever for?' 'You shall see.--You observe how happy it is?' 'It don't seem happy.' 'We've all our ways of seeming happy,--that's its way,' The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both. Perhaps it foresaw what was coming,--there is no fathoming the intelligence of what we call the lower animals. 'It's a funny way.' 'We some of us have funny ways, beside cats. Now, attention! Observe this little toy,--you've seen something of its kind before. It's a spring gun; you pull the spring-drop the charge into the barrel--release the spring--and the charge is fired. I'll unlock this safe, which is built into the wall. It's a letter lock, the combination just now, is "whisky,"--you see, that's a hint to you. You'll notice the safe is strongly made,--it's air-tight, fire-proof, the outer casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel,--the contents are valuable--to me!--and devilish dangerous,--I'd pity the thief who, in his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal. Look inside--you see it's full of balls,--glass balls, each in its own little separate nest; light as feathers; transparent,--you can see right through them. Here are a couple, like tiny pills. They contain neither dynamite, nor cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no favour, they'll work more mischief than all the explosives man has fashioned. Take hold of one--you say your heart is broken!--squeeze this under your nose--it wants but a gentle pressure--and in less time than no time you'll be in the land where they say there are no broken hearts.' He shrunk back. 'I don't know what you're talking about.--I don't want the thing.--Take it away.' 'Think twice,--the chance may not recur.' 'I tell you I don't want it.' 'Sure?--Consider!' 'Of course I'm sure!' 'Then the cat shall have it.' 'Let the poor brute go!' 'The poor brute's going,--to the land which is so near, and yet so far. Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which contains the Apostle's cat,--you'll observe it fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.--I am about to release the spring.--Close attention, please.--Notice the effect.' 'Atherton, let the brute go!' 'The brute's gone! I've released the spring--the pellet has been discharged--it has struck against the roof of the glass box--it has been broken by the contact,--and, hey presto! the cat lies dead,--and that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is,--how still! Let's hope that, now, it's really happy. The cat which I choose to believe is Paul Lessingham's has received its quietus; in the morning I'll send it back to him, with my respectful compliments. He'll miss it if I don't.--Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what we'll call Atherton's Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a hundred thousand men,--quite possibly more!--would drop down dead, as if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn't that something like a weapon, sir?' 'I'm not well!--I want to get away!--I wish I'd never come!' That was all Woodville had to say. 'Rubbish!--You're adding to your stock of information every second, and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is supposed to know all about everything, information's the one thing wanted. Empty your glass, man,--that's the time of day for you!' I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its contents, then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the tumbler from him. I had placed--carelessly enough--the second pellet within a foot of the edge of the table. The shock of the heavy beaker striking the board close to it, set it rolling. I was at the other side. I started forward to stop its motion, but I was too late. Before I could reach the crystal globule, it had fallen off the edge of the table on to the floor at Woodville's feet, and smashed in falling. As it smashed, he was looking down, wondering, no doubt, in his stupidity, what the pother was about,--for I was shouting, and making something of a clatter in my efforts to prevent the catastrophe which I saw was coming. On the instant, as the vapour secreted in the broken pellet gained access to the air, he fell forward on to his face. Rushing to him, I snatched his senseless body from the ground, and dragged it, staggeringly, towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging the door open, I got him into the open air. As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood outside. It was Lessingham's mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend,--my morning's visitor. CHAPTER XVII MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE? The passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was a passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure, standing in the shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses reeled. It was only because I had resolutely held my breath, and kept my face averted that I had not succumbed to the fate which had overtaken Woodville. Had I been a moment longer in gaining the open air, it would have been too late. As it was, in placing Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over him. My senses left me. Even as they went I was conscious of exclaiming,--remembering the saying about the engineer being hoist by his own petard, 'Atherton's Magic Vapour!' My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found myself being supported in someone's arms, a stranger's face was bending over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had ever seen were looking into mine. 'Who the deuce are you?' I asked. Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was streaming through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was lying close beside me,--stark and still. 'Is he dead?' I cried. 'Percy.--speak, man!--it's not so bad with you as that!' But it was pretty bad,--so bad that, as I bent down and looked at him, my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it could be. His heart seemed still,--the vapour took effect directly on the cardiac centres. To revive their action and that instantly, was indispensable. Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could not even think of how to set about beginning. Had I been alone, it is more than probable Woodville would have died. As I stared at him, senselessly, aimlessly, the stranger, passing his arms beneath his body, extended himself at full length upon his motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy's, he seemed to be pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man's. As I gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of Percy's body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By degrees, the motions became convulsive,--till on a sudden he bestirred himself to such effect that the stranger was rolled right off him. I bent down,--to find that the young gentleman's condition still seemed very far from satisfactory. There was a rigidity about the muscles of his face, a clamminess about his skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about the way in which his teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed, which was uncomfortable to contemplate. The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind,--not a very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he said, with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had seemed like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then. 'All will be well with him.' 'I am not so sure.' The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side of the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand to and fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic all semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy's features, and, to all appearances, he was placidly asleep. 'Have you hypnotised him?' 'What does it matter?' If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The conditions were both unusual and trying, the effect produced seemed all that could be desired,--the change brought about in half a dozen seconds was quite remarkable. I began to be aware of a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul Lessingham's friend. His morals might be peculiar, and manners he might have none, but in this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have justified the means. He went on. 'He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been. Leave him,--the night is warm,--all will be well.' As he said, the night was warm,--and it was dry. Percy would come to little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the pleasant breezes. So I acted on the stranger's advice, and left him lying in the yard, while I had a little interview with the impromptu physician. CHAPTER XVIII THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was oriental to the finger-tips,--that much was certain; yet in spite of a pretty wide personal knowledge of oriental people I could not make up my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah,--he was not, unless I erred, a Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself, sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and shapeless,--and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance, seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age. As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have been supposed to have retained something of their pristine vigour after having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed,--if, indeed, he was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of the fellow's countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,--their possessor could not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably, to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger signals never yet were placed in a creature's head. The individual who, having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their owner's acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued. It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision. I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament, the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such profound believers, it was he. When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the ice, I put to him a question. 'May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?' He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them, palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental. 'Indeed?--Is that so?--Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but, for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words. Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?' Again nothing but the gesture. 'Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would find yourself in an awkward situation,--and, unless you are presently more explanatory, called in they will be.' By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which might have been meant for a smile,--and which seemed to suggest that he regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words. 'Why do you laugh--do you think that being threatened with the police is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.--Have you suddenly been bereft of the use of your tongue?' He proved that he had not by using it. 'I have still the use of my tongue.' 'That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why you got there.' 'You know why I have come.' 'Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely what I do not know.' 'You do know.' 'Do I?--Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason which appears upon the surface,--to commit a felony.' 'You call me thief?' 'What else are you?' 'I am no thief.--You know why I have come.' He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders. 'I have come because you wanted me.' 'Because I wanted you!--On my word!--That's sublime!' 'All night you have wanted me,--do I not know? When she talked to you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.' I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he could mean, or--there was confusion somewhere. 'Take my advice, my friend, and don't try to come the bunco-steerer over me,--I'm a bit in that line myself, you know.' This time the score was mine,--he was puzzled. 'I know not what you talk of.' 'In that case, we're equal,--I know not what you talk of either.' His manner, for him, was childlike and bland. 'What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,--if you want me, then I come?' 'I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but--where's the application?' 'Do you not feel for him the same as I?' 'Who's the him?' 'Paul Lessingham.' It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of--to put it gently--spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking. 'And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?' 'Hate.' Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,--in the solid oriental sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips. 'I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?' 'Those who hate are kin.' 'That, also, I should be slow to admit; but--to go a step farther--what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?' 'You love her.' This time I did not ask him to supply the name,--being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. 'She loves him,--that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,--that will be well.' 'Indeed.--And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?' 'Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.' Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I hesitated. There was that in the fellow's manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,--which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,--only to win her! What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded, for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do it then? I would act on his suggestion,--I would carry the thing right through. Already I was advancing towards him, when--I stopped. I don't know why. On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent. What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a woman's name in vain for the sake of playing fool's tricks with such scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,--and that the name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me. 'You hound!' I cried. In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up dead,--as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of steel. For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,--I was even incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had happened. The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me. That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life. A shiver went down my back,--what might have occurred if I had not pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of underrating the enemy's strength. Evidently, in his own line, the fellow was altogether something out of the usual way. I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away, and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,--as if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was silent,--it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me equal to this gentleman of many talents. 'Take my advice, my friend, and don't attempt to play that hankey pankey off on to me again.' 'I don't know what you talk of.' 'Don't lie to me,--or I'll burn you into ashes.' Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground. 'My lord!--my lord!--have mercy, oh my lord!' 'Then you be careful, that's all. You may suppose yourself to be something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I can do a bit in that line myself,--perhaps I'm a trifle better at the game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold, which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such as you.' Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to show,--in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor. The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in a condition of abject terror. 'My lord! my lord!' he whined. 'I entreat you, my lord, to use me as your slave!' 'I'll use you as my slave!' Whether he or I was the more agitated it would have been difficult to say,--but, at least, it would not have done to betray my feelings as he did his. 'Stand up!' He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had seemed to disappear,--it was also incredible that I could have imagined his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick, then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I could him? In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to cross-examine him. 'I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.' 'Ask, oh my lord.' 'What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?' 'Revenge.' 'What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?' 'It is the feud of the innocent blood.' 'What do you mean by that?' 'On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.' 'Who has he killed?' 'That, my lord, is for me,--and for him.' 'I see.--Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and that I am again to use my--magic?' I saw that he quivered. 'My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.' I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,--though it was hard to conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a background,--that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the background's darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run? '"Spilling blood" is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.' 'What has the Englishman's law to do with me?' 'If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that sense, the Englishman's law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.' 'Is that so?' 'It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your own entire satisfaction.' He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which it was not nice to see. 'He would be shamed?' 'Indeed he would be shamed.' 'Before all men?' 'Before all men,--and, I take it, before all women too.' 'And he would hang?' 'If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,--yes.' His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately. 'Perhaps I will do that in the end,--in the end!' He opened his eyes to their widest limits, then shut them tight,--as if to gloat on the picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. 'In the meantime I will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the avenger is upon him,--he has good reason to know it. And through the days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall be to him as the bitterness of death,--aye, of many deaths. For he will know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall turn it shall be there,--yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that THE DEATH, THE GREAT DEATH, is coming--coming--and shall be on him--when I will!' The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he said,--and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!--then a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr Lessingham,--and, also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone acting on his behalf, and, so far as their power of doing mischief went, his big words proved empty windbags, or Marjorie would have to be warned that there was at least one passage in her suitor's life, into which, ere it was too late, it was advisable that inquiry should be made. To allow Marjorie to irrevocably link her fate with the Apostle's, without being first of all made aware that he was, to all intents and purposes, a haunted man--that was not to be thought of. 'You employ large phrases.' My words cooled the other's heated blood. Once more his eyes were cast down, his hands crossed upon his breast 'I crave my lord's pardon. My wound is ever new.' 'By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that little incident of the cockroach?' He glanced up quickly. 'Cockroach?--I know not what you say.' 'Well,--was it beetle, then?' 'Beetle!' He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,--the word was gasped. 'After you went we found, upon a sheet of paper, a capitally executed drawing of a beetle, which, I fancy, you must have left behind you,--Scaraboeus sacer, wasn't it?' 'I know not what you talk of.' 'Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr Lessingham. Now, why was that?' 'I know nothing.' 'Oh yes you do,--and, before you go, I mean to know something too.' The man was trembling, looking this way and that, showing signs of marked discomfiture. That there was something about that ancient scarab, which figures so largely in the still unravelled tangles of the Egyptian mythologies, and the effect which the mere sight of its cartouch--for the drawing had resembled something of the kind--had had on such a seasoned vessel as Paul Lessingham, which might be well worth my finding out, I felt convinced,--the man's demeanour, on my recurring to the matter, told its own plain tale. I made up my mind, if possible, to probe the business to the bottom, then and there. 'Listen to me, my friend. I am a plain man, and I use plain speech,--it's a kind of hobby I have. You will give me the information I require, and that at once, or I will pit my magic against yours,--in which case I think it extremely probable that you will come off worst from the encounter.' I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled. 'My lord, I know not of what you talk.' 'None of your lies for me.--Tell me why, at the sight of the thing on that sheet of paper, Paul Lessingham went green and yellow.' 'Ask him, my lord.' 'Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I am asking you. Answer,--or look out for squalls.' The electrical exhibition was going on. He was glaring at it as if he wished that it would stop. As if ashamed of his cowardice, plainly, on a sudden, he made a desperate effort to get the better of his fears,--and succeeded better than I had expected or desired. He drew himself up with what, in him, amounted to an air of dignity. 'I am a child of Isis!' It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me, as with a view of elevating his own low spirits, 'Are you?--Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to congratulate the lady on her offspring.' When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard before. 'Silence!--You know not of what you speak!--I warn you, as I warned Paul Lessingham, be careful not to go too far. Be not like him,--heed my warning.' 'What is it I am being warned against,--the beetle?' 'Yes,--the beetle!' Were I upon oath, and this statement being made, in the presence of witnesses, say, in a solicitor's office, I standing in fear of pains and penalties, I think that, at this point, I should leave the paper blank. No man likes to own himself a fool, or that he ever was a fool,--and ever since I have been wondering whether, on that occasion, that 'child of Isis' did, or did not, play the fool with me. His performance was realistic enough at the time, heaven knows. But, as it gets farther and farther away, I ask myself, more and more confidently, as time effluxes, whether, after all, it was not clever juggling,--superhumanly clever juggling, if you will; that, and nothing more. If it was something more, then, with a vengeance! there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy. The mere possibility opens vistas which the sane mind fears to contemplate. Since, then, I am not on oath, and, should I fall short of verbal accuracy, I do not need to fear the engines of the law, what seemed to happen was this. He was standing within about ten feet of where I leaned against the edge of the table. The light was full on, so that it was difficult to suppose that I could make a mistake as to what took place in front of me. As he replied to my mocking allusion to the beetle by echoing my own words, he vanished,--or, rather, I saw him taking a different shape before my eyes. His loose draperies all fell off him, and, as they were in the very act of falling, there issued, or there seemed to issue out of them, a monstrous creature of the beetle type,--the man himself was gone. On the point of size I wish to make myself clear. My impression, when I saw it first, was that it was as large as the man had been, and that it was, in some way, standing up on end, the legs towards me. But, the moment it came in view, it began to dwindle, and that so rapidly that, in a couple of seconds at most, a little heap of drapery was lying on the floor, on which was a truly astonishing example of the coleoptera. It appeared to be a beetle. It was, perhaps, six or seven inches high, and about a foot in length. Its scales were of a vivid golden green. I could distinctly see where the wings were sheathed along the back, and, as they seemed to be slightly agitated, I looked, every moment, to see them opened, and the thing take wing. I was so astonished,--as who would not have been?--that for an appreciable space of time I was practically in a state of stupefaction. I could do nothing but stare. I was acquainted with the legendary transmigrations of Isis, and with the story of the beetle which issues from the woman's womb through all eternity, and with the other pretty tales, but this, of which I was an actual spectator, was something new, even in legends. If the man, with whom I had just been speaking, was gone, where had he gone to? If this glittering creature was there, in his stead, whence had it come? I do protest this much, that, after the first shock of surprise had passed, I retained my presence of mind. I felt as an investigator might feel, who has stumbled, haphazard, on some astounding, some epoch-making, discovery. I was conscious that I should have to make the best use of my mental faculties if I was to take full advantage of so astonishing an accident. I kept my glance riveted on the creature, with the idea of photographing it on my brain. I believe that if it were possible to take a retinal print--which it someday will be--you would have a perfect picture of what it was I saw, Beyond doubt it was a lamellicorn, one of the copridae. With the one exception of its monstrous size, there were the characteristics in plain view;--the convex body, the large head, the projecting clypeus. More, its smooth head and throat seemed to suggest that it was a female. Equally beyond a doubt, apart from its size, there were unusual features present too. The eyes were not only unwontedly conspicuous, they gleamed as if they were lighted by internal flames,--in some indescribable fashion they reminded me of my vanished visitor. The colouring was superb, and the creature appeared to have the chameleon-like faculty of lightening and darkening the shades at will. Its not least curious feature was its restlessness. It was in a state of continual agitation; and, as if it resented my inspection, the more I looked at it the more its agitation grew. As I have said, I expected every moment to see it take wing and circle through the air. All the while I was casting about in my mind as to what means I could use to effect its capture. I did think of killing it, and, on the whole, I rather wish that I had at any rate attempted slaughter,--there were dozens of things, lying ready to my hand, any one of which would have severely tried its constitution;--but, on the spur of the moment, the only method of taking it alive which occurred to me, was to pop over it a big tin canister which had contained soda-lime. This canister was on the floor to my left. I moved towards it, as nonchalantly as I could, keeping an eye on that shining wonder all the time. Directly I moved, its agitation perceptibly increased,--it was, so to speak, all one whirr of tremblement; it scintillated, as if its coloured scales had been so many prisms; it began to unsheath its wings, as if it had finally decided that it would make use of them. Picking up the tin, disembarrassing it of its lid, I sprang towards my intended victim. Its wings opened wide; obviously it was about to rise; but it was too late. Before it had cleared the ground, the tin was over it. It remained over it, however, for an instant only. I had stumbled, in my haste, and, in my effort to save myself from falling face foremost on to the floor, I was compelled to remove my hands from the tin. Before I was able to replace them, the tin was sent flying, and, while I was still partially recumbent, within eighteen inches of me, that beetle swelled and swelled, until it had assumed its former portentous dimensions, when, as it seemed, it was enveloped by a human shape, and in less time than no time, there stood in front of me, naked from top to toe, my truly versatile oriental friend. One startling fact nudity revealed,--that I had been egregiously mistaken on the question of sex. My visitor was not a man, but a woman, and, judging from the brief glimpse which I had of her body, by no means old or ill-shaped either. If that transformation was not a bewildering one, then two and two make five. The most level-headed scientist would temporarily have lost his mental equipoise on witnessing such a quick change as that within a span or two of his own nose I was not only witless, I was breathless too,--I could only gape. And, while I gaped, the woman, stooping down, picking up her draperies, began to huddle them on her anyhow,--and, also, to skeddadle towards the door which led into the yard. When I observed this last manoeuvre, to some extent I did rise to the requirements of the situation. Leaping up, I rushed to stay her flight. 'Stop!' I shouted. But she was too quick for me. Ere I could reach her, she had opened the door, and was through it,--and, what was more, she had slammed it in my face. In my excitement, I did some fumbling with the handle. When, in my turn, I was in the yard, she was out of sight. I did fancy I saw a dim form disappearing over the wall at the further side, and I made for it as fast as I knew how. I clambered on to the wall, looking this way and that, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I listened for the sound of retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished. Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent. As I returned across the yard, Woodville, who still was taking his rest under the open canopy of heaven, sat up. Seemingly my approach had roused him out of slumber. At sight of me he rubbed his eyes, and yawned, and blinked. 'I say,' he remarked, not at all unreasonably, 'where am I?' 'You're on holy--or on haunted ground,--hang me if I quite know which!--but that's where you are, my boy.' 'By Jove!--I am feeling queer!--I have got a headache, don't you know.' 'I shouldn't be in the least surprised at anything you have, or haven't,--I'm beyond surprise. It's a drop of whisky you are wanting,--and what I'm wanting too,--only, for goodness sake, drop me none of your drops! Mine is a case for a bottle at the least.' I put my arm through his, and went with him into the laboratory. And, when we were in, I shut, and locked, and barred the door. CHAPTER XIX THE LADY RAGES Dora Grayling stood in the doorway. 'I told your servant he need not trouble to show me in,--and I've come without my aunt. I hope I'm not intruding.' She was--confoundedly; and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her so. She came into the room, with twinkling eyes, looking radiantly happy,--that sort of look which makes even a plain young woman prepossessing. 'Am I intruding?--I believe I am.' She held out her hand, while she was still a dozen feet away, and when I did not at once dash forward to make a clutch at it, she shook her head and made a little mouth at me. 'What's the matter with you?--Aren't you well?' I was not well,--I was very far from well. I was as unwell as I could be without being positively ill, and any person of common discernment would have perceived it at a glance. At the same time I was not going to admit anything of the kind to her. 'Thank you,--I am perfectly well.' 'Then, if I were you, I would endeavour to become imperfectly well; a little imperfection in that direction might make you appear to more advantage.' 'I am afraid that that I am not one of those persons who ever do appear to much advantage,--did I not tell you so last night?' 'I believe you did say something of the kind,--it's very good of you to remember. Have you forgotten something else which you said to me last night?' 'You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the follies of which my tongue is guilty.' 'Thank you.--That is quite enough.--Good-day.' She turned as if to go. 'Miss Grayling!' 'Mr Atherton?' 'What's the matter?--What have I been saying now?' 'Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning,--is that one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?' The engagement had escaped my recollection--it is a fact--and my face betrayed me. 'You had forgotten?' Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. 'You must pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the imitation was of that general kind which is never meant to be acted on.' She was half way to the door before I stopped her,--I had to take her by the shoulder to do it. 'Miss Grayling!--You are hard on me.' 'I suppose I am.--Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an undesired, and unexpected, guest?' 'Now you are harder still.--If you knew what I have gone through since our conversation of last night, in your strength you would be merciful.' 'Indeed?--What have you gone through?' I hesitated. What I actually had gone through I certainly did not propose to tell her. Other reasons apart I did not desire to seem madder than I admittedly am,--and I lacked sufficient plausibility to enable me to concoct, on the spur of the moment, a plain tale of the doings of my midnight visitor which would have suggested that the narrator was perfectly sane. So I fenced,--or tried to. 'For one thing,--I have had no sleep.' I had not,--not one single wink. When I did get between the sheets, 'all night I lay in agony,' I suffered from that worst form of nightmare,--the nightmare of the man who is wide awake. There was continually before my fevered eyes the strange figure of that Nameless Thing. I had often smiled at tales of haunted folk,--here was I one of them. My feelings were not rendered more agreeable by a strengthening conviction that if I had only retained the normal attitude of a scientific observer I should, in all probability, have solved the mystery of my oriental friend, and that his example of the genus of copridae might have been pinned,--by a very large pin!--on a piece--a monstrous piece!--of cork. It was galling to reflect that he and I had played together a game of bluff,--a game at which civilisation was once more proved to be a failure. She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw something--because her own look softened. 'You do look tired.' She seemed to be casting about in her own mind for a cause. 'You have been worrying.' She glanced round the big laboratory. 'Have you been spending the night in this--wizard's cave?' 'Pretty well' 'Oh!' The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning. Uninvited, she seated herself in an arm-chair, a huge old thing, of shagreen leather, which would have held half a dozen of her. Demure in it she looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive, and a little up-to-date, of the women of long ago. Her dove grey eyes seemed to perceive so much more than they cared to show. 'How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?--didn't you mean it?' 'Of course I meant it.' 'Then how is it you've forgotten?' 'I didn't forget.' 'Don't tell fibs.--Something is the matter,--tell me what it is.--Is it that I am too early?' 'Nothing of the sort,--you couldn't be too early.' 'Thank you.--When you pay a compliment, even so neat an one as that, sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.--It is early,--I know it's early, but afterwards I want you to come to lunch. I told aunt that I would bring you back with me.' 'You are much better to me than I deserve.' 'Perhaps.' A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic. 'I think that to some men women are almost better than they deserve. I don't know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.' There was a different intonation,--a dryness. 'Have you forgotten what I came for?' 'Not a bit of it,--I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to see an illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for slaughtering my fellows. The fact is, I'm hardly in a mood for that just now,--I've been illustrating it too much already.' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, for one thing it's been murdering Lessingham's cat.' 'Mr Lessingham's cat?' 'Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.' 'Mr Atherton!--I wish you wouldn't talk like that.' 'It's a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong place, and, if it hadn't been for something very like a miracle, he'd be dead.' 'I wish you wouldn't have anything to do with such things--I hate them.' I stared. 'Hate them?--I thought you'd come to see an illustration.' 'And pray what was your notion of an illustration?' 'Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.' 'And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was being killed for my--edification?' 'It needn't necessarily have been a cat, but something would have had to be killed,--how are you going to illustrate the death-dealing propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?' 'Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something killed?' 'Then for what did you come?' I do not know what there was about the question which was startling, but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red. 'Because I was a fool.' I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed, or I had,--or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and tongs, so far as I could see, for absolutely nothing. 'You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.' 'I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully rapid.' I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her. Immediately she was at my elbow. 'Mr Atherton?' 'Miss Grayling.' 'Are you cross with me?' 'Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you are completely justified.' 'But you are not stupid.' 'No?--Nor you satirical.' 'You are not stupid,--you know you are not stupid; it was only stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.' 'It is very good of you to say so.--But I fear that I am an indifferent host. Although you would not care for an illustration, there may be other things which you might find amusing.' 'Why do you keep on snubbing me?' 'I keep on snubbing you!' 'You are always snubbing me,--you know you are. Some times I feel as if I hated you.' 'Miss Grayling!' 'I do! I do! I do!' 'After all, it is only natural.' 'That is how you talk,--as if I were a child, and you were,--oh I don't know what.--Well, Mr Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to leave you. I have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have not seemed too intrusive.' She flounced--'flounce' was the only appropriate word!--out of the room before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage. 'Miss Grayling, I entreat you--' 'Pray do not entreat me, Mr Atherton.' Standing still she turned to me. 'I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself in, but, if that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me between this and the street?' The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the hall without a word,--in perfect silence she shook the dust of my abode from off her feet. I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the top of the steps and watched her going,--she was walking off at four miles an hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed to call a hansom. It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which another blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it, advisable--and I was just returning into the house with the intention of putting myself into my flannels, when a cab drew up, and old Lindon got out of it. CHAPTER XX A HEAVY FATHER Mr Lindon was excited,--there is no mistaking it when he is, because with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he was out of the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the lining. 'Atherton, I want to speak to you--most particularly--somewhere in private.' I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there; it is a workshop, not a playroom,--the place is private; but, recently, my rules had become dead letters. Directly he was inside, Lindon began puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead, throwing out his chest, as if he were oppressed by a sense of his own importance. Then he started off talking at the top of his voice,--and it is not a low one either. 'Atherton, I--I've always looked on you as a--a kind of a son.' 'That's very kind of you.' 'I've always regarded you as a--a level-headed fellow; a man from whom sound advice can be obtained when sound advice--is--is most to be desired.' 'That also is very kind of you.' 'And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at--at what may be regarded as a--a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the history of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are--are essentially required.' This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived what was coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more clear-headed than I do when I am with a woman,--realise so much better the nature of the ground on which I am standing. 'What do you know of this man Lessingham?' I knew it was coming. 'What all the world knows.' 'And what does all the world know of him?--I ask you that! A flashy, plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,--that is what all the world knows of him. The man's a political adventurer,--he snatches a precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the follies of his fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency, destitute of principle, and impervious to all the feelings of a gentleman. What do you know of him besides this?' 'I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.' 'Oh yes you do!--don't talk nonsense!--you choose to screen the fellow! I say what I mean,--I always have said, and I always shall say.--What do you know of him outside politics,--of his family--of his private life?' 'Well,--not very much.' 'Of course you don't!--nor does anybody else! The man's a mushroom,--or a toadstool, rather!--sprung up in the course of a single night, apparently out of some dirty ditch.--Why, sir, not only is he without ordinary intelligence, he is even without a Brummagen substitute for manners.' He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his countenance presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets and purples. He flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide open, and his arms too, and started off again. 'The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a--a young woman,--by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it's her duty to represent me adequately--adequately, sir! And what's more, between ourselves, sir, it's her duty to marry. My property's my own, and I wouldn't have it pass to either of my confounded brothers on any account. They're next door to fools, and--and they don't represent me in any possible sense of the word. My daughter, sir, can marry whom she pleases,--whom she pleases! There's no one in England, peer or commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to have her for his wife--I've told her so,--yes, sir, I've told her, though you--you'd think that she, of all people in the world, wouldn't require telling. Yet what do you think she does? She--she actually carries on what I--I can't help calling a--a compromising acquaintance with this man Lessingham!' 'No!' 'But I say yes!--and I wish to heaven I didn't. I--I've warned her against the scoundrel more than once; I--I've told her to cut him dead. And yet, as--as you saw yourself, last night, in--in the face of the assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-trap speech of his, in which there was not one sound sentiment, nor an idea which--which would hold water, she positively went away with him, in--in the most ostentatious and--and disgraceful fashion, on--on his arm, and--and actually snubbed her father.--It is monstrous that a parent--a father!--should be subjected to such treatment by his child.' The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. 'When I got home I--I told her what I thought of her, I promise you that,--and I told her what I thought of him,--I didn't mince my words with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is demanded,--and that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to the fellow again, or to recognise him if she met him in the street. I pointed out to her, with perfect candour, that the fellow was an infernal scoundrel,--that and nothing else!--and that he would bring disgrace on whoever came into contact with him, even with the end of a barge pole.--And what do you think she said?' 'She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.' 'Did she, sir!--By gad, did she!--That shows how much you know her!--She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and--and the way she went on, you'd--you'd have thought that she was the parent and I was the child--she said that I--I grieved her, that she was disappointed in me, that times have changed,--yes, sir, she said that times have changed!--that, nowadays, parents weren't Russian autocrats--no, sir, not Russian autocrats!--that--that she was sorry she couldn't oblige me,--yes, sir, that was how she put it,--she was sorry she couldn't oblige me, but it was altogether out of the question to suppose that she could put a period to a friendship which she valued, simply on account of-of my unreasonable prejudices,--and--and--and, in short, she--she told me to go the devil, sir!' 'And did you--' I was on the point of asking him if he went,--but I checked myself in time. 'Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know against Lessingham, apart from his politics?' 'That's just it,--I know nothing.' 'In a sense, isn't that in his favour?' 'I don't see how you make that out. I--I don't mind telling you that I--I've had inquiries made. He's not been in the House six years--this is his second Parliament--he's jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box. His first constituency was Harwich--they've got him still, and much good may he do 'em!--but how he came to stand for the place,--or who, or what, or where he was before he stood for the place, no one seems to have the faintest notion.' 'Hasn't he been a great traveller?' 'I never heard of it.' 'Not in the East?' 'Has he told you so?' 'No,--I was only wondering. Well, it seems to me that to find out that nothing is known against him is something in his favour!' 'My dear Sydney, don't talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,--that he's a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone, something would have been known about him, either for or against. I don't want my daughter to marry a man who--who--who's shot up through a trap, simply because nothing is known against him. Ha-hang me, if I wouldn't ten times sooner she should marry you.' When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn away. 'I am afraid that is out of the question.' He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance. 'Why?' I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,--and, probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too. 'My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your suggestion, but I can only repeat that--unfortunately, anything of the kind is out of the question.' 'I don't see why.' 'Perhaps not.' 'You--you're a pretty lot, upon my word!' 'I'm afraid we are.' 'I--I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.' 'I see.--But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence with which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a shred of it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly as that.' 'I don't care how you state it,--state it as you like. Only--only I want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I--I--I want you to paint him in his true colours; in--in--in fact, I--I want you to choke him off.' While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration on his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him. 'What is it?' 'Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.' At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,--it delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer. 'T-the very thing!--c-couldn't have been better!--show her in here! H--hide me somewhere,--I don't care where,--behind that screen! Y-you use your influence with her;--g-give her a good talking to;--t-tell her what I've told you; and at--at the critical moment I'll come in, and then--then if we can't manage her between us, it'll be a wonder.' The proposition staggered me. 'But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot--' He cut me short. 'Here she comes!' Ere I could stop him he was behind the screen,--I had not seen him move with such agility before!--and before I could expostulate Marjorie was in the room. Something which was in her bearing, in her face, in her eyes, quickened the beating of my pulses,--she looked as if something had come into her life, and taken the joy clean out of it. CHAPTER XXI THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT 'Sydney!' she cried, 'I'm so glad that I can see you!' She might be,--but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I was a sharer of her joy. 'I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and--I'm in trouble now. Such strange trouble.' So was I,--and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,--I would outwit her eavesdropping father. 'Come with me into the house,--tell me all about it there.' She refused to budge. 'No,--I will tell you all about it here.' She looked about her,--as it struck me queerly. 'This is just the sort of place in which to unfold a tale like mine. It looks uncanny.' 'But--' '"But me no buts!" Sydney, don't torture me,--let me stop here where I am,--don't you see I'm haunted?' She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out in front of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wild as her words. 'Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I'm mad?--I wonder if I'm going mad.--Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You're a bit of everything, you're a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,--there it is!--tell me if I'm ill!' I felt her pulse,--it did not need its swift beating to inform me that fever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass. She held it up to the level of her eyes. 'What's this?' 'It's a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brain sometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do you good.' She drained the glass. 'It's done me good already,--I believe it has; that's being something like a doctor.--Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last night papa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham--by way of a prelude.' 'Exactly. Mr Lindon---' 'Yes, Mr Lindon,--that's papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I know papa said some surprising things,--but it's a way he has,--he's apt to say surprising things. He's the best father in the world, but--it's not in his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried old Tory never can;--I've always thought that that's why he's so fond of you.' 'Thank you, I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred to me before.' Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning the position over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all things considered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of his daughter's confidence as I had, even from the vantage of the screen,--and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from her lips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady would not be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of what was the actual purport of her visit. She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent. 'Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday morning,--about the adventure of my finding the man?' 'Not a word.' 'I believe I meant to,--I'm half disposed to think he's brought me trouble. Isn't there some superstition about evil befalling whoever shelters a homeless stranger?' 'We'll hope not, for humanity's sake.' 'I fancy there is,--I feel sure there is.--Anyhow, listen to my story. Yesterday morning, before breakfast,--to be accurate, between eight and nine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. I sent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said there was a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found, lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for the tattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would have been stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,--a dreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction in First Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one else seemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thought I would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do you think he said?' 'Thank you.' 'Nonsense.--He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, "Paul Lessingham." I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, a man in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion--to me, of all people in the world!--took me aback. The policeman who was holding his head remarked, "That's the first time he's opened his mouth. I thought he was dead." He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movement went all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness, and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of the street, "Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!" It was very silly of me, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner--the two together--affected me.--Well, the long and the short of it was, that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,--and I had the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. He reported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort of cataleptic seizure,--I could see that he thought it likely to turn out almost as interesting a case as I did.' 'Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?' She looked at me, quizzically. 'You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell him everything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.' I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon. 'Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our little courtesies,--which, it is to be hoped, were to papa's satisfaction, since they were not to be mine--I went to see the patient. I was told that he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon as I approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raised himself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had been addressing some large assembly--I can't describe to you the dreadful something which was in his voice, and on his face,--"Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!"' When she said that, I was startled. 'Are you sure those were the words he used?' 'Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,--especially after what has happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,--they haunt me all the time.' She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from her eyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something about the Apostle's connection with his Oriental friend which needed probing to the bottom. 'What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?' I had my doubts as to the gentleman's identity,--which her words dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another direction. 'He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, and straggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin and bone,--the doctor says it's a case of starvation.' 'You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the whiskers are real?' She opened her eyes. 'Of course they're real. Why shouldn't they be real?' 'Does he strike you as being a--foreigner?' 'Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one, and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is a very curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it, but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, then it is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen a clairvoyant?' I nodded. 'He seems to me to be in a state of clairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but we know what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some condition of the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being under what those sort of people call 'influence,' and that whoever had him under influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for the words came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.' Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkable conclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaided powers of intuition,--but I did not choose to let her know I thought so. 'My dear Marjorie!--you who pride yourself on having your imagination so strictly under control!--on suffering it to take no errant flights!' 'Is not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likely to make assertions wildly,--proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me. When I left that unfortunate creature's room,--I had had a nurse sent for, I left him in her charge--and reached my own bedroom, I was possessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, but very real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.' 'Remember,--you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with your father. Your patient's words came as a climax.' 'That is what I told myself,--or, rather, that was what I tried to tell myself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the command of my powers of reflection.' 'Precisely.' 'It was not precisely,--or, at least, it was not precisely in the sense you mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogether indescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that I was in the presence of the supernatural.' 'Nonsense!' 'It was not nonsense,--I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, I was conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril was assailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it was something altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. I wanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but I couldn't, and I knew that I couldn't,--I knew that I couldn't move as much as a finger to help him.--Stop,--let me finish!--I told myself that it was absurd, but it wouldn't do; absurd or not, there was the terror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the words wouldn't come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain, but my longings wouldn't shape themselves into words, and my tongue was palsied. I don't know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came to understand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fight the fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,--and that was the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of my terror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now I would have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn't do it, I couldn't even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.' She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, and to think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more than I could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able to take her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, in general, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become the prey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had an innate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had some sort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would be my business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine. 'You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objection to--cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs has always made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that something of the kind was in the room.' 'Something of what kind?' 'Some kind of--beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I could hear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head; that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; I covered myself all over with the clothes,--then I felt it bumping against the coverlet. And, Sydney!' She drew closer. Her blanched cheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but an echo of itself. 'It followed me.' 'Marjorie!' 'It got into the bed.' 'You imagined it.' 'I didn't imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it found a way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I felt it--against my face.--And it's there now.' 'Where?' She raised the forefinger of her left hand. 'There!--Can't you hear it droning?' She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instant the droning of an insect did become audible. 'It's only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open window.' 'I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.--Sydney, don't you feel as if you were in the presence of evil? Don't you want to get away from it, back into the presence of God?' 'Marjorie!' 'Pray, Sydney, pray!--I can't!--I don't know why, but I can't! She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me in paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman me too. It was so unlike Marjorie,--and I would have given my life to save her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,--as if she could not help it. 'Pray, Sydney, pray!' At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in praying,--I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated aloud the Lord's Prayer,---the first time for I know not how long. As the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make no doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached the last great petition, 'Deliver us from evil,' she loosed her arms from about my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And she joined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus. 'For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen.' When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her head bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at my heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year, almost as if it had been my mother's hand;--I daresay that sometimes she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, to touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while. As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there was old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. The look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me with such a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keep from laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fog which was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possibly intended for a whisper, 'Is--is she m-mad?' The whisper,--if it was meant for a whisper--was more than sufficiently audible to catch his daughter's ears. She started--raised her head--sprang to her feet--turned--and saw her father. 'Papa!' Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering. 'W-w-what the d-devil's the--the m-m-meaning of this?' Her utterance was clear enough,--I fancy her parent found it almost painfully clear. 'Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behind that--screen?' Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness of his daughter's gaze,--and endeavoured to conceal the fact by an explosion of passion. Do-don't you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I--I'm your father!' 'You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that my father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.' Rage rendered him speechless,--or, at any rate, he chose to let us believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silence. So Marjorie turned to me,--and, on the whole, I had rather she had not. Her manner was very different from what it had been just now,--it was more than civil, it was freezing. 'Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with your cognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart to you unchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a listener behind the screen?' I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share in playing her a very shabby trick,--I should have liked to throw old Lindon through the window. 'The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I would have compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But your distress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the justice to remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with me into another room.' 'But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any particular reason why I should have gone.' 'You never gave me a chance.' 'Sydney!--I had not thought you would have played me such a trick!' When she said that--in such a tone!--the woman whom I loved!--I could have hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to have treated her so scurvily! Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father, cool, calm, stately;--she was, on a sudden, once more, the Marjorie with whom I was familiar. The demeanour of parent and child was in striking contrast. If appearances went for aught, the odds were heavy that in any encounter which might be coming the senior would suffer. 'I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been some curious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your intention than to listen at a keyhole. What would you have thought--and said--if I had attempted to play the spy on you? And I have always understood that men were so particular on points of honour.' Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than splutter,--certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this sharp-tongued maiden. 'D-don't talk to me li-like that, girl!--I--I believe you're s-stark mad!' He turned to me. 'W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking to you about?' 'To what do you allude?' 'About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows what,--d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,--r-reared on the literature of the gutter!--I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunk to such a depth!--Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,--what do you think of a child who behaves as she has done? Who t-takes a nameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from her father? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against the r-rascal Lessingham!--Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl who behaves like that?' I shrugged my shoulders. 'I--I know very well what you d-do think of her,--don't be afraid to say it out because she's present.' 'No; Sydney, don't be afraid.' I saw that her eyes were dancing,--in a manner of speaking, her looks brightened under the sunshine of her father's displeasure. 'Let's hear what you think of her as a--as a m-man of the world!' 'Pray, Sydney, do!' 'What you feel for her in your--your heart of hearts!' 'Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?' The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,--she was making a mock of me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her. 'D-don't you speak until you're spoken to! Atherton, I--I hope I'm not deceived in you; I--I hope you're the man I--I took you for; that you're willing and--and ready to play the part of a-a-an honest friend to this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the time for mincing words, it--it's the time for candid speech. Tell this--this weak minded young woman, right out, whether this man Lessingham is, or is not, a damned scoundrel.' 'Papa!--Do you really think that Sydney's opinion, or your opinion, is likely to alter facts?' 'Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!' 'My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing either for or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all the world.' 'Exactly,--and all the world knows him to be a miserable adventurer who is scheming to entrap my daughter.' 'I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears to me to be unnecessarily strong.' 'Atherton, I--I'm ashamed of you!' 'You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside the pale.--My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will tell you what I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.--That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes without saying,--permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a man of honour. He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the highest aims. He has dedicated his whole life to the improvement of the conditions amidst which the less fortunate of his fellow countrymen are at present compelled to exist. That seems to me to be an object well worth having. He has asked me to share his life-work, and I have told him that I will; when, and where, and how, he wants me to. And I will. I do not suppose his life has been free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion on the point. What man's life has? Who among men can claim to be without sin? Even the members of our highest families sometimes hide behind screens. But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met, I am persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that I have found favour in his eyes.--Good-bye, Sydney.--I suppose I shall see you again, papa.' With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she straightway left the room. Lindon would have stopped her. 'S-stay, y-y-y-you--' he stuttered. But I caught him by the arm. 'If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good purpose will be served by a multiplication of words.' 'Atherton, I--I'm disappointed in you. You--you haven't behaved as I expected. I--I haven't received from you the assistance which I looked for.' 'My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the young lady from the path which she has set herself to tread is calculated to send her furiously along it.' 'C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don't mind telling you, in c-confidence, that at--at times, her mother was the devil, and I'll be--I'll be hanged if her daughter isn't worse.--What was the tomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?' 'No,--I don't think she's mad.' 'I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her. What's the matter with the girl?' 'Well,--you must excuse my saying that I don't fancy you quite understand women.' 'I--I don't,--and I--I--I don't want to either.' I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,--in Marjorie's interest. 'Marjorie is high-strung,--extremely sensitive. Her imagination is quickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was safe. You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered. You don't want people to say you have driven her into a lunatic asylum.' 'I--good heavens, no! I--I'll send for the doctor directly I get home,--I--I'll have the best opinion in town.' 'You'll do nothing of the kind,--you'll only make her worse. What you have to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.--As for this affair of Lessingham's, I have a suspicion that it may not be all such plain sailing as she supposes.' 'What do you mean?' 'I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear from me again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her head.' 'Give the girl her head! H-haven't I--I g-given the g-girl her h-head all her l-life!' He looked at his watch. 'Why, the day's half gone!' He began scurrying towards the front door, I following at his heels. 'I've got a committee meeting on at the club,--m-most important! For weeks they've been giving us the worst food you ever tasted in your life,--p-played havoc with my digestion, and I--I'm going to tell them if--things aren't changed, they--they'll have to pay my doctor's bills.--As for that man, Lessingham--' As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing on the step was 'that man Lessingham' himself. Lindon was a picture. The Apostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand. 'Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.' Lindon put his hand behind his back,--and behaved as stupidly as he very well could have done. 'You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don't know you, and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that what I say applies equally to any member of my family.' With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the steps like an inflated turkeycock. CHAPTER XXII THE HAUNTED MAN To have received the cut discourteous from his future father-in-law might have been the most commonplace of incidents,--Lessingham evinced not a trace of discomposure. So far as I could judge, he took no notice of the episode whatever, behaving exactly as if nothing had happened. He merely waited till Mr Lindon was well off the steps; then, turning to me, he placidly observed, 'Interrupting you again, you see.--May I?' The sight of him had set up such a turmoil in my veins, that, for the moment, I could not trust myself to speak. I felt, acutely, that an explanation with him was, of all things, the thing most to be desired,--and that quickly. Providence could not have thrown him more opportunely in the way. If, before he went away, we did not understand each other a good deal more clearly, upon certain points, the fault should not be mine. Without a responsive word, turning on my heels, I led the way into the laboratory. Whether he noticed anything peculiar in my demeanour, I could not tell. Within he looked about him with that purely facial smile, the sight of which had always engendered in me a certain distrust of him. 'Do you always receive visitors in here?' 'By no means.' 'What is this?' Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a lady's purse,--a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming gold. Whether it was Marjorie's or Miss Grayling's I could not tell. He watched me as I examined it. 'Is it yours?' 'No. It is not mine.' Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon another,--very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded hands upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite conscious of his observation; but endured it in silence, being a little wishful that he should begin. Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and spoke. 'Atherton, what is the matter with you?--Have I done something to offend you too?' 'Why do you ask?' 'Your manner seems a little singular.' 'You think so?' 'I do.' 'What have you come to see me about?' 'Just now, nothing.--I like to know where I stand.' His manner was courteous, easy, even graceful. I was outmanoeuvred. I understood the man sufficiently well to be aware that when once he was on the defensive, the first blow would have to come from me. So I struck it. 'I, also, like to know where I stand.--Lessingham, I am aware, and you know that I am aware, that you have made certain overtures to Miss Lindon. That is a fact in which I am keenly interested.' 'As--how?' 'The Lindons and the Athertons are not the acquaintances of one generation only. Marjorie Lindon and I have been friends since childhood. She looks upon me as a brother--' 'As a brother?' 'As a brother.' 'Yes.' 'Mr Lindon regains me as a son. He has given me his confidence; as I believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you to give me yours.' 'What do you want to know?' 'I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because I want you to understand me clearly.--I believe, honestly, that the thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both! and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.' 'I think so too.' 'But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.' 'Why should she not?' 'Will you answer a question?' 'What is the question?' 'What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous terror?' There was a perceptible pause before he answered. 'Explain yourself.' 'No explanation is needed,--you know perfectly well what I mean.' 'You credit me with miraculous acumen.' 'Don't juggle, Lessingham,--be frank!' 'The frankness should not be all on one side.--There is that in your frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might not unreasonably resent.' 'Do you resent it?' 'That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.' 'Answer my question!' 'I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.' He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril of losing my temper,--which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his ease. He smiled,--facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before,--I could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic. 'In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr Lindon.' 'Well?' 'Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.' 'Is that so?--Will your past bear the fullest investigation?' I winced. 'At any rate, it is known to all the world.' 'Is it?--Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man, that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which we keep to ourselves.' I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what to say. 'But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being haunted one draws the line.' 'Haunted?' 'As you are.' He got up. 'Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not understand me.' He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was standing on a shelf. 'What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes and bulbs?' 'I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am in no mood to be trifled with.' 'Is it some kind of an exhauster?' 'My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting things here which you might care to see.' 'Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,--from conquest unto conquest.' 'Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.' 'In what respect?' 'For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;--I saw it take place last night.' 'Where?' 'Here,--within a few feet of where you are standing.' 'Are you serious?' 'Perfectly.' 'What did you see?' 'I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night, before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never hinted.' 'That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.' 'So I understand.' 'From whom?' 'From a friend of yours.' 'From a friend of mine?--Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?' The man's attempt at coolness did him credit,--but it did not deceive me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for Marjorie, I should have cared nothing,--his affairs were his affairs; though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man which, from the scientific explorer's point of view, might be well worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in it, I wondered more and more what it could be. My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one. That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe,--I have, even in my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible. That we know everything, I doubt;--that our great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false. Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we cannot do, and which we do not know how they did we profess to think that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming--lies! But it is not so sure. For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil's trick played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have been played upon my Marjorie,--I repeat that I write 'my Marjorie' because, to me, she will always be 'my' Marjorie! It had driven her half out of her senses. As I looked at Lessingham, I seemed to see her at his side, as I had seen her not long ago, with her white, drawn face, and staring eyes, dumb with an agony of fear. Her life was bidding fair to be knit with his,--what Upas tree of horror was rooted in his very bones? The thought that her sweet purity was likely to be engulfed in a devil's slough in which he was wallowing was not to be endured. As I realised that the man was more than my match at the game which I was playing--in which such vital interests were at stake!--my hands itched to clutch him by the throat, and try another way. Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he said, 'Are you aware how strangely you are looking at me, Atherton? Were my countenance a mirror I think you would be surprised to see in it your own.' I drew back from him,--I daresay, sullenly. 'Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to have seen yours,--at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.' 'How easily you quarrel.' 'I do not quarrel.' 'Then perhaps it's I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel's ended,--pouf! it's done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into you?--You are a wiser man.' 'I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in which words only will not serve.' 'Then what will serve?' 'I am myself beginning to wonder.' 'And I.' 'As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,--not unspotted from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you are.' 'Atherton!' 'Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;--in an unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have, during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand, or I shall place certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the world.' He grew visibly paler but he smiled--facially. 'You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.--What are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?' 'Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of your house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?' 'Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the public ear?' 'Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?' 'Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.' 'I am not so unobservant as you appear to imagine. There were features about the episode which struck me forcibly at the time, and which have struck me more forcibly since. To suggest, as you did yesterday morning, that it was an ordinary case of burglary, or that the man was a lunatic, is an absurdity. 'Pardon me,--I did nothing of the kind.' 'Then what do you suggest?' 'I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come from you.' 'You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter quiet. There is an appearance of suggestion about that.' 'You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton. Nothing, to me, could seem more natural.--However,--proceed.' He had his hands behind his back, and rested them on the edge of the table against which he was leaning. He was undoubtedly ill at ease; but so far I had not made the impression on him, either mentally or morally, which I desired. 'Who is your Oriental friend?' 'I do not follow you.' 'Are you sure?' 'I am certain. Repeat your question.' 'Who is your Oriental friend?' 'I was not aware that I had one.' 'Do you swear that?' He laughed, a strange laugh. 'Do you seek to catch me tripping? You conduct your case with too much animus. You must allow me to grasp the exact purport of your inquiry before I can undertake to reply to it on oath.' 'Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with you in the East?' 'I am not.' 'That you swear?' 'That I do swear.' 'That is singular.' 'Why is it singular?' 'Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.' 'Haunts me?' 'Haunts you.' 'You jest.' 'You think so?--You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which, yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.' 'You use strong language.--I know what you allude to.' 'Do you mean to say that you don't know that you were indebted for that to your Oriental friend?' 'I don't understand you.' 'Are you sure?' 'Certainly I am sure.--It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture found its way into your room?' 'It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.' The words were chance ones,--but they struck a mark. 'The Lord--' He faltered,--and stopped. He showed signs of discomposure. 'I will be frank with you,--since frankness is what you ask.' His smile, that time, was obviously forced. 'Recently I have been the victim of delusions;' there was a pause before the word, 'of a singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their source?' I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach the other side of Mr Lessingham,--the side which he kept hidden from the world. 'Who is this--individual whom you speak of as my--Oriental friend?' 'Being your friend, you should know better than I do.' 'What sort of man is he to look at?' 'I did not say it was a man.' 'But I presume it is a man.' 'I did not say so.' He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,--and he looked at me with eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity which well became him. 'Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as clean a man as you are.' 'But you're haunted.' 'Haunted?' He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. 'Yes, God knows it's true,--I'm haunted.' 'So either you're mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you've done something which places you outside the tolerably generous boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to marry. You're on the horns of a dilemma.' 'I--I'm the victim of a delusion.' 'What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of a--beetle?' 'Atherton!' Without the slightest warning, he collapsed,--was transformed; I can describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he gibbered,--like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of him set every nerve of my body on edge. 'In Heaven's name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark, staring mad? Here,--drink this!' Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips, he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile which was positively ghastly. 'It's--it's a delusion.' 'It's a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.' I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous efforts to regain his self-control,--all the while with that horrible smile about his lips. 'Atherton, you--you take me at an advantage.' I was still. 'Who--who's your Oriental friend?' 'My Oriental friend?--you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the individual in question was a man; but it appears that she's a woman.' 'A woman?--Oh.--How do you mean?' 'Well, the face is a man's--of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of which the powers forbid that there are many!--and the voice is a man's,--also of a kind!--but the body, as, last night, I chanced to discover, is a woman's.' 'That sounds very odd.' He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks were clammy. 'Do you--do you believe in witchcraft?' 'That depends.' 'Have you heard of Obi?' 'I have.' 'I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which compels a person to see whatever he--the Obeah man--may please. Do you think that's possible?' 'It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either yes or no.' He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was making conversation,--saying anything for the sake of gaining time. 'I remember reading a book entitled "Obscure Diseases of the Brain." It contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.' 'Possibly.' 'Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of a mental pathologist?' 'I don't think that you're insane, if that's what you mean.' 'No?--That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be dreaded.--Well, Atherton, I'm keeping you. The truth is that, insane or not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.' He moved towards his hat and umbrella. 'There is something else which you must do.' 'What is that?' 'You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon's hand. 'My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign everything,--everything!' He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was pathetic. 'Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with her before to-night.' His back was towards me. 'There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most unfortunate of men.' 'I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent girl.' He turned. 'Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie Lindon?' 'She regards me as a brother.' 'And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her purely fraternal?' 'You know that I love her.' 'And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?' 'I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your desire too.' 'That is so.' He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face of which I had not thought it capable. 'That is so to an extent of which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, especially by one whom he regards--may I say it?--as a possible rival. But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my life is likely to continue, I would not wish,--God forbid that I should wish to join her fate with mine,--not for all that the world could offer me.' He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued. 'When I was younger I was subject to a--similar delusion. But it vanished,--I saw no trace of it for years,--I thought that I had done with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,--as you have witnessed. I shall institute inquiries into the cause of its reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my pretensions to Miss Linden's hand, but to all my other ambitions. In the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself on the footing of a mere acquaintance.' 'You promise me?' 'I do.--And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few things more disagreeable to one's self-esteem than to learn, too late, that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean if I have to turn my back on it,--owing to a mischievous twist of fortune's wheel.' He turned, is if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude of listening. 'What's that?' There was a sound of droning,--I recalled what Marjorie had said of her experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle. The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began to change,--it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him. 'Lessingham!--don't be a fool!--play the man!' He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were being compressed in a vice. 'Then--I shall have to have some more brandy.' Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him the decanter and the glass. He helped himself to a copious libation. By the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put down the empty tumbler. 'When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,--but then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation of a tete-a-tete with the devil.' Again he turned to leave the room,--and this time he actually went. I let him go alone. I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and--I wondered. I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked it up. It was a picture of a beetle,--a facsimile of the one which had had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before. 'If this was intended for St Paul, it's a trifle late;--unless--' I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;--in which expectation I was agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were red as roses. 'I hope I am not interrupting you again, but--I left my purse here.' She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, 'And--I want you to come and lunch with me.' I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,--and I lunched with Dora Grayling. BOOK III The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale CHAPTER XXIII THE WAY HE TOLD HER I am the happiest woman in the world! I wonder how many women have said that of themselves in their time,--but I am. Paul has told me that he loves me. How long I have made inward confession of my love for him, I should be ashamed to say. It sounds prosaic, but I believe it is a fact that the first stirring of my pulses was caused by the report of a speech of his which I read in the Times. It was on the Eight Hours' Bill. Papa was most unflattering. He said that he was an oily spouter, an ignorant agitator, an irresponsible firebrand, and a good deal more to the same effect. I remember very well how papa fidgeted with the paper, declaring that it read even worse than it had sounded, and goodness knew that it had sounded bad enough. He was so very emphatic that when he had gone I thought I would see what all the pother was about, and read the speech for myself. So I read it. It affected me quite differently. The speaker's words showed such knowledge, charity, and sympathy that they went straight to my heart. After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham's which I came across. And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time before we met. Considering what papa's opinions were, it was not likely that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the mere mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful. When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was. We did not plan our meetings,--at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not meet,--sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those constant encounters could not have all been chance ones. But I never supposed he loved me,--never. I am not even sure that, for some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship, both of us.--I was quite aware that I was his friend,--that he regarded me as his friend; he told me so more than once. 'I tell you this,' he would say, referring to this, that, or the other, 'because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.' With him those were not empty words. All kinds of people talk to one like that,--especially men; it is a kind of formula which they use with every woman who shows herself disposed to listen. But Paul is not like that. He is chary of speech; not by any means a woman's man. I tell him that is his weakest point. If legend does not lie more even than is common, few politicians have achieved prosperity without the aid of women. He replies that he is not a politician; that he never means to be a politician. He simply wishes to work for his country; if his country does not need his services--well, let it be. Papa's political friends have always so many axes of their own to grind, that, at first, to hear a member of Parliament talk like that was almost disquieting. I had dreamed of men like that; but I never encountered one till I met Paul Lessingham. Our friendship was a pleasant one. It became pleasanter and pleasanter. Until there came a time when he told me everything; the dreams he dreamed; the plans which he had planned; the great purposes which, if health and strength were given him, he intended to carry to a great fulfilment. And, at last, he told me something else. It was after a meeting at a Working Women's Club in Westminster. He had spoken, and I had spoken too. I don't know what papa would have said, if he had known, but I had. A formal resolution had been proposed, and I had seconded it,--in perhaps a couple of hundred words; but that would have been quite enough for papa to have regarded me as an Abandoned Wretch,--papa always puts those sort of words into capitals. Papa regards a speechifying woman as a thing of horror,--I have known him look askance at a Primrose Dame. The night was fine. Paul proposed that I should walk with him down the Westminster Bridge Road, until we reached the House, and then he would see me into a cab. I did as he suggested. It was still early, not yet ten, and the streets were alive with people. Our conversation, as we went, was entirely political. The Agricultural Amendment Act was then before the Commons, and Paul felt very strongly that it was one of those measures which give with one hand, while taking with the other. The committee stage was at hand, and already several amendments were threatened, the effect of which would be to strengthen the landlord at the expense of the tenant. More than one of these, and they not the most moderate, were to be proposed by papa. Paul was pointing out how it would be his duty to oppose these tooth and nail, when, all at once, he stopped. 'I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter.' 'What matter?' 'On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon regards my action as a personal question, and resents it so keenly, that I am sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion of his resentment is not shared by you.' 'I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and papa the father as quite another.' 'You are his daughter.' 'Certainly I am;--but would you, on that account, wish me to share his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?' 'You love him.' 'Of course I do,--he is the best of fathers.' 'Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.' I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa was one which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to taboo. 'I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has no politics.' 'Miss Lindon!--I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.' 'I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within three weeks his wife's politics would be his own.' Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled. 'I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their wives,--even their political ones.' 'Papa's opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is because he fears that if he associated with anybody else--with Radicals, say,--before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. With him, association is synonymus with logic.' Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge. Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred to what I had just been saying. 'And you,--do you think marriage would colour your convictions?' 'Would it yours?' 'That depends.' He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, 'It depends on whether you would marry me.' I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation. 'Well?' 'I found my voice,--or a part of it. 'Well?--to what?' He came a little closer. 'Will you be my wife?' The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came into my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so absurd. Just then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling waters were tipped with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my ears. 'You know that I love you.' Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a feeling of friendship was something very different. It was as if somebody, in tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my silence. 'Have I offended you?' 'No.' I fancy that he noted the tremor which was in my voice, and read it rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along the parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight. And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they were hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some time in saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart was too full for copious speech; I was dumb with a great happiness. And, I believe, I can say the same of Paul. He told me as much when we were parting. It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started. Turning, he stared up at Big Ben. 'Midnight!--The House up!--Impossible!' But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been on the Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never had I supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely unnoticed. Paul was considerably taken aback. His legislative conscience pricked him. He excused himself--in his own fashion. 'Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not so important as my business out of it.' He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face. 'So you call this business!' He laughed. He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in the cab he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that night. My nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when he kissed me, I did a thing which I never do,--I have my own standard of behaviour, and that sort of thing is quite outside of it; I behaved like a sentimental chit. I cried. And it took him all the way to my father's door to comfort me. I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion, he consented to excuse me. CHAPTER XXIV A WOMAN'S VIEW Sydney Atherton has asked me to be his wife. It is not only annoying; worse, it is absurd. This is the result of Paul's wish that our engagement should not be announced. He is afraid of papa;--not really, but for the moment. The atmosphere of the House is charged with electricity. Party feeling runs high. They are at each other, hammer and tongs, about this Agricultural Amendment Act. The strain on Paul is tremendous. I am beginning to feel positively concerned. Little things which I have noticed about him lately convince me that he is being overwrought. I suspect him of having sleepless nights. The amount of work which he has been getting through lately has been too much for any single human being, I care not who he is. He himself admits that he shall be glad when the session is at an end. So shall I. In the meantime, it is his desire that nothing shall be said about our engagement until the House rises. It is reasonable enough. Papa is sure to be violent,--lately, the barest allusion to Paul's name has been enough to make him explode. When the discovery does come, he will be unmanageable,--I foresee it clearly. From little incidents which have happened recently I predict the worst. He will be capable of making a scene within the precincts of the House. And, as Paul says, there is some truth in the saying that the last straw breaks the camel's back. He will be better able to face papa's wild wrath when the House has risen. So the news is to bide a wee. Of course Paul is right. And what he wishes I wish too. Still, it is not all such plain sailing for me as he perhaps thinks. The domestic atmosphere is almost as electrical as that in the House. Papa is like the terrier who scents a rat,--he is always sniffing the air. He has not actually forbidden me to speak to Paul,--his courage is not quite at the sticking point; but he is constantly making uncomfortable allusions to persons who number among their acquaintance 'political adventurers,' 'grasping carpet-baggers,' 'Radical riff-raff,' and that kind of thing. Sometimes I venture to call my soul my own; but such a tempest invariably follows that I become discreet again as soon as I possibly can. So, as a rule, I suffer in silence. Still, I would with all my heart that the concealment were at an end. No one need imagine that I am ashamed of being about to marry Paul,--papa least of all. On the contrary, I am as proud of it as a woman can be. Sometimes, when he has said or done something unusually wonderful, I fear that my pride will out,--I do feel it so strong within me. I should be delighted to have a trial of strength with papa; anywhere, at any time,--I should not be so rude to him as he would be to me. At the bottom of his heart papa knows that I am the more sensible of the two; after a pitched battle or so he would understand it better still. I know papa! I have not been his daughter for all these years in vain. I feel like hot-blooded soldiers must feel, who, burning to attack the enemy in the open field, are ordered to skulk behind hedges, and be shot at. One result is that Sydney has actually made a proposal of marriage,--he of all people! It is too comical. The best of it was that he took himself quite seriously. I do not know how many times he has confided to me the sufferings which he has endured for love of other women--some of them, I am sorry to say, decent married women too; but this is the first occasion on which the theme has been a personal one. He was so frantic, as he is wont to be, that, to calm him, I told him about Paul,--which, under the circumstances, to him I felt myself at liberty to do. In return, he was melodramatic; hinting darkly at I know not what, I was almost cross with him. He is a curious person, Sydney Atherton. I suppose it is because I have known him all my life, and have always looked upon him, in cases of necessity, as a capital substitute for a brother, that I criticise him with so much frankness. In some respects, he is a genius; in others--I will not write fool, for that he never is, though he has often done some extremely foolish things. The fame of his inventions is in the mouths of all men; though the half of them has never been told. He is the most extraordinary mixture. The things which most people would like to have proclaimed in the street, he keeps tightly locked in his own bosom; while those which the same persons would be only too glad to conceal, he shouts from the roofs. A very famous man once told me that if Mr Atherton chose to become a specialist, to take up one branch of inquiry, and devote his life to it, his fame, before he died, would bridge the spheres. But sticking to one thing is not in Sydney's line at all. He prefers, like the bee, to roam from flower to flower. As for his being in love with me, it is ridiculous. He is as much in love with the moon. I cannot think what has put the idea into his head. Some girl must have been ill-using him, or he imagines that she has. The girl whom he ought to marry, and whom he ultimately will marry, is Dora Grayling. She is young, charming, immensely rich, and over head and ears in love with him;--if she were not, then he would be over head and ears in love with her. I believe he is very near it as it is,--sometimes he is so very rude to her. It is a characteristic of Sydney's, that he is apt to be rude to a girl whom he really likes. As for Dora, I suspect she dreams of him. He is tall, straight, very handsome, with a big moustache, and the most extraordinary eyes;--I fancy that those eyes of his have as much to do with Dora's state as anything. I have heard it said that he possesses the hypnotic power to an unusual degree, and that, if he chose to exercise it, he might become a danger to society. I believe he has hypnotised Dora. He makes an excellent brother. I have gone to him, many and many a time, for help,--and some excellent advice I have received. I daresay I shall consult him still. There are matters of which one would hardly dare to talk to Paul. In all things he is the great man. He could hardly condescend to chiffons. Now Sydney can and does. When he is in the mood, on the vital subject of trimmings a woman could not appeal to a sounder authority. I tell him, if he had been a dressmaker, he would have been magnificent. I am sure he would. CHAPTER XXV THE MAN IN THE STREET This morning I had an adventure. I was in the breakfast-room. Papa, as usual, was late for breakfast, and I was wondering whether I should begin without him, when, chancing to look round, something caught my eye in the street. I went to the window to see what it was. A small crowd of people was in the middle of the road, and they were all staring at something which, apparently, was lying on the ground. What it was I could not see. The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him. 'Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.' He went and saw; and, presently, he returned. Peter is an excellent servant; but the fashion of his speech, even when conveying the most trivial information, is slightly sesquipedalian. He would have made a capital cabinet minister at question time,--he wraps up the smallest petitions of meaning in the largest possible words. 'An unfortunate individual appears to have been the victim of a catastrophe. I am informed that he is dead. The constable asserts that he is drunk.' 'Drunk?--dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?--at this hour!' 'He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual myself. I derived my information from a bystander.' That was not sufficiently explicit for me. I gave way to a, seemingly, quite causeless impulse of curiosity, I went out into the street, just as I was, to see for myself. It was, perhaps, not the most sensible thing I could have done, and papa would have been shocked; but I am always shocking papa. It had been raining in the night, and the shoes which I had on were not so well suited as they might have been for an encounter with the mud. I made my way to the point of interest. 'What's the matter?' I asked. A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me. 'There's something wrong with someone. Policeman says he's drunk, but he looks to me as if he was something worse.' 'Will you let me pass, please?' When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of the crowd. A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on. A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming. He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child. 'Come, my lad, this won't do!--Wake up!--What's the matter?' But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless. Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness. 'There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought to be had at once.' 'Do you think he's in a fit, miss?' 'That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he was--' The word 'dead' was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved me from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his wrist away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his hands in front of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud, but painfully raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a very bad cold, 'Paul Lessingham!' I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear Paul--my Paul!--apostrophised by an individual of his appearance, in that fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly the words were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward, and seemingly relapsed into unconsciousness,--the constable gripping him by the shoulder just in time to prevent him banging the back of his head against the road. The officer shook him,--scarcely gently. 'Now, my lad, it's plain that you're not dead!--What's the meaning of this?--Move yourself!' Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he had been struck by the singularity of his mistress' behaviour, and had followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it deserved. I spoke to him. 'Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!' Dr Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident that the man's lapse into consciousness had made the policeman sceptical as to his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought it might be advisable that a competent opinion should be obtained without delay. Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to consciousness,--that is, if it really was consciousness, as to which I was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous pantomime; sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his eyes unnaturally wide,--and yet they appeared unseeing!--a sort of convulsion went all over him, and he shrieked--it really amounted to shrieking--as a man might shriek who was in mortal terror. 'Be warned, Paul Lessingham--be warned!' For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which needed to be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul's name,--and in the strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and the wherefore; to ascertain what connection there was between this lifeless creature and Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast him there before my door. I might be entertaining an angel unawares. My mind was made up on the instant. 'Peter, hasten for Dr Cotes.' Peter passed the word, and immediately a footman started running as fast as his legs would carry him. 'Officer, I will have this man taken into my father's house.--Will some of you men help to carry him?' There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in the hall. 'Is papa down yet?' 'Mr Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for him for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his breakfast conveyed to him upstairs.' 'That's all right.' I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being carried through the hall. 'You will say nothing to him about this unless he particularly asks. You understand?' Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries, and it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa. The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger. 'Wants washing,' he remarked, directly he saw him. And that certainly was true,--I never saw a man who stood more obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he went through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while. So far as I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life. 'Is he dead?' 'He will be soon, if he doesn't have something to eat. The fellow's starving.' The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him. That sagacious officer's reply was vague. A boy had run up to him crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he knew. 'What is the matter with the man?' I inquired of the doctor, when the constable had gone. 'Don't know.--It may be catalepsy, and it mayn't.--When I do know, you may ask again.' Dr Cotes' manner was a trifle brusque,--particularly, I believe, to me. I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I was a small child I used to think nothing of boxing his. Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless man--particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul--I went upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he was suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a capital breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,--while I was still fasting--I ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared. I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the street,--lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like that, the slightest thing does. CHAPTER XXVI A FATHER'S NO Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney. Sydney's little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me,--as if, since last night, when he what he calls 'proposed' to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind,--for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair's breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight,--which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years,--though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man,--and he, I believe, does care for me. Papa's affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,--and this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was expected to speak to-night,--as if I did not know it!--and availed himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case, he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don't know--or, rather, I do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually employs. However, I said nothing. I had a motive for allowing the chaff to fly before the wind. But, to-night, issue was joined. I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,--as I have done over and over again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in the lobby, there was Sydney,--all sneers! I could have pinched him. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I should have to stick a pin into his arm, Paul returned,--and, positively, Sydney was rude to him. I was ashamed, if Mr Atherton was not. As if it was not enough that he should be insulted by a mere popinjay, at the very moment when he had been adding another stone to the fabric of his country's glory,--papa came up. He actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I should have liked to see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to the carriage, leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not choose,--but, none the less, he managed to be home within three minutes after I had myself returned. Then the battle began. It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There may be men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if there are, papa is certainly not one. He is always talking about the magnificence, and the high breeding of the Lindons, but anything less high-bred than the head of the Lindons, in his moments of wrath, it would be hard to conceive. His language I will not attempt to portray,--but his observations consisted, mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the Lindons, and orders to me. 'I forbid you--I forbid you--' when papa wishes to be impressive he repeats his own words three or four times over; I don't know if he imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he is wrong--'I forbid you ever again to speak to that--that--that--' Here followed language. I was silent. My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception, perhaps, of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa should so forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am. 'Do you hear me?--do you hear what I say?--do you hear me, miss?' 'Yes, papa; I hear you.' 'Then--then--then promise me!--promise that you will do as I tell you!--mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave this room!' 'My dear papa!--do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life in the drawing-room?' 'Don't you be impertinent!--do-do-don't you speak to me like that!--I--I--I won't have it!' 'I tell you what it is, papa, if you don't take care you'll have another attack of gout.' 'Damn gout.' That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as gout can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance of a word, by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went again. 'The man's a ruffianly, rascally,--' and so on. 'There's not such a villainous vagabond--' and all the rest of it. 'And I order you,--I'm a Lindon, and I order you! I'm your father, and I order you!--I order you never to speak to such a--such a'--various vain repetitions--'again, and--and--and I order you never to look at him!' 'Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord Cantilever again,--or to recognise him if you meet him in the street.' 'You should have seen how papa glared. Lord Cantilever is the head of his party. Its august, and, I presume, reverenced leader. He is papa's particular fetish. I am not sure that he does regard him as being any lower than the angels, but if he does it is certainly something in decimals. My suggestion seemed as outrageous to him as his suggestion seemed to me. But it is papa's misfortune that he can only see one side of a question,--and that's his own.' 'You--you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to--to that--that--that--!' 'I am not comparing them. I am not aware of there being anything in particular against Lord Cantilever,--that is against his character. But, of course, I should not dream of comparing a man of his calibre, with one of real ability, like Paul Lessingham. It would be to treat his lordship with too much severity.' I could not help it,--but that did it. The rest of papa's conversation was a jumble of explosions. It was all so sad. Papa poured all the vials of his wrath upon Paul,--to his own sore disfigurement. He threatened me with all the pains and penalties of the inquisition if I did not immediately promise to hold no further communication with Mr Lessingham,--of course I did nothing of the kind. He cursed me, in default, by bell, book, and candle,--and by ever so many other things beside. He called me the most dreadful names,--me! his only child. He warned me that I should find myself in prison before I had done,--I am not sure that he did not hint darkly at the gallows. Finally, he drove me from the room in a whirlwind of anathemas. CHAPTER XXVII THE TERROR BY NIGHT When I left papa,--or, rather, when papa had driven me from him--I went straight to the man whom I had found in the street. It was late, and I was feeling both tired and worried, so that I only thought of seeing for myself how he was. In some way, he seemed to be a link between Paul and myself, and as, at that moment, links of that kind were precious, I could not have gone to bed without learning something of his condition. The nurse received me at the door. 'Well, nurse, how's the patient?' Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one odd protege of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck and call. She held out her hands. 'It's hard to tell. He hasn't moved since I came.' 'Not moved?--Is he still insensible?' 'He seems to me to be in some sort of trance. He does not appear to breathe, and I can detect no pulsation, but the doctor says he's still alive,--it's the queerest case I ever saw.' I went farther into the room. Directly I did so the man in the bed gave signs of life which were sufficiently unmistakable. Nurse hastened to him. 'Why,' she exclaimed, 'he's moving!--he might have heard you enter!' He not only might have done, but it seemed possible that that was what he actually had done. As I approached the bed, he raised himself to a sitting posture, as, in the morning, he had done in the street, and he exclaimed, as if he addressed himself to someone whom he saw in front of him,--I cannot describe the almost more than human agony which was in his voice, 'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!' What he meant I had not the slightest notion. Probably that was why what seemed more like a pronouncement of delirium than anything else had such an extraordinary effect upon my nerves. No sooner had he spoken than a sort of blank horror seemed to settle down upon my mind. I actually found myself trembling at the knees. I felt, all at once, as if I was standing in the immediate presence of something awful yet unseen. As for the speaker, no sooner were the words out of his lips, than, as was the case in the morning, he relapsed into a condition of trance. Nurse, bending over him, announced the fact. 'He's gone off again!--What an extraordinary thing!--I suppose it is real.' It was clear, from the tone of her voice, that she shared the doubt which had troubled the policeman, 'There's not a trace of a pulse. From the look of things he might be dead. Of one thing I'm sure, that there's something unnatural about the man. No natural illness I ever heard of, takes hold of a man like this.' Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face; an appearance which startled her. 'Why, Miss Marjorie, what's the matter!--You look quite ill!' I felt ill, and worse than ill; but, at the same time, I was quite incapable of describing what I felt to nurse. For some inscrutable reason I had even lost the control of my tongue,--I stammered. 'I--I--I'm not feeling very well, nurse; I--I--I think I'll be better in bed.' As I spoke, I staggered towards the door, conscious, all the while, that nurse was staring at me with eyes wide open, When I got out of the room, it seemed, in some incomprehensible fashion, as if something had left it with me, and that It and I were alone together in the corridor. So overcome was I by the consciousness of its immediate propinquity, that, all at once, I found myself cowering against the wall,--as if I expected something or someone to strike me. How I reached my bedroom I do not know. I found Fanchette awaiting me. For the moment her presence was a positive comfort,--until I realised the amazement with which she was regarding me. 'Mademoiselle is not well?' 'Thank you, Fanchette, I--I am rather tired. I will undress myself to-night--you can go to bed.' 'But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?' The suggestion was reasonable enough,--and kindly too; for, to say the least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had. I hesitated. I should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg her not to leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed. In my inner consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid's eyes. While I hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to brush against my cheek in passing. I caught at Fanchette's arm. 'Fanchette!--Is there something with us in the room?' 'Something with us in the room?--Mademoiselle?--What does mademoiselle mean?' She looked disturbed,--which was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off. 'Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?--you are to go to bed.' She went to bed,--with quite sufficient willingness. The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the floor. I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of 'nerves.' I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning came. 'If you don't want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will fly.' But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became convinced,--and the process of conviction was terrible beyond words!--that there actually was something with me in the room, some invisible horror,--which, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed to understand--with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!--that this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment, that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands, and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy. 'Paul! Paul!' I screamed. As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced to remove a particle of dress. 'Am I going mad?' I wondered. I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. Surely that sort of thing does not come on one--in such a wholly unmitigated form!--without the slightest notice,--and that my mental faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street. 'Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!' The words were ringing in my ears.--What was that?--. There was a buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round on my heels. It still eluded me,--it was still behind. I stood and listened,--what was it that hovered so persistently at my back? The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee. Or--could it be a beetle? My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles,--of any sort or kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls, nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My pet--and only--horror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great, winged beetle--to me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!--was with me in my bedroom,--goodness alone knew how it had got there!--was unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitant,--but in vain. I could hear it all the time; but see it--never! The buzzing sound was continually behind. The terror returned,--I began to think that my brain must be softening. I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But I was speechless,--words would not come; my thoughts would not take shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of God, that I was wrestling with something evil,--that if I only could ask kelp of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was helpless,--overmastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time. I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting nothing,--the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, I was not aiming. I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn for the first time that night; I had had it specially made for the occasion of the Duchess' ball, and--more especially--in honour of Paul's great speech. I had said to myself, when I saw my image in a mirror, that it was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that it suited me to perfection, and that it should continue in my wardrobe for many a day, if only as a souvenir of a memorable night. Now, in the madness of my terror, all reflections of that sort were forgotten. My only desire was to away with it. I tore it off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the floor at my feet. All else that I had on I flung in the same way after it; it was a veritable holocaust of dainty garments,--I acting as relentless executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things. I leaped upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed, burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets. I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my senses. That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane reflection. But I had made a grievous error. I had exchanged bad for worse. The darkness lent added terrors. The light had not been out five seconds before I would have given all that I was worth to be able to switch it on again. As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound above my head,--the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it more audible than it had been before. The thing, whatever it was, was hovering above the bed. It came nearer and nearer; it grew clearer and clearer. I felt it alight upon the coverlet;--shall I ever forget the sensations with which I did feel it? It weighed upon me like a ton of lead. How much of the seeming weight was real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend to say; but that it was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen or heard of, I am sure. For a time it was still,--and during that time I doubt if I even drew my breath. Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion, with awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if for rest. I was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet surely, towards the head of the bed. The emotion of horror with which I realised what this progression might mean, will be, I fear, with me to the end of my life,--not only in dreams, but too often, also, in my waking hours. My heart, as the Psalmist has it, melted like wax within me, I was incapable of movement,--dominated by something as hideous as, and infinitely more powerful than, the fascination of the serpent. When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared--with what a fear!--would happen, did happen. It began to find its way inside,--to creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die! I felt it coming nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon me, that escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair. And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my life I swooned. CHAPTER XXVIII THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET I have been anticipating for some weeks past, that things would become exciting,--and they have. But hardly in the way which I foresaw. It is the old story of the unexpected happening. Suddenly events of the most extraordinary nature have come crowding on me from the most unlooked-for quarters. Let me try to take them in something like their proper order. To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of his character. It was nearly nine o'clock this morning when I,--I cannot say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really been asleep--but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself sitting up in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had actually happened to me I did not know,--could not guess. I was conscious of an overwhelming sense of nausea, and, generally, I was feeling very far from well. I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts, and to decide upon some plan of action. Finally, I decided to go for advice and help where I had so often gone before,--to Sydney Atherton. I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he could not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night had made on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of sympathy,--and then all at once I discovered that all the time papa had been concealed behind a large screen which was in the room, listening to every word I had been uttering. That I was dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was bad enough in papa, but in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such treachery. He and I have told each other secrets all our lives; it has never entered my imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false, in one jot or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort of matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so much keener than women's. I told them some plain truths; and I fancy that I left them both feeling heartily ashamed of themselves. One result the experience had on me,--it wound me up. It had on me the revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was a situation in which I should have to help myself. When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in the street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever likely to be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the connection which existed between Paul and him, and what was the meaning of his oracular apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my hat before hastening into his apartment. When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his gratitude were painful in their intensity. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked to me like a man who had very little life left in him. He looked weak, and white, and worn to a shadow. Probably he never had been robust, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what little strength he had ever had. He was nothing else but skin and bone. Physical and mental debility was written large all over him. He was not bad-looking,--in a milk and watery sort of way. He had pale blue eyes and very fair hair, and, I daresay, at one time, had been a spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages so rapidly under the stress of misfortune, but I should have set him down as being about forty. His voice, though faint enough at first, was that of an educated man, and as he went on, and gathered courage, and became more and more in earnest, he spoke with a simple directness which was close akin to eloquence. It was a curious story which he had to tell. So curious, so astounding indeed, that, by the time it was finished, I was in such a state of mind, that I could perceive no alternative but to forgive Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous misbehaviour, again appeal to him for assistance. It seemed, if the story told by the man whom I had found in the street was true,--and incredible though it sounded, he spoke like a truthful man!--that Paul was threatened by some dreadful, and, to me, wholly incomprehensible danger; that it was a case in which even moments were precious; and I felt that, with the best will in the world, it was a position in which I could not move alone. The shadow of the terror of the night was with me still, and with that fresh in my recollection how could I hope, single-handed, to act effectually against the mysterious being of whom this amazing tale was told? No! I believed that Sydney did care for me, in his own peculiar way; I knew that he was quick, and cool, and fertile in resource, and that he showed to most advantage in a difficult situation; it was possible that he had a conscience, of a sort, and that, this time, I might not appeal to it in vain. So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter. As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming down the steps. I had him shown into my own room. 'I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to what he has to say.' 'With pleasure.' 'Can I trust you?' 'To listen to what he has to say?--I believe so.' 'Can I trust you to respect my confidence?' He was not at all abashed,--I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled. 'You can,--I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.' 'In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.' Directly we were in the stranger's room, Sydney marched straight up to the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed. 'So!' he exclaimed. 'It's you!' 'Do you know this man?' I asked. 'I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers me.--Do you?' The stranger seemed uneasy,--as if he found Sidney's tone and manner disconcerting. 'I do. You are the man in the street.' 'Precisely. I am that--individual. And you are the man who came through the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be than when first I saw you.' Sydney turned to me. 'It is just possible, Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman which would be better made in private,--if you don't mind.' 'But I do mind,--I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you here for?' Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,--as if the occasion were not sufficiently serious. 'To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your confidence.' 'Don't talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story, and I have sent for you--as you may believe, not too willingly'--Sydney bowed--'in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.' 'Is that so?--Well!-Permit me to offer you a chair,--this tale may turn out to be a trifle long.' To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have preferred to stand;--he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his. 'Well, sir, we are at your service,--if you will be so good as to favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn you have been spinning. But--let us begin at the right end!--what's your name?' 'My name is Robert Holt.' 'That so?--Then, Mr Robert Holt,--let her go!' Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney's glances exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the point,--he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable to the last. He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been refused admittance to the casual ward,--that unfailing resource, as one would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham,--my Paul! How he had taken advantage of Holt's enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven streets, to commit burglary at Paul's house,--and how he,--Holt,--had actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition. How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape without an effort to detain him. The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed still more astonishing the second,--but, as I watched Sydney listening, what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished. 'This is not the first time you have been told this tale.' 'Pardon me,--but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy tales?' Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me. 'Sydney!--Don't tell me a story!--Paul has told you!' 'I am not telling you a story,--at least, on this occasion; and Mr Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a question or two to Mr Holt.' I let him have his way,--though I knew he was concealing something from me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt's strange tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence annoyed me. He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two. Then he said, with the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his own, 'I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little yarn of yours.' 'I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.' This seemed to take Sydney aback. 'I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.--I take it that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this mysterious dwelling.' I saw that Mr Holt shuddered. 'I am not likely ever to forget him.' 'Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.' 'To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.' If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr Holt's somewhat lurid language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said. 'You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?' 'No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.' There was a note in Sydney's voice which suggested that he had received precisely the answer which he had expected. 'Did you think it was a woman?' 'I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.' He paused, as if to reflect. Then added, 'I suppose it was a question of instinct.' 'I see.--Just so.--It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong on questions of instinct.' Sydney got off the bed. He stretched himself, as if fatigued,--which is a way he has. 'I will not do you the injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and simple, narrative. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the delightful residence on which the whole is founded.' Mr Holt coloured,--Sydney's tone could scarcely have been more significant. 'You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to pay much attention to locality.' 'All of which is granted, but--how far was it from Hammersmith Workhouse?' 'Possibly under half a mile.' 'Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,--I suppose there are not many turnings you could have taken.' 'I think I could remember.' 'Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn't a very far cry to Hammersmith,--don't you think you are well enough to drive there now, just you and I together in a cab?' 'I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the doctor's orders I have stayed in bed.' 'Then, for once in a while, the doctor's orders shall be ignored,--I prescribe fresh air.' Sydney turned to me. 'Since Mr Holt's wardrobe seems rather to seek, don't you think a suit of one of the men might fit him,--if Mr Holt wouldn't mind making shift for the moment?--Then, by the time you've finished dressing, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.' While they were ascertaining which suit of clothes would be best adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended to be trifled with. 'Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.' He pretended not to know what I meant. 'Coming with me?--I am delighted to hear it,--but where?' 'To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.' 'Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but--might I point out?--Mr Holt has to find it yet?' 'I will come to help you to help him find it.' Sydney laughed,--but I could see he did not altogether relish the suggestion. 'Three in a hansom?' 'There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,--or I could order a carriage if you'd like one.' Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently he began to talk nonsense. 'I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the delights of a drive with you,--even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble servant to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I will describe the proceedings to you with the most literal accuracy.' 'I daresay.--Do you think I don't know you've been deceiving me all the time?' 'Deceiving you?--I!' 'Yes,--you! Do you think I'm quite an idiot?' 'My dear Marjorie!' 'Do you think I can't see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been telling us,--perhaps more about it than he knows himself?' 'On my word!--With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.' 'Yes, I do,--or discredit you, rather. If I were to trust you, you would tell me just as much as you chose,--which would be nothing. I'm coming with you,--so there's an end.' 'Very well.--Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the house?' 'Revolvers?--whatever for?' 'Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal from you--since you press me--that this is a case in which a revolver is quite likely to be required.' 'You are trying to frighten me.' 'I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.' 'Oh, you think that you're bound to point that out, do you,--then now your bounden duty's done. As for there being any revolvers in the house, papa has a perfect arsenal,--would you like to take them all?' 'Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,--unless you would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.' 'I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don't think I'll trouble. I'll run the risk.--Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!' 'It's for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair alone. I don't mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself to be associated.' 'What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything against--Paul?' 'I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,--that if, in spite of my urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed.' 'That is what you do mean, is it? Then that's settled.' I rang the bell. The servant came. 'Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me know the moment Mr Holt is ready.' The servant went. I turned to Sydney. 'If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are, of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will not go, but, if you don't, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.' I moved to the door. He stopped me. 'My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,--or you would hear reason. I assure you that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent peril.' 'What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,--why don't you speak right out?' 'I can't speak right out, there are circumstances which render it practically impossible--and that's the plain truth,--but the danger is none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,--I am in earnest; won't you take my word for it?' 'It is not a question of taking your word only,--it is a question of something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,--and Mr Holt's story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,--something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very well aware, is already over-weighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,--or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul's wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,--alone.' 'Understand that, when the time for regret comes--as it will come!--you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.' 'My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.' 'Very well!--Your blood be on your own head!' 'My blood?' 'Yes,--your blood. I shouldn't be surprised if it comes to blood before we're through.--Perhaps you'll oblige me with the loan of one of that arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.' I let him have his old revolver,--or, rather, I let him have one of papa's new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the expedition started,--in a four-wheeled car. CHAPTER XXIX THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE Mr Holt looked as if he was in somebody else's garments. He was so thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he should eat as much as he could eat before we started--the suggestion of starvation which he had conveyed to one's mind was dreadful!--and I had brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab. It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney's manner towards me an air of protection which I instinctively resented,--he appeared to be regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished. Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were uttered were addressed to Mr Holt. The cab stopped,--after what had appeared to me to be an interminable journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued. 'This is 'Ammersmith Workhouse, it's a large place, sir,--which part of it might you be wanting?' Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his turn,--he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all. 'We have come a different way,--this is not the way I went; I went through Hammersmith,--and to the casual ward; I don't see that here.' Sydney spoke to the cabman. 'Driver, where's the casual ward?' 'That's the other end, sir.' 'Then take us there.' He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt. 'Shall I dismiss the cabman,--or don't you feel equal to walking?' 'Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,--I think the exercise will do me good.' So the cabman was dismissed,--a step which we--and I, in particular--had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings. He pointed to a door which was just in front of us. 'That's the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the right,--back the way I had come.' We went to the right. 'I reached this corner.' We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him, endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of several directions. Presently he arrived at something like a decision. 'I think this is the way I went,--I am nearly sure it is.' He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere. We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us were large spaces of waste land. At some more or less remote period attempts appeared to have been made at brick-making,--there were untidy stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous weather-stained boards announced that 'This Desirable Land was to be Let for Building Purposes.' The road itself was unfinished. There was no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed, so far as I could judge, to lose itself in space, and to be swallowed up by the wilderness of 'Desirable Land' which lay beyond. In the near distance there were houses enough, and to spare--of a kind. But they were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation. One stood on either side, not facing each other,--there was a distance between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly forward,--coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left, which was the nearer of the pair. 'This is the house!' he exclaimed. He seemed almost exhilarated,--I confess that I was depressed. A more dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old. It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two, it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a couple of storeys high, and would have been dear--I should think!--at thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since the house was built,--those on the upper floor seemed all either cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an iron railing,--a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but, since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which was practically built upon the road,--whether the wall was intended to ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear. 'This is the house!' repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him. Sydney looked it up and down,--it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine. 'Are you sure?' 'I am certain.' 'It seems empty.' 'It seemed empty to me that night,--that is why I got into it in search of shelter.' 'Which is the window which served you as a door?' 'This one.' Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,--the one which was screened by a blind. 'There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up,--it was that which caught my eye.' Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to basement,--then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt. 'You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.' 'I am sure it is the house,--certain! I know it,--I feel it here,--and here.' Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes. Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his attention upon me. 'May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?' The mere question ruffled my plumes. 'What do you mean?' 'What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that, when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,--as you have heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should keep your wits about you.' 'I am not likely to let them stray.' 'Then that's all right.--Do I understand that you propose to come in with me?' 'Of course I do,--what do you suppose I've come for? What nonsense you are talking. 'I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the time this little adventure's done.' That I resented his impertinence goes without saying--to be talked to in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying,--but I am forced to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by Mr Holt's manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr Holt's story had been of the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close neighbourhood with the Unknown--with a capital U!--although it was broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which,--candidly!--I was not prepared. A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen,--it was in perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge,--nothing happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr Holt. 'Seems as if the place was empty.' Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,--it made me uncomfortable to look at him. 'You do not know,--you cannot tell; there may be someone there who hears and pays no heed.' 'I'll give them another chance.' Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step. 'I'll try another way,--I may have better fortune at the back.' He led the way round to the rear, Mr Holt and I following in single file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front. There were two empty rooms on the ground floor at the back,--there was no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen and wash-house combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human habitation. Sydney commented on the fact. 'Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments, but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.' To my thinking Mr Holt's agitation was increasing every moment. For some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever,--possibly because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An odd change had even taken place in Mr Holt's voice,--he spoke in a sort of tremulous falsetto. 'It was only the front room which I saw.' 'Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room again.' Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door. He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous shaking. He saluted the dirty windows,--so far as succeeding in attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned again to Mr Holt,--half mockingly. 'I call you to witness that I have used every lawful means to gain the favourable notice of your mysterious friend. I must therefore beg to stand excused if I try something slightly unlawful for a change. It is true that you found the window already open; but, in my case, it soon will be.' He took a knife out of his pocket, and, with the open blade, forced back the catch,--as I am told that burglars do. Then he lifted the sash. 'Behold!' he exclaimed. 'What did I tell you?--Now, my dear Marjorie, if I get in first and Mr Holt gets in after me, we shall be in a position to open the door for you.' I immediately saw through his design. 'No, Mr Atherton; you will get in first, and I will get in after you, through the window,--before Mr Holt. I don't intend to wait for you to open the door.' Sydney raised his hands and opened his eyes, as if grieved at my want of confidence. But I did not mean to be left in the lurch, to wait their pleasure, while on pretence of opening the door, they searched the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second,--it was not a difficult operation, since the window-sill was under three feet from the ground--and Mr Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand up to his mouth, and shouted. 'Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way, as there is someone wishes to see him.' His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was almost uncanny. I suddenly realised that if, after all, there did happen to be somebody in the house, and he was at all disagreeable, our presence on his premises might prove rather difficult to explain. However, no one answered. While I was waiting for Sydney to make the next move, he diverted my attention to Mr Holt. 'Hollo, Holt, what's the matter with you? Man, don't play the fool like that!' Something was the matter with Mr Holt. He was trembling all over as if attacked by a shaking palsy. Every muscle in his body seemed twitching at once. A strained look had come on his face, which was not nice to see. He spoke as with an effort. 'I'm all right.--It's nothing.' 'Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you'll drop it. Where's that brandy?' I handed Sydney the flask. 'Here, swallow this.' Mr Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to understand. 'Listen to me, my lad. Don't think you can deceive me by playing any of your fool tricks, and don't delude yourself into supposing that I shall treat you as anything but dangerous if you do. I've got this.' He showed the revolver of papa's which I had lent him. 'Don't imagine that Miss Lindon's presence will deter me from using it.' Why he addressed Mr Holt in such a strain surpassed my comprehension. Mr Holt, however, evinced not the faintest symptoms of resentment,--he had become, on a sudden, more like an automaton than a man. Sydney continued to gaze at him as if he would have liked his glance to penetrate to his inmost soul. 'Keep in front of me, if you please, Mr Holt, and lead the way to this mysterious apartment in which you claim to have had such a remarkable experience.' Of me he asked in a whisper, 'Did you bring a revolver?' I was startled. 'A revolver?--The idea!--How absurd you are!' Sydney said something which was so rude--and so uncalled for!--that it was worthy of papa in his most violent moments. 'I'd sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.' I was so angry that I did not know what to say,--and before I could say it he went on. 'Keep your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear. Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of your senses as you conveniently can.' I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something, I knew Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in the world to make a fuss without reason,--and that he was as little likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact there was none. Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired--or, rather, commanded, to the door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed. Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again. 'Anyone in there?' he demanded. As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked. 'The first sign of the presence of a human being we have had,--doors don't lock themselves. It's just possible that there may have been someone or something about the place, at some time or other, after all.' Grasping the handle firmly, he shook it with all his might,--as he had done with the door at the back. So flimsily was the place constructed that he made even the walls to tremble. 'Within there!--if anyone is in there!--if you don't open this door, I shall.' There was no response. So be it!--I'm going to pursue my wild career of defiance of established law and order, and gain admission in one way, if I can't in another.' Putting his right shoulder against the door, he pushed with his whole force. Sydney is a big man, and very strong, and the door was weak. Shortly, the lock yielded before the continuous pressure, and the door flew open. Sydney whistled. 'So!--It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours may not have been such pure romance as it seemed.' It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and that recently,--and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was that there was someone, or something, living in it still,--an uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought. 'A pretty perfume, on my word! Let's shed a little more light on the subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I tell you.' I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark. Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped. 'What's that?' 'It's it,' said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it was scarcely recognisable. 'It?--What do you mean by it?' 'The Beetle!' Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state of odd excitement. 'Oh, is it!--Then, if this time I don't find out the how and the why and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I'll give you leave to write me down an ass,--with a great, big A.' He rushed farther into the room,--apparently his efforts to lighten it did not meet with the immediate success which he desired. 'What's the matter with this confounded blind? There's no cord! How do you pull it up?--What the--' In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr Holt, who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his forehead. 'It's coming!' he screamed. Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard, proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly it recalled my experiences of the night before,--as it did so I was conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if he were beside himself with rage. 'If you won't go up, you shall come down.' I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and dragged it down,--it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window, with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa's revolver in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for. 'Marjorie!' he exclaimed. 'Did you hear anything?' 'Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,--which so frightened me.' 'Oh, was it? Then, by--' in his excitement he must have been completely oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, 'when I find it there'll be a small discussion. It can't have got out of the room,--I know the creature's here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush against my face.--Holt, come inside and shut that door.' Mr Holt raised his arms, as if he were exerting himself to make a forward movement,--but he remained rooted to the spot on which he stood. 'I can't!' he cried. 'You can't.'--Why?' 'It won't let me.' 'What won't let you?' 'The Beetle!' Sydney moved till he was close in front of him. He surveyed him with eager eyes. I was just at his back. I heard him murmur,--possibly to me. 'By George!--It's just as I thought!--The beggar's hypnotised!' Then he said aloud, 'Can you see it now?' 'Yes.' 'Where?' 'Behind you.' As Mr Holt spoke, I again heard, quite close to me, that buzzing sound. Sydney seemed to hear it too,--it caused him to swing round so quickly that he all but whirled me off my feet. 'I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an unparalleled experience,--didn't you hear something then?' 'I did,--distinctly; it was close to me,--within an inch or two of my face.' We stared about us, then back at each other,--there was nothing else to be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully. 'It's uncommonly queer. I don't want to suggest that there are visions about, or I might suspect myself of softening of the brain. But--it's queer. There's a trick about it somewhere, I am convinced; and no doubt it's simple enough when you know how it's done,--but the difficulty is to find that out.--Do you think our friend over there is acting?' 'He looks to me as if he were ill.' 'He does look ill. He also looks as if he were hypnotised. If he is, it must be by suggestion,--and that's what makes me doubtful, because it will be the first plainly established case of hypnotism by suggestion I've encountered.--Holt!' 'Yes.' 'That,' said Sydney in my ear, 'is the voice and that is the manner of a hypnotised man, but, on the other hand, a person under influence generally responds only to the hypnotist,--which is another feature about our peculiar friend which arouses my suspicions.' Then, aloud, 'Don't stand there like an idiot,--come inside.' Again Mr Holt made an apparently futile effort to do as he was bid. It was painful to look at him,--he was like a feeble, frightened, tottering child, who would come on, but cannot. 'I can't.' 'No nonsense, my man! Do you think that this is a performance in a booth, and that I am to be taken in by all the humbug of the professional mesmerist? Do as I tell you,--come into the room.' There was a repetition, on Mr Holt's part, of his previous pitiful struggle; this time it was longer sustained than before,--but the result was the same. 'I can't!' he wailed. 'Then I say you can,--and shall! If I pick you up, and carry you, perhaps you will not find yourself so helpless as you wish me to suppose.' Sydney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did so, a strange alteration took place in Mr Holt's demeanour. CHAPTER XXX THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT I was standing in the middle of the room, Sydney was between the door and me; Mr Holt was in the hall, just outside the doorway, in which he, so to speak, was framed. As Sydney advanced towards him he was seized with a kind of convulsion,--he had to lean against the side of the door to save himself from falling. Sydney paused, and watched. The spasm went as suddenly as it came,--Mr Holt became as motionless as he had just now been the other way. He stood in an attitude of febrile expectancy,--his chin raised, his head thrown back, his eyes glancing upwards,--with the dreadful fixed glare which had come into them ever since we had entered the house. He looked to me as if his every faculty was strained in the act of listening,--not a muscle in his body seemed to move; he was as rigid as a figure carved in stone. Presently the rigidity gave place to what, to an onlooker, seemed causeless agitation. 'I hear!' he exclaimed, in the most curious voice I had ever heard. 'I come!' It was as though he was speaking to someone who was far away. Turning, he walked down the passage to the front door. 'Hollo!' cried Sydney. 'Where are you off to?' We both of us hastened to see. He was fumbling with the latch; before we could reach him, the door was open, and he was through it. Sydney, rushing after him, caught him on the step and held him by the arm. 'What's the meaning of this little caper?--Where do you think you're going now?' Mr Holt did not condescend to turn and look at him. He said, in the same dreamy, faraway, unnatural tone of voice,--and he kept his unwavering gaze fixed on what was apparently some distant object which was visible only to himself. 'I am going to him. He calls me.' 'Who calls you?' 'The Lord of the Beetle.' Whether Sydney released his arm or not I cannot say. As he spoke, he seemed to me to slip away from Sydney's grasp. Passing through the gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the direction we had come. Sydney stared after him in unequivocal amazement. Then he looked at me. 'Well!--this is a pretty fix!--now what's to be done?' 'What's the matter with him?' I inquired. 'Is he mad?' 'There's method in his madness if he is. He's in the same condition in which he was that night I saw him come out of the Apostle's window.' Sydney has a horrible habit of calling Paul 'the Apostle'; I have spoken to him about it over and over again,--but my words have not made much impression. 'He ought to be followed,--he may be sailing off to that mysterious friend of his this instant.--But, on the other hand, he mayn't, and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the conjurer's to get us away from this elegant abode of his. He's done me twice already, I don't want to be done again,--and I distinctly do not want him to return and find me missing. He's quite capable of taking the hint, and removing himself into the Ewigkeit,--when the clue to as pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.' 'I can stay,' I said. 'You?--Alone?' He eyed me doubtingly,--evidently not altogether relishing the proposition. 'Why not? You might send the first person you meet,--policeman, cabman, or whoever it is--to keep me company. It seems a pity now that we dismissed that cab.' 'Yes, it does seem a pity.' Sydney was biting his lip. 'Confound that fellow! how fast he moves.' Mr Holt was already nearing the end of the road. 'If you think it necessary, by all means follow to see where he goes,--you are sure to meet somebody whom you will be able to send before you have gone very far.' 'I suppose I shall.--You won't mind being left alone?' 'Why should I?--I'm not a child.' Mr Holt, reaching the corner, turned it, and vanished out of sight. Sydney gave an exclamation of impatience. 'If I don't make haste I shall lose him. I'll do as you suggest--dispatch the first individual I come across to hold watch and ward with you.' 'That'll be all right.' He started off at a run,--shouting to me as he went. 'It won't be five minutes before somebody comes!' I waved my hand to him. I watched him till he reached the end of the road. Turning, he waved his hand to me. Then he vanished, as Mr Holt had done. And I was alone. CHAPTER XXXI THE TERROR BY DAY My first impulse, after Sydney's disappearance, was to laugh. Why should he display anxiety on my behalf merely because I was to be the sole occupant of an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or less,--and in broad daylight too! To say the least, the anxiety seemed unwarranted. I lingered at the gate, for a moment or two, wondering what was at the bottom of Mr Holt's singular proceedings, and what Sydney really proposed to gain by acting as a spy upon his wanderings. Then I turned to re-enter the house. As I did so, another problem suggested itself to my mind,--what connection, of the slightest importance, could a man in Paul Lessingham's position have with the eccentric being who had established himself in such an unsatisfactory dwelling-place? Mr Holt's story I had only dimly understood,--it struck me that it would require a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago of nonsense, an outcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell the truth, Sydney had taken it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to see something in it which I emphatically did not. What was double Dutch to me, seemed clear as print to him. So far as I could judge, he actually had the presumption to imagine that Paul--my Paul!--Paul Lessingham!--the great Paul Lessingham!--was mixed up in the very mysterious adventures of poor, weak-minded, hysterical Mr Holt, in a manner which was hardly to his credit. Of course, any idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash. Exactly what bee Sydney had got in his bonnet, I could not guess. But I did know Paul. Only let me find myself face to face with the fantastic author of Mr Holt's weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single-handed, would do my best to show him that whoever played pranks with Paul Lessingham trifled with edged tools. I had returned to that historical front room which, according to Mr Holt, had been the scene of his most disastrous burglarious entry. Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the resources of modern upholstery. There was not a table in the place,--no chair or couch, nothing to sit down upon except the bed. On the floor there was a marvellous carpet which was apparently of eastern manufacture. It was so thick, and so pliant to the tread, that moving over it was like walking on thousand-year-old turf. It was woven in gorgeous colours, and covered with-- When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was conscious of a disagreeable sense of surprise. It was covered with beetles! All over it, with only a few inches of space between each, were representations of some peculiar kind of beetle,--it was the same beetle, over, and over, and over. The artist had woven his undesirable subject into the warp and woof of the material with such cunning skill that, as one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if by any possibility the creatures could be alive. In spite of the softness of the texture, and the art--of a kind!--which had been displayed in the workmanship, I rapidly arrived at the conclusion that it was the most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I wagged my finger at the repeated portrayals of the--to me!--unspeakable insect. 'If I had discovered that you were there before Sydney went, I think it just possible that I should have hesitated before I let him go.' Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Lindon, to even think such nonsense. Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings,--you who have prided yourself on being so strong-minded! A pretty sort you are to do battle for anyone.--Why, they're only make-believes!' Half involuntarily, I drew my foot over one of the creatures. Of course, it was nothing but imagination; but I seemed to feel it squelch beneath my shoe. It was disgusting. 'Come!' I cried. 'This won't do! As Sydney would phrase it,--am I going to make an idiot of myself?' I turned to the window,--looking at my watch. 'It's more than five minutes ago since Sydney went. That companion of mine ought to be already on the way. I'll go and see if he is coming.' I went to the gate. There was not a soul in sight. It was with such a distinct sense of disappointment that I perceived this was so, that I was in two minds what to do. To remain where I was, looking, with gaping eyes, for the policeman, or the cabman, or whoever it was Sydney was dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount to acknowledging myself a simpleton,--while I was conscious of a most unmistakable reluctance to return within the house. Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and, after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again. This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on the floor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity--and occupy my thoughts--in an examination of the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination, however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,--or if it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was not after the fashion of the Britons. There was no framework,--nothing to represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparently indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of them there seemed to be; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,--and materials too. The top one was of white silk,--in quality, exquisite. It was of huge size, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed it through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted I spread it out in front of me. In the middle was a picture,--whether it was embroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite make out. Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intended to depict,--there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling. By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,--and, when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badly imitated either. Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,--it was a representation of a human sacrifice. In its way, as ghastly a piece of realism as one could see. On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess. Her hands were crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards. I fancied it was meant for Isis. On her brow was perched a gaily-apparelled beetle--that ubiquitous beetle!--forming a bright spot of colour against her coppery skin,--it was an exact reproduction of the creatures which were imaged on the carpet. In front of the idol was an enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames was an altar. On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive. There could be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chains in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom, of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body into shapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she was enduring,--the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers in his efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were tormenting her. 'A pretty picture, on my word! A pleasant taste in art the garnitures of this establishment suggest! The person who likes to live with this kind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his own notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.' As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if the woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous, but she appeared to gather her limbs together, and turn half over. 'What can be the matter with me? Am I going mad? She can't be moving!' If she wasn't, then certainly something was,--she was lifted right into the air. An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rug aside. The mystery was explained! A thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was protruding from amidst the heap of rugs,--it was its action which had caused the seeming movement of the figure on the altar. I stared, confounded. The hand was followed by an arm; the arm by a shoulder; the shoulder by a head,--and the most awful, hideous, wicked-looking face I had ever pictured even in my most dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up at mine. I understood the position in a flash of startled amazement. Sydney, in following Mr Holt, had started on a wild goose chase after all. I was alone with the occupant of that mysterious house,--the chief actor in Mr Holt's astounding tale. He had been hidden in the heap of rugs all the while. BOOK IV In Pursuit The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of the Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent. CHAPTER XXXII A NEW CLIENT On the afternoon of Friday, June 2, 18--, I was entering in my case-book some memoranda having reference to the very curious matter of the Duchess of Datchet's Deed-box. It was about two o'clock. Andrews came in and laid a card upon my desk. On it was inscribed 'Mr Paul Lessingham.' 'Show Mr Lessingham in.' Andrews showed him in. I was, of course, familiar with Mr Lessingham's appearance, but it was the first time I had had with him any personal communication. He held out his hand to me. 'You are Mr Champnell?' 'I am.' 'I believe that I have not had the honour of meeting you before, Mr Champnell, but with your father, the Earl of Glenlivet, I have the pleasure of some acquaintance.' I bowed. He looked at me, fixedly, as if he were trying to make out what sort of man I was. 'You are very young, Mr Champnell.' 'I have been told that an eminent offender in that respect once asserted that youth is not of necessity a crime.' 'And you have chosen a singular profession,--one in which one hardly looks for juvenility.' 'You yourself, Mr Lessingham, are not old. In a statesman one expects grey hairs.--I trust that I am sufficiently ancient to be able to do you service.' He smiled. 'I think it possible. I have heard of you more than once, Mr Champnell, always to your advantage. My friend, Sir John Seymour, was telling me, only the other day, that you have recently conducted for him some business, of a very delicate nature, with much skill and tact; and he warmly advised me, if ever I found myself in a predicament, to come to you. I find myself in a predicament now.' Again I bowed. 'A predicament, I fancy, of an altogether unparalleled sort. I take it that anything I may say to you will be as though it were said to a father confessor.' 'You may rest assured of that.' 'Good.--Then, to make the matter clear to you I must begin by telling you a story,--if I may trespass on your patience to that extent. I will endeavour not to be more verbose than the occasion requires.' I offered him a chair, placing it in such a position that the light from the window would have shone full upon his face. With the calmest possible air, as if unconscious of my design, he carried the chair to the other side of my desk, twisting it right round before he sat on it,--so that now the light was at his back and on my face. Crossing his legs, clasping his hands about his knee, he sat in silence for some moments, as if turning something over in his mind. He glanced round the room. 'I suppose, Mr Champnell, that some singular tales have been told in here.' 'Some very singular tales indeed. I am never appalled by singularity. It is my normal atmosphere.' 'And yet I should be disposed to wager that you have never listened to so strange a story as that which I am about to tell you now. So astonishing, indeed, is the chapter in my life which I am about to open out to you, that I have more than once had to take myself to task, and fit the incidents together with mathematical accuracy in order to assure myself of its perfect truth.' He paused. There was about his demeanour that suggestion of reluctance which I not uncommonly discover in individuals who are about to take the skeletons from their cupboards and parade them before my eyes. His next remark seemed to point to the fact that he perceived what was passing through my thoughts. 'My position is not rendered easier by the circumstance that I am not of a communicative nature. I am not in sympathy with the spirit of the age which craves for personal advertisement. I hold that the private life even of a public man should be held inviolate. I resent, with peculiar bitterness, the attempts of prying eyes to peer into matters which, as it seems to me, concern myself alone. You must, therefore, bear with me, Mr Champnell, if I seem awkward in disclosing to you certain incidents in my career which I had hoped would continue locked in the secret depository of my own bosom, at any rate till I was carried to the grave. I am sure you will suffer me to stand excused if I frankly admit that it is only an irresistible chain of incidents which has constrained me to make of you a confidant.' 'My experience tells me, Mr Lessingham, that no one ever does come to me until they are compelled. In that respect I am regarded as something worse even than a medical man.' A wintry smile flitted across his features,--it was clear that he regarded me as a good deal worse than a medical man. Presently he began to tell me one of the most remarkable tales which even I had heard. As he proceeded I understood how strong, and how natural, had been his desire for reticence. On the mere score of credibility he must have greatly preferred to have kept his own counsel. For my part I own, unreservedly, that I should have deemed the tale incredible had it been told me by Tom, Dick, or Harry, instead of by Paul Lessingham. CHAPTER XXXIII WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE He began in accents which halted not a little. By degrees his voice grew firmer. Words came from him with greater fluency. 'I am not yet forty. So when I tell you that twenty years ago I was a mere youth I am stating what is a sufficiently obvious truth. It is twenty years ago since the events of which I am going to speak transpired. 'I lost both my parents when I was quite a lad, and by their death I was left in a position in which I was, to an unusual extent in one so young, my own master. I was ever of a rambling turn of mind, and when, at the mature age of eighteen, I left school, I decided that I should learn more from travel than from sojourn at a university. So, since there was no one to say me nay, instead of going either to Oxford or Cambridge, I went abroad. After a few months I found myself in Egypt,--I was down with fever at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo. I had caught it by drinking polluted water during an excursion with some Bedouins to Palmyra. 'When the fever had left me I went out one night into the town in search of amusement. I went, unaccompanied, into the native quarter, not a wise thing to do, especially at night, but at eighteen one is not always wise, and I was weary of the monotony of the sick-room, and eager for something which had in it a spice of adventure, I found myself in a street which I have reason to believe is no longer existing. It had a French name, and was called the Rue de Rabagas,--I saw the name on the corner as I turned into it, and it has left an impress on the tablets of my memory which is never likely to be obliterated. 'It was a narrow street, and, of course, a dirty one, ill-lit, and, apparently, at the moment of my appearance, deserted. I had gone, perhaps, half-way down its tortuous length, blundering more than once into the kennel, wondering what fantastic whim had brought me into such unsavoury quarters, and what would happen to me if, as seemed extremely possible, I lost my way. On a sudden my ears were saluted by sounds which proceeded from a house which I was passing,--sounds of music and of singing. 'I paused. I stood awhile to listen. 'There was an open window on my right, which was screened by latticed blinds. From the room which was behind these blinds the sounds were coming. Someone was singing, accompanied by an instrument resembling a guitar,--singing uncommonly well.' Mr Lessingham stopped. A stream of recollection seemed to come flooding over him. A dreamy look came into his eyes. 'I remember it all as clearly as if it were yesterday. How it all comes back,--the dirty street, the evil smells, the imperfect light, the girl's voice filling all at once the air. It was a girl's voice,--full, and round, and sweet; an organ seldom met with, especially in such a place as that. She sang a little chansonnette, which, just then, half Europe was humming,--it occurred in an opera which they were acting at one of the Boulevard theatres,--"La P'tite Voyageuse." The effect, coming so unexpectedly, was startling. I stood and heard her to an end. 'Inspired by I know not what impulse of curiosity, when the song was finished, I moved one of the lattice blinds a little aside, so as to enable me to get a glimpse of the singer. I found myself looking into what seemed to be a sort of cafe,--one of those places which are found all over the Continent, in which women sing in order to attract custom. There was a low platform at one end of the room, and on it were seated three women. One of them had evidently just been accompanying her own song,--she still had an instrument of music in her hands, and was striking a few idle notes. The other two had been acting as audience. They were attired in the fantastic apparel which the women who are found in such places generally wear. An old woman was sitting knitting in a corner, whom I took to be the inevitable patronne. With the exception of these four the place was empty. 'They must have heard me touch the lattice, or seen it moving, for no sooner did I glance within than the three pairs of eyes on the platform were raised and fixed on mine. The old woman in the corner alone showed no consciousness of my neighbourhood. We eyed one another in silence for a second or two. Then the girl with the harp,--the instrument she was manipulating proved to be fashioned more like a harp than a guitar--called out to me, '"Entrez, monsieur!--Soye le bienvenu!" 'I was a little tired. Rather curious as to whereabouts I was,--the place struck me, even at that first momentary glimpse, as hardly in the ordinary line of that kind of thing. And not unwilling to listen to a repetition of the former song, or to another sung by the same singer. '"On condition," I replied, "that you sing me another song." '"Ah, monsieur, with the greatest pleasure in the world I will sing you twenty." 'She was almost, if not quite, as good as her word. She entertained me with song after song. I may safely say that I have seldom if ever heard melody more enchanting. All languages seemed to be the same to her. She sang in French and Italian, German and English,--in tongues with which I was unfamiliar. It was in these Eastern harmonies that she was most successful. They were indescribably weird and thrilling, and she delivered them with a verve and sweetness which was amazing. I sat at one of the little tables with which the room was dotted, listening entranced. 'Time passed more rapidly than I supposed. While she sang I sipped the liquor with which the old woman had supplied me. So enthralled was I by the display of the girl's astonishing gifts that I did not notice what it was I was drinking. Looking back I can only surmise that it was some poisonous concoction of the creature's own. That one small glass had on me the strangest effect. I was still weak from the fever which I had only just succeeded in shaking off, and that, no doubt, had something to do with the result. But, as I continued to sit, I was conscious that I was sinking into a lethargic condition, against which I was incapable of struggling. 'After a while the original performer ceased her efforts, and, her companions taking her place, she came and joined me at the little table. Looking at my watch I was surprised to perceive the lateness of the hour. I rose to leave. She caught me by the wrist. '"Do not go," she said;--she spoke English of a sort, and with the queerest accent. "All is well with you. Rest awhile." 'You will smile,--I should smile, perhaps, were I the listener instead of you, but it is the simple truth that her touch had on me what I can only describe as a magnetic influence. As her fingers closed upon my wrist, I felt as powerless in her grasp as if she held me with bands of steel. What seemed an invitation was virtually a command. I had to stay whether I would or wouldn't. She called for more liquor, and at what again was really her command I drank of it. I do not think that after she touched my wrist I uttered a word. She did all the talking. And, while she talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. Those eyes of hers! They were a devil's. I can positively affirm that they had on me a diabolical effect. They robbed me of my consciousness, of my power of volition, of my capacity to think,--they made me as wax in her hands. My last recollection of that fatal night is of her sitting in front of me, bending over the table, stroking my wrist with her extended fingers, staring at me with her awful eyes. After that, a curtain seems to descend. There comes a period of oblivion.' Mr Lessingham ceased. His manner was calm and self-contained enough; but, in spite of that I could see that the mere recollection of the things which he told me moved his nature to its foundations. There was eloquence in the drawn lines about his mouth, and in the strained expression of his eyes. So far his tale was sufficiently commonplace. Places such as the one which he described abound in the Cairo of to-day; and many are the Englishmen who have entered them to their exceeding bitter cost. With that keen intuition which has done him yeoman's service in the political arena, Mr Lessingham at once perceived the direction my thoughts were taking. 'You have heard this tale before?--No doubt. And often. The traps are many, and the fools and the unwary are not a few. The singularity of my experience is still to come. You must forgive me if I seem to stumble in the telling. I am anxious to present my case as baldly, and with as little appearance of exaggeration as possible. I say with as little appearance, for some appearance of exaggeration I fear is unavoidable. My case is so unique, and so out of the common run of our every-day experience, that the plainest possible statement must smack of the sensational. 'As, I fancy, you have guessed, when understanding returned to me, I found myself in an apartment with which I was unfamiliar. I was lying, undressed, on a heap of rugs in a corner of a low-pitched room which was furnished in a fashion which, when I grasped the details, filled me with amazement. By my side knelt the Woman of the Songs. Leaning over, she wooed my mouth with kisses. I cannot describe to you the sense of horror and of loathing with which the contact of her lips oppressed me. There was about her something so unnatural, so inhuman, that I believe even then I could have destroyed her with as little sense of moral turpitude as if she had been some noxious insect. '"Where am I?" I exclaimed. '"You are with the children of Isis," she replied. What she meant I did not know, and do not to this hour. "You are in the hands of the great goddess,--of the mother of men." '"How did I come here?" '"By the loving kindness of the great mother." 'I do not, of course, pretend to give you the exact text of her words, but they were to that effect. 'Half raising myself on the heap of rugs, I gazed about me,--and was astounded at what I saw. 'The place in which I was, though the reverse of lofty, was of considerable size,--I could not conceive whereabouts it could be. The walls and roof were of bare stone,--as though the whole had been hewed out of the solid rock. It seemed to be some sort of temple, and was redolent with the most extraordinary odour. An altar stood about the centre, fashioned out of a single block of stone. On it a fire burned with a faint blue flame,--the fumes which rose from it were no doubt chiefly responsible for the prevailing perfumes. Behind it was a huge bronze figure, more than life size. It was in a sitting posture, and represented a woman. Although it resembled no portrayal of her I have seen either before or since, I came afterwards to understand that it was meant for Isis. On the idol's brow was poised a beetle. That the creature was alive seemed clear, for, as I looked at it, it opened and shut its wings. 'If the one on the forehead of the goddess was the only live beetle which the place contained, it was not the only representation. It was modelled in the solid stone of the roof, and depicted in flaming colours on hangings which here and there were hung against the walls. Wherever the eye turned it rested on a scarab. The effect was bewildering. It was as though one saw things through the distorted glamour of a nightmare. I asked myself if I were not still dreaming; if my appearance of consciousness were not after all a mere delusion; if I had really regained my senses. 'And, here, Mr Champnell, I wish to point out, and to emphasise the fact, that I am not prepared to positively affirm what portion of my adventures in that extraordinary, and horrible place, was actuality, and what the product of a feverish imagination. Had I been persuaded that all I thought I saw, I really did see, I should have opened my lips long ago, let the consequences to myself have been what they might. But there is the crux. The happenings were of such an incredible character, and my condition was such an abnormal one,--I was never really myself from the first moment to the last--that I have hesitated, and still do hesitate, to assert where, precisely, fiction ended and fact began. 'With some misty notion of testing my actual condition I endeavoured to get off the heap of rugs on which I reclined. As I did so the woman at my side laid her hand against my chest, lightly. But, had her gentle pressure been the equivalent of a ton of iron, it could not have been more effectual. I collapsed, sank back upon the rugs, and lay there, panting for breath, wondering if I had crossed the border line which divides madness from sanity. '"Let me get up!--let me go!" I gasped. '"Nay," she murmured, "stay with me yet awhile, O my beloved." 'And again she kissed me.' Once more Mr Lessingham paused. An involuntary shudder went all over him. In spite of the evidently great effort which he was making to retain his self-control his features were contorted by an anguished spasm. For some seconds he seemed at a loss to find words to enable him to continue. When he did go on, his voice was harsh and strained. 'I am altogether incapable of even hinting to you the nauseous nature of that woman's kisses. They filled me with an indescribable repulsion. I look back at them with a feeling of physical, mental, and moral horror, across an interval of twenty years. The most dreadful part of it was that I was wholly incapable of offering even the faintest resistance to her caresses. I lay there like a log. She did with me as she would, and in dumb agony I endured.' He took his handkerchief from his pocket, and, although the day was cool, with it he wiped the perspiration from his brow. 'To dwell in detail on what occurred during my involuntary sojourn in that fearful place is beyond my power. I cannot even venture to attempt it. The attempt, were it made, would be futile, and, to me, painful beyond measure. I seem to have seen all that happened as in a glass darkly,--with about it all an element of unreality. As I have already remarked, the things which revealed themselves, dimly, to my perception, seemed too bizarre, too hideous, to be true. 'It was only afterwards, when I was in a position to compare dates, that I was enabled to determine what had been the length of my imprisonment. It appears that I was in that horrible den more than two months,--two unspeakable months. And the whole time there were comings and goings, a phantasmagoric array of eerie figures continually passed to and fro before my hazy eyes. What I judge to have been religious services took place; in which the altar, the bronze image, and the beetle on its brow, figure largely. Not only were they conducted with a bewildering confusion of mysterious rites, but, if my memory is in the least degree trustworthy, they were orgies of nameless horrors. I seem to have seen things take place at them at the mere thought of which the brain reels and trembles. 'Indeed it is in connection with the cult of the obscene deity to whom these wretched creatures paid their scandalous vows that my most awful memories seem to have been associated. It may have been--I hope it was, a mirage born of my half delirious state, but it seemed to me that they offered human sacrifices.' When Mr Lessingham said this, I pricked up my ears. For reasons of my own, which will immediately transpire, I had been wondering if he would make any reference to a human sacrifice. He noted my display of interest,--but misapprehended the cause. 'I see you start, I do not wonder. But I repeat that unless I was the victim of some extraordinary species of double sight--in which case the whole business would resolve itself into the fabric of a dream, and I should indeed thank God!--I saw, on more than one occasion, a human sacrifice offered on that stone altar, presumably to the grim image which looked down on it. And, unless I err, in each case the sacrificial object was a woman, stripped to the skin, as white as you or I,--and before they burned her they subjected her to every variety of outrage of which even the minds of demons could conceive. More than once since then I have seemed to hear the shrieks of the victims ringing through the air, mingled with the triumphant cries of her frenzied murderers, and the music of their harps. 'It was the cumulative horrors of such a scene which gave me the strength, or the courage, or the madness, I know not which it was, to burst the bonds which bound me, and which, even in the bursting, made of me, even to this hour, a haunted man. 'There had been a sacrifice,--unless, as I have repeatedly observed, the whole was nothing but a dream. A woman--a young and lovely Englishwoman, if I could believe the evidence of my own eyes, had been outraged, and burnt alive, while I lay there helpless, looking on. The business was concluded. The ashes of the victim had been consumed by the participants. The worshippers had departed. I was left alone with the woman of the songs, who apparently acted as the guardian of that worse than slaughterhouse. She was, as usual after such an orgie, rather a devil than a human being, drunk with an insensate frenzy, delirious with inhuman longings. As she approached to offer to me her loathed caresses, I was on a sudden conscious of something which I had not felt before when in her company. It was as though something had slipped away from me,--some weight which had oppressed me, some bond by which I had been bound. I was aroused, all at once, to a sense of freedom; to a knowledge that the blood which coursed through my veins was after all my own, that I was master of my own honour. 'I can only suppose that through all those weeks she had kept me there in a state of mesmeric stupor. That, taking advantage of the weakness which the fever had left behind, by the exercise of her diabolical arts, she had not allowed me to pass out of a condition of hypnotic trance. Now, for some reason, the cord was loosed. Possibly her absorption in her religious duties had caused her to forget to tighten it. Anyhow, as she approached me, she approached a man, and one who, for the first time for many a day, was his own man. She herself seemed wholly unconscious of anything of the kind. As she drew nearer to me, and nearer, she appeared to be entirely oblivious of the fact that I was anything but the fibreless, emasculated creature which, up to that moment, she had made of me. 'But she knew it when she touched me,--when she stooped to press her lips to mine. At that instant the accumulating rage which had been smouldering in my breast through all those leaden torturing hours, sprang into flame. Leaping off my couch of rugs, I flung my hands about her throat,--and then she knew I was awake. Then she strove to tighten the cord which she had suffered to become unduly loose. Her baleful eyes were fixed on mine. I knew that she was putting out her utmost force to trick me of my manhood. But I fought with her like one possessed, and I conquered--in a fashion. I compressed her throat with my two hands as with an iron vice. I knew that I was struggling for more than life, that the odds were all against me, that I was staking my all upon the casting of a die,--I stuck at nothing which could make me victor. 'Tighter and tighter my pressure grew,--I did not stay to think if I was killing her--till on a sudden--' Mr Lessingham stopped. He stared with fixed, glassy eyes, as if the whole was being re-enacted in front of him. His voice faltered. I thought he would break down. But, with an effort, he continued. 'On a sudden, I felt her slipping from between my fingers. Without the slightest warning, in an instant she had vanished, and where, not a moment before, she herself had been, I found myself confronting a monstrous beetle,--a huge, writhing creation of some wild nightmare. 'At first the creature stood as high as I did. But, as I stared at it, in stupefied amazement,--as you may easily imagine,--the thing dwindled while I gazed. I did not stop to see how far the process of dwindling continued,--a stark raving madman for the nonce, I fled as if all the fiends in hell were at my heels.' CHAPTER XXXIV AFTER TWENTY YEARS 'How I reached the open air I cannot tell you,--I do not know. I have a confused recollection of rushing through vaulted passages, through endless corridors, of trampling over people who tried to arrest my passage,--and the rest is blank. 'When I again came to myself I was lying in the house of an American missionary named Clements. I had been found, at early dawn, stark naked, in a Cairo street, and picked up for dead. Judging from appearances I must have wandered for miles, all through the night. Whence I had come, or whither I was going, none could tell,--I could not tell myself. For weeks I hovered between life and death. The kindness of Mr and Mrs Clements was not to be measured by words. I was brought to their house a penniless, helpless, battered stranger, and they gave me all they had to offer, without money and without price,--with no expectation of an earthly reward. Let no one pretend that there is no Christian charity under the sun. The debt I owed that man and woman I was never able to repay. Before I was properly myself again, and in a position to offer some adequate testimony of the gratitude I felt, Mrs Clements was dead, drowned during an excursion on the Nile, and her husband had departed on a missionary expedition into Central Africa, from which he never returned. 'Although, in a measure, my physical health returned, for months after I had left the roof of my hospitable hosts, I was in a state of semi-imbecility. I suffered from a species of aphasia. For days together I was speechless, and could remember nothing,--not even my own name. And, when that stage had passed, and I began to move more freely among my fellows, for years I was but a wreck of my former self. I was visited, at all hours of the day and night, by frightful--I know not whether to call them visions, they were real enough to me, but since they were visible to no one but myself, perhaps that is the word which best describes them. Their presence invariably plunged me into a state of abject terror, against which I was unable to even make a show of fighting. To such an extent did they embitter my existence, that I voluntarily placed myself under the treatment of an expert in mental pathology. For a considerable period of time I was under his constant supervision, but the visitations were as inexplicable to him as they were to me. 'By degrees, however, they became rarer and rarer, until at last I flattered myself that I had once more become as other men. After an interval, to make sure, I devoted myself to politics. Thenceforward I have lived, as they phrase it, in the public eye. Private life, in any peculiar sense of the term, I have had none.' Mr Lessingham ceased. His tale was not uninteresting, and, to say the least of it, was curious. But I still was at a loss to understand what it had to do with me, or what was the purport of his presence in my room. Since he remained silent, as if the matter, so far as he was concerned, was at an end, I told him so. 'I presume, Mr Lessingham, that all this is but a prelude to the play. At present I do not see where it is that I come in.' Still for some seconds he was silent. When he spoke his voice was grave and sombre, as if he were burdened by a weight of woe. 'Unfortunately, as you put it, all this has been but a prelude to the play. Were it not so I should not now stand in such pressing want of the services of a confidential agent,--that is, of an experienced man of the world, who has been endowed by nature with phenomenal perceptive faculties, and in whose capacity and honour I can place the completest confidence.' I smiled,--the compliment was a pointed one. 'I hope your estimate of me is not too high.' 'I hope not,--for my sake, as well as for your own. I have heard great things of you. If ever man stood in need of all that human skill and acumen can do for him, I certainly am he.' His words aroused my curiosity. I was conscious of feeling more interested than heretofore. 'I will do my best for you. Man can do no more. Only give my best a trial.' 'I will. At once.' He looked at me long and earnestly. Then, leaning forward, he said, lowering his voice perhaps unconsciously, 'The fact is, Mr Champnell, that quite recently events have happened which threaten to bridge the chasm of twenty years, and to place me face to face with that plague spot of the past. At this moment I stand in imminent peril of becoming again the wretched thing I was when I fled from that den of all the devils. It is to guard me against this that I have come to you. I want you to unravel the tangled thread which threatens to drag me to my doom,--and, when unravelled to sunder it--for ever, if God wills!--in twain.' 'Explain.' To be frank, for the moment I thought him mad. He went on. 'Three weeks ago, when I returned late one night from a sitting in the House of Commons, I found, on my study table, a sheet of paper on which there was a representation--marvellously like!--of the creature into which, as it seemed to me, the woman of the songs was transformed as I clutched her throat between my hands. The mere sight of it brought back one of those visitations of which I have told you, and which I thought I had done with for ever,--I was convulsed by an agony of fear, thrown into a state approximating to a paralysis both of mind and body.' 'But why?' 'I cannot tell you. I only know that I have never dared to allow my thoughts to recur to that last dread scene, lest the mere recurrence should drive me mad.' 'What was this you found upon your study table,--merely a drawing?' 'It was a representation, produced by what process I cannot say, which was so wonderfully, so diabolically, like the original, that for a moment I thought the thing itself was on my table.' 'Who put it there?' 'That is precisely what I wish you to find out,--what I wish you to make it your instant business to ascertain. I have found the thing, under similar circumstances, on three separate occasions, on my study table,--and each time it has had on me the same hideous effect.' 'Each time after you have returned from a late sitting in the House of Commons?' 'Exactly.' 'Where are these--what shall I call them--delineations?' 'That, again, I cannot tell you.' 'What do you mean?' 'What I say. Each time, when I recovered, the thing had vanished.' 'Sheet of paper and all?' 'Apparently,--though on that point I could not be positive. You will understand that my study table is apt to be littered with sheets of paper, and I could not absolutely determine that the thing had not stared at me from one of those. The delineation itself, to use your word, certainly had vanished.' I began to suspect that this was a case rather for a doctor than for a man of my profession. And hinted as much. 'Don't you think it is possible, Mr Lessingham, that you have been overworking yourself--that you have been driving your brain too hard, and that you have been the victim of an optical delusion?' 'I thought so myself; I may say that I almost hoped so. But wait till I have finished. You will find that there is no loophole in that direction.' He appeared to be recalling events in their due order. His manner was studiously cold,--as if he were endeavouring, despite the strangeness of his story, to impress me with the literal accuracy of each syllable he uttered. 'The night before last, on returning home, I found in my study a stranger.' 'A stranger?' 'Yes.--In other words, a burglar.' 'A burglar?--I see.--Go on.' He had paused. His demeanour was becoming odder and odder. 'On my entry he was engaged in forcing an entry into my bureau. I need hardly say that I advanced to seize him. But--I could not.' 'You could not?--How do you mean you could not?' 'I mean simply what I say. You must understand that this was no ordinary felon. Of what nationality he was I cannot tell you. He only uttered two words, and they were certainly in English, but apart from that he was dumb. He wore no covering on his head or feet. Indeed, his only garment was a long dark flowing cloak which, as it fluttered about him, revealed that his limbs were bare.' 'An unique costume for a burglar.' 'The instant I saw him I realised that he was in some way connected with that adventure in the Rue de Rabagas. What he said and did, proved it to the hilt.' 'What did he say and do?' 'As I approached to effect his capture, he pronounced aloud two words which recalled that awful scene the recollection of which always lingers in my brain, and of which I never dare to permit myself to think. Their very utterance threw me into a sort of convulsion.' 'What were the words?' Mr Lessingham opened his mouth,--and shut it. A marked change took place in the expression of his countenance. His eyes became fixed and staring,--resembling the glassy orbs of the somnambulist. For a moment I feared that he was going to give me an object lesson in the 'visitations' of which I had heard so much. I rose, with a view of offering him assistance. He motioned me back. 'Thank you.--It will pass away.' His voice was dry and husky,--unlike his usual silvern tones. After an uncomfortable interval he managed to continue. 'You see for yourself, Mr Champnell, what a miserable weakling, when this subject is broached, I still remain. I cannot utter the words the stranger uttered, I cannot even write them down. For some inscrutable reason they have on me an effect similar to that which spells and incantations had on people in tales of witchcraft.' 'I suppose, Mr Lessingham, that there is no doubt that this mysterious stranger was not himself an optical delusion?' 'Scarcely. There is the evidence of my servants to prove the contrary.' 'Did your servants see him?' 'Some of them,--yes. Then there is the evidence of the bureau. The fellow had smashed the top right in two. When I came to examine the contents I learned that a packet of letters was missing. They were letters which I had received from Miss Lindon, a lady whom I hope to make my wife. This, also, I state to you in confidence.' 'What use would he be likely to make of them?' 'If matters stand as I fear they do, he might make a very serious misuse of them. If the object of these wretches, after all these years, is a wild revenge, they would be capable, having discovered what she is to me, of working Miss Lindon a fatal mischief,--or, at the very least, of poisoning her mind.' 'I see.--How did the thief escape,--did he, like the delineation, vanish into air?' 'He escaped by the much more prosaic method of dashing through the drawing-room window, and clambering down from the verandah into the street, where he ran right into someone's arms.' 'Into whose arms,--a constable's?' 'No; into Mr Atherton's,--Sydney Atherton's.' 'The inventor?' 'The same.--Do you know him?' 'I do. Sydney Atherton and I are friends of a good many years' standing.--But Atherton must have seen where he came from;--and, anyhow, if he was in the state of undress which you have described, why didn't he stop him?' 'Mr Atherton's reasons were his own. He did not stop him, and, so far as I can learn, he did not attempt to stop him. Instead, he knocked at my hall door to inform me that he had seen a man climb out of my window.' 'I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer fish,--but that sounds very queer indeed.' 'The truth is, Mr Champnell, that, if it were not for Mr Atherton, I doubt if I should have troubled you even now. The accident of his being an acquaintance of yours makes my task easier.' He drew his chair closer to me with an air of briskness which had been foreign to him before. For some reason, which I was unable to fathom, the introduction of Atherton's name seemed to have enlivened him. However, I was not long to remain in darkness. In half a dozen sentences he threw more light on the real cause of his visit to me than he had done in all that had gone before. His bearing, too, was more businesslike and to the point. For the first time I had some glimmerings of the politician,--alert, keen, eager,--as he is known to all the world. 'Mr Atherton, like myself, has been a postulant for Miss Lindon's hand. Because I have succeeded where he has failed, he has chosen to be angry. It seems that he has had dealings, either with my visitor of Tuesday night, or with some other his acquaintance, and he proposes to use what he has gleaned from him to the disadvantage of my character. I have just come from Mr Atherton. From hints he dropped I conclude that, probably during the last few hours, he has had an interview with someone who was connected in some way with that lurid patch in my career; that this person made so-called revelations, which were nothing but a series of monstrous lies; and these so-called revelations Mr Atherton has threatened, in so many words, to place before Miss Lindon. That is an eventuality which I wish to avoid. My own conviction is that there is at this moment in London an emissary from that den in the whilom Rue de Rabagas--for all I know it may be the Woman of the Songs herself. Whether the sole purport of this individual's presence is to do me injury, I am, as yet, in no position to say, but that it is proposed to work me mischief, at any rate, by the way, is plain. I believe that Mr Atherton knows more about this person's individuality and whereabouts than he has been willing, so far, to admit. I want you, therefore, to ascertain these things on my behalf; to find out what, and where, this person is, to drag her!--or him;--out into the light of day. In short, I want you to effectually protect me from the terrorism which threatens once more to overwhelm my mental and my physical powers,--which bids fair to destroy my intellect, my career, my life, my all.' 'What reason have you for suspecting that Mr Atherton has seen this individual of whom you speak,--has he told you so?' 'Practically,--yes.' 'I know Atherton well. In his not infrequent moments of excitement he is apt to use strong language, but it goes no further. I believe him to be the last person in the world to do anyone an intentional injustice, under any circumstances whatever. If I go to him, armed with credentials from you, when he understands the real gravity of the situation,--which it will be my business to make him do, I believe that, spontaneously, of his own accord, he will tell me as much about this mysterious individual as he knows himself.' 'Then go to him at once.' 'Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.' I rose from my seat. As I did so, someone rushed into the outer office with a din and a clatter. Andrews' voice, and another, became distinctly audible,--Andrews' apparently raised in vigorous expostulation. Raised, seemingly, in vain, for presently the door of my own particular sanctum was thrown open with a crash, and Mr Sydney Atherton himself came dashing in,--evidently conspicuously under the influence of one of those not infrequent 'moments of excitement' of which I had just been speaking. CHAPTER XXXV A BRINGER OF TIDINGS Atherton did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the instant,--as is occasionally his wont. 'Champnell!--Thank goodness I've found you in!--I want you!--At once!--Don't stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best foot forward,--I'll tell you all about it in the cab.' I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr Lessingham's presence,--but without success. 'My dear fellow--' When I had got as far as that he cut me short. 'Don't "dear fellow" me!--None of your jabber! And none of your excuses either! I don't care if you've got an engagement with the Queen, you'll have to chuck it. Where's that dashed hat of yours,--or are you going without it? Don't I tell you that every second cut to waste may mean the difference between life and death?--Do you want me to drag you down to the cab by the hair of your head?' 'I will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource,--and I was coming to you at once in any case. I only want to call your attention to the fact that I am not alone.--Here is Mr Lessingham.' In his harum-scarum haste Mr Lessingham had gone unnoticed. Now that his observation was particularly directed to him, Atherton started, turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely flattering. 'Oh!--It's you, is it?--What the deuce are you doing here?' Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm. 'Have you seen her?' Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other's curious conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement. 'Have I seen whom?' 'Marjorie Lindon!' 'Marjorie Lindon?' Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the inquiry meant. 'I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?' 'Then Heaven help us!--As I'm a living man I believe he, she, or it has got her!' His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of explanation,--as Mr Lessingham plainly thought. 'What is it that you mean, sir?' 'What I say,--I believe that that Oriental friend of yours has got her in her clutches,--if it is a "her;" goodness alone knows what the infernal conjurer's real sex may be.' 'Atherton!--Explain yourself!' On a sudden Lessingham's tones rang out like a trumpet call. 'If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat,--and yours!' Mr Lessingham's next proceeding surprised me,--I imagine it surprised Atherton still more. Springing at Sydney like a tiger, he caught him by the throat. 'You--you hound! Of what wretched folly have you been guilty? If so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten thousandfold!--You mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!' He shook Sydney as if he had been a rat,--then flung him from him headlong on to the floor. It reminded me of nothing so much as Othello's treatment of Iago. Never had I seen a man so transformed by rage. Lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. As he stood glowering down at the prostrate Sydney, he might have stood for a materialistic conception of human retribution. Sydney, I take it, was rather surprised than hurt. For a moment or two he lay quite still. Then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. Then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself,--as if with a view of learning if all his bones were whole. Putting his hands up to his neck, he rubbed it, gently. And he grinned. 'By God, Lessingham, there's more in you than I thought. After all, you are a man. There's some holding power in those wrists of yours,--they've nearly broken my neck. When this business is finished, I should like to put on the gloves with you, and fight it out. You're clean wasted upon politics,--Damn it, man, give me your hand!' Mr Lessingham did not give him his hand. Atherton took it,--and gave it a hearty shake with both of his. If the first paroxysm of his passion had passed, Lessingham was still sufficiently stern. 'Be so good as not to trifle, Mr Atherton. If what you say is correct, and the wretch to whom you allude really has Miss Lindon at her mercy, then the woman I love--and whom you also pretend to love!--stands in imminent peril not only of a ghastly death, but of what is infinitely worse than death.' 'The deuce she does!' Atherton wheeled round towards me. 'Champnell, haven't you got that dashed hat of yours yet? Don't stand there like a tailor's dummy, keeping me on tenter-hooks,--move yourself! I'll tell you all about it in the cab.--And, Lessingham, if you'll come with us I'll tell you too.' CHAPTER XXXVI WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE Three in a hansom cab is not, under all circumstances, the most comfortable method of conveyance,--when one of the trio happens to be Sydney Atherton in one of his 'moments of excitement' it is distinctly the opposite; as, on that occasion, Mr Lessingham and I both quickly found. Sometimes he sat on my knees, sometimes on Lessingham's, and frequently, when he unexpectedly stood up, and all but precipitated himself on to the horse's back, on nobody's. In the eagerness of his gesticulations, first he knocked off my hat, then he knocked off Lessingham's, then his own, then all three together,--once, his own hat rolling into the mud, he sprang into the road, without previously going through the empty form of advising the driver of his intention, to pick it up. When he turned to speak to Lessingham, he thrust his elbow into my eye; and when he turned to speak to me, he thrust it into Lessingham's. Never, for one solitary instant, was he at rest, or either of us at ease. The wonder is that the gymnastics in which he incessantly indulged did not sufficiently attract public notice to induce a policeman to put at least a momentary period to our progress. Had speed not been of primary importance I should have insisted on the transference of the expedition to the somewhat wider limits of a four-wheeler. His elucidation of the causes of his agitation was apparently more comprehensible to Lessingham than it was to me. I had to piece this and that together under considerable difficulties. By degrees I did arrive at something like a clear notion of what had actually taken place. He commenced by addressing Lessingham,--and thrusting his elbow into my eye. 'Did Marjorie tell you about the fellow she found in the street?' Up went his arm to force the trap-door open overhead,--and off went my hat. 'Now then, William Henry!--let her go!--if you kill the horse I'll buy you another!' We were already going much faster than, legally, we ought to have done,--but that, seemingly to him was not a matter of the slightest consequence. Lessingham replied to his inquiry. 'She did not.' 'You know the fellow I saw coming out of your drawing-room window?' 'Yes.' 'Well, Marjorie found him the morning after in front of her breakfast-room window--in the middle of the street. Seems he had been wandering about all night, unclothed,--in the rain and the mud, and all the rest of it,--in a condition of hypnotic trance.' 'Who is the----gentleman you are alluding to?' 'Says his name's Holt, Robert Holt.' 'Holt?--Is he an Englishman?' 'Very much so,--City quill-driver out of a shop,--stony broke absolutely! Got the chuck from the casual ward,--wouldn't let him in,--house full, and that sort of thing,--poor devil! Pretty passes you politicians bring men to!' 'Are you sure?' 'Of what?' 'Are you sure that this man, Robert Holt, is the same person whom, as you put it, you saw coming out of my drawing-room window?' 'Sure!--Of course I'm sure!--Think I didn't recognise him?--Besides, there was the man's own tale,--owned to it himself,--besides all the rest, which sent one rushing Fulham way.' 'You must remember, Mr Atherton, that I am wholly in the dark as to what has happened. What has the man, Holt, to do with the errand on which we are bound?' 'Am I not coming to it? If you would let me tell the tale in my own way I should get there in less than no time, but you will keep on cutting in,--how the deuce do you suppose Champnell is to make head or tail of the business if you will persist in interrupting?--Marjorie took the beggar in,--he told his tale to her,--she sent for me--that was just now; caught me on the steps after I had been lunching with Dora Grayling. Holt re-dished his yarn--I smelt a rat--saw that a connection possibly existed between the thief who'd been playing confounded conjuring tricks off on to me and this interesting party down Fulham way--' 'What party down Fulham way?' 'This friend of Holt's--am I not telling you? There you are, you see,--won't let me finish! When Holt slipped through the window--which is the most sensible thing he seems to have done; if I'd been in his shoes I'd have slipped through forty windows!--dusky coloured charmer caught him on the hop,--doctored him--sent him out to commit burglary by deputy. I said to Holt, "Show us this agreeable little crib, young man." Holt was game--then Marjorie chipped in--she wanted to go and see it too. I said, "You'll be sorry if you do,"--that settled it! After that she'd have gone if she'd died,--I never did have a persuasive way with women. So off we toddled, Marjorie, Holt, and I, in a growler,--spotted the crib in less than no time,--invited ourselves in by the kitchen window--house seemed empty. Presently Holt became hypnotised before my eyes,--the best established case of hypnotism by suggestion I ever yet encountered--started off on a pilgrimage of one. Like an idiot I followed, leaving Marjorie to wait for me--' 'Alone?' 'Alone!--Am I not telling you?--Great Scott, Lessingham, in the House of Commons they must be hazy to think you smart! I said, "I'll send the first sane soul I meet to keep you company." As luck would have it, I never met one,--only kids, and a baker, who wouldn't leave his cart, or take it with him either. I'd covered pretty nearly two miles before I came across a peeler,--and when I did the man was cracked--and he thought me mad, or drunk, or both. By the time I'd got myself within nodding distance of being run in for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty, without inducing him to move a single one of his twenty-four-inch feet, Holt was out of sight. So, since all my pains in his direction were clean thrown away, there was nothing left for me but to scurry back to Marjorie,--so I scurried, and I found the house empty, no one there, and Marjorie gone.' 'But, I don't quite follow--' Atherton impetuously declined to allow Mr Lessingham to conclude. 'Of course you don't quite follow, and you'll follow still less if you will keep getting in front. I went upstairs and downstairs, inside and out--shouted myself hoarse as a crow--nothing was to be seen of Marjorie,--or heard; until, as I was coming down the stairs for about the five-and-fiftieth time, I stepped on something hard which was lying in the passage. I picked it up,--it was a ring; this ring. Its shape is not just what it was,--I'm not as light as gossamer, especially when I come jumping downstairs six at a time,--but what's left of it is here.' Sydney held something in front of him. Mr Lessingham wriggled to one side to enable him to see. Then he made a snatch at it. 'It's mine!' Sydney dodged it out of his reach. 'What do you mean, it's yours?' 'It's the ring I gave Marjorie for an engagement ring. Give it me, you hound!--unless you wish me to do you violence in the cab.' With complete disregard of the limitations of space,--or of my comfort,--Lessingham thrust him vigorously aside. Then gripping Sydney by the wrist, he seized the gaud,--Sydney yielding it just in time to save himself from being precipitated into the street. Ravished of his treasure, Sydney turned and surveyed the ravisher with something like a glance of admiration. 'Hang me, Lessingham, if I don't believe there is some warm blood in those fishlike veins of yours. Please the piper, I'll live to fight you after all,--with the bare ones, sir, as a gentleman should do.' Lessingham seemed to pay no attention to him whatever. He was surveying the ring, which Sydney had trampled out of shape, with looks of the deepest concern. 'Marjorie's ring!--The one I gave her! Something serious must have happened to her before she would have dropped my ring, and left it lying where it fell.' Atherton went on. 'That's it!--What has happened to her!--I'll be dashed if I know!--When it was clear that there she wasn't, I tore off to find out where she was. Came across old Lindon,--he knew nothing;--I rather fancy I startled him in the middle of Pall Mall, when I left he stared after me like one possessed, and his hat was lying in the gutter. Went home,--she wasn't there. Asked Dora Grayling,--she'd seen nothing of her. No one had seen anything of her,--she had vanished into air. Then I said to myself, "You're a first-class idiot, on my honour! While you're looking for her, like a lost sheep, the betting is that the girl's in Holt's friend's house the whole jolly time. When you were there, the chances are that she'd just stepped out for a stroll, and that now she's back again, and wondering where on earth you've gone!" So I made up my mind that I'd fly back and see,--because the idea of her standing on the front doorstep looking for me, while I was going off my nut looking for her, commended itself to what I call my sense of humour; and on my way it struck me that it would be the part of wisdom to pick up Champnell, because if there is a man who can be backed to find a needle in any amount of hay-stacks it is the great Augustus.--That horse has moved itself after all, because here we are. Now, cabman, don't go driving further on,--you'll have to put a girdle round the earth if you do; because you'll have to reach this point again before you get your fare.--This is the magician's house!' CHAPTER XXXVII WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR The cab pulled up in front of a tumbledown cheap 'villa' in an unfinished cheap neighbourhood,--the whole place a living monument of the defeat of the speculative builder. Atherton leaped out on to the grass-grown rubble which was meant for a footpath. 'I don't see Marjorie looking for me on the doorstep.' Nor did I,--I saw nothing but what appeared to be an unoccupied ramshackle brick abomination. Suddenly Sydney gave an exclamation. 'Hullo!--The front door's closed!' I was hard at his heels. 'What do you mean?' 'Why, when I went I left the front door open. It looks as if I've made an idiot of myself after all, and Marjorie's returned,--let's hope to goodness that I have.' He knocked. While we waited for a response I questioned him. 'Why did you leave the door open when you went?' 'I hardly know,--I imagine that it was with some dim idea of Marjorie's being able to get in if she returned while I was absent,--but the truth is I was in such a condition of helter skelter that I am not prepared to swear that I had any reasonable reason.' 'I suppose there is no doubt that you did leave it open?' 'Absolutely none,--on that I'll stake my life.' 'Was it open when you returned from your pursuit of Holt?' 'Wide open,--I walked straight in expecting to find her waiting for me in the front room,--I was struck all of a heap when I found she wasn't there.' 'Were there any signs of a struggle?' 'None,--there were no signs of anything. Everything was just as I had left it, with the exception of the ring which I trod on in the passage, and which Lessingham has.' 'If Miss Lindon has returned, it does not look as if she were in the house at present.' It did not,--unless silence had such meaning. Atherton had knocked loudly three times without succeeding in attracting the slightest notice from within. 'It strikes me that this is another case of seeking admission through that hospitable window at the back.' Atherton led the way to the rear. Lessingham and I followed. There was not even an apology for a yard, still less a garden,--there was not even a fence of any sort, to serve as an enclosure, and to shut off the house from the wilderness of waste land. The kitchen window was open. I asked Sydney if he had left it so. 'I don't know,--I dare say we did; I don't fancy that either of us stood on the order of his coming.' While he spoke, he scrambled over the sill. We followed. When he was in, he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Marjorie! Marjorie! Speak to me, Marjorie,--it is I,--Sydney!' The words echoed through the house. Only silence answered. He led the way to the front room. Suddenly he stopped. 'Hollo!' he cried. 'The blind's down!' I had noticed, when we were outside, that the blind was down at the front room window. 'It was up when I went, that I'll swear. That someone has been here is pretty plain,--let's hope it's Marjorie.' He had only taken a step forward into the room when he again stopped short to exclaim. 'My stars!--here's a sudden clearance!--Why, the place is empty,--everything's clean gone!' 'What do you mean?--was it furnished when you left?' The room was empty enough then. 'Furnished?--I don't know that it was exactly what you'd call furnished,--the party who ran this establishment had a taste in upholstery which was all his own,--but there was a carpet, and a bed, and--and lots of things,--for the most part, I should have said, distinctly Eastern curiosities. They seem to have evaporated into smoke,--which may be a way which is common enough among Eastern curiosities, though it's queer to me.' Atherton was staring about him as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence of his own eyes. 'How long ago is it since you left?' He referred to his watch. 'Something over an hour,--possibly an hour and a half; I couldn't swear to the exact moment, but it certainly isn't more.' 'Did you notice any signs of packing up?' 'Not a sign.' Going to the window he drew up the blind,--speaking as he did so. 'The queer thing about this business is that when we first got in this blind wouldn't draw up a little bit, so, since it wouldn't go up I pulled it down, roller and all, now it draws up as easily and smoothly as if it had always been the best blind that ever lived.' Standing at Sydney's back I saw that the cabman on his box was signalling to us with his outstretched hand. Sydney perceived him too. He threw up the sash. 'What's the matter with you?' 'Excuse me, sir, but who's the old gent?' 'What old gent?' 'Why the old gent peeping through the window of the room upstairs?' The words were hardly out of the driver's mouth when Sydney was through the door and flying up the staircase. I followed rather more soberly,--his methods were a little too flighty for me. When I reached the landing, dashing out of the front room he rushed into the one at the back,--then through a door at the side. He came out shouting. 'What's the idiot mean!--with his old gent! I'd old gent him if I got him!--There's not a creature about the place!' He returned into the front room,--I at his heels. That certainly was empty,--and not only empty, but it showed no traces of recent occupation. The dust lay thick upon the floor,--there was that mouldy, earthy smell which is so frequently found in apartments which have been long untenanted. 'Are you sure, Atherton, that there is no one at the back?' 'Of course I'm sure,--you can go and see for yourself if you like; do you think I'm blind? Jehu's drunk.' Throwing up the sash he addressed the driver. 'What do you mean with your old gent at the window?--what window?' 'That window, sir.' 'Go to!--you're dreaming, man!--there's no one here.' 'Begging your pardon, sir, but there was someone there not a minute ago.' 'Imagination, cabman,--the slant of the light on the glass,--or your eyesight's defective.' 'Excuse me, sir, but it's not my imagination, and my eyesight's as good as any man's in England,--and as for the slant of the light on the glass, there ain't much glass for the light to slant on. I saw him peeping through that bottom broken pane on your left hand as plainly as I see you. He must be somewhere about,--he can't have got away,--he's at the back. Ain't there a cupboard nor nothing where he could hide?' The cabman's manner was so extremely earnest that I went myself to see. There was a cupboard on the landing, but the door of that stood wide open, and that obviously was bare. The room behind was small, and, despite the splintered glass in the window frame, stuffy. Fragments of glass kept company with the dust on the floor, together with a choice collection of stones, brickbats, and other missiles,--which not improbably were the cause of their being there. In the corner stood a cupboard,--but a momentary examination showed that that was as bare as the other. The door at the side, which Sydney had left wide open, opened on to a closet, and that was empty. I glanced up,--there was no trap door which led to the roof. No practicable nook or cranny, in which a living being could lie concealed, was anywhere at hand. I returned to Sydney's shoulder to tell the cabman so. 'There is no place in which anyone could hide, and there is no one in either of the rooms,--you must have been mistaken, driver.' The man waxed wroth. 'Don't tell me! How could I come to think I saw something when I didn't?' 'One's eyes are apt to play us tricks;--how could you see what wasn't there?' 'That's what I want to know. As I drove up, before you told me to stop, I saw him looking through the window,--the one at which you are. He'd got his nose glued to the broken pane, and was staring as hard as he could stare. When I pulled up, off he started,--I saw him get up off his knees, and go to the back of the room. When the gentleman took to knocking, back he came,--to the same old spot, and flopped down on his knees. I didn't know what caper you was up to,--you might be bum bailiffs for all I knew!--and I supposed that he wasn't so anxious to let you in as you might be to get inside, and that was why he didn't take no notice of your knocking, while all the while he kept a eye on what was going on. When you goes round to the back, up he gets again, and I reckoned that he was going to meet yer, and perhaps give yer a bit of his mind, and that presently I should hear a shindy, or that something would happen. But when you pulls up the blind downstairs, to my surprise back he come once more. He shoves his old nose right through the smash in the pane, and wags his old head at me like a chattering magpie. That didn't seem to me quite the civil thing to do,--I hadn't done no harm to him; so I gives you the office, and lets you know that he was there. But for you to say that he wasn't there, and never had been,--blimey! that cops the biscuit. If he wasn't there, all I can say is I ain't here, and my 'orse ain't here, and my cab ain't neither,--damn it!--the house ain't here, and nothing ain't!' He settled himself on his perch with an air of the most extreme ill usage,--he had been standing up to tell his tale. That the man was serious was unmistakable. As he himself suggested, what inducement could he have had to tell a lie like that? That he believed himself to have seen what he declared he saw was plain. But, on the other hand, what could have become--in the space of fifty seconds!--of his 'old gent'? Atherton put a question. 'What did he look like,--this old gent of yours?' 'Well, that I shouldn't hardly like to say. It wasn't much of his face I could see, only his face and his eyes,--and they wasn't pretty. He kept a thing over his head all the time, as if he didn't want too much to be seen.' 'What sort of a thing?' 'Why,--one of them cloak sort of things, like them Arab blokes used to wear what used to be at Earl's Court Exhibition,--you know!' This piece of information seemed to interest my companions more than anything he had said before. 'A burnoose do you mean?' 'How am I to know what the thing's called? I ain't up in foreign languages,--'tain't likely! All I know that them Arab blokes what was at Earl's Court used to walk about in them all over the place,--sometimes they wore them over their heads, and sometimes they didn't. In fact if you'd asked me, instead of trying to make out as I sees double, or things what was only inside my own noddle, or something or other, I should have said this here old gent what I've been telling you about was a Arab bloke,--when he gets off his knees to sneak away from the window, I could see that he had his cloak thing, what was over his head, wrapped all round him.' Mr Lessingham turned to me, all quivering with excitement. 'I believe that what he says is true!' 'Then where can this mysterious old gentleman have got to,--can you suggest an explanation? It is strange, to say the least of it, that the cabman should be the only person to see or hear anything of him.' 'Some devil's trick has been played,--I know it, I feel it!--my instinct tells me so!' I stared. In such a matter one hardly expects a man of Paul Lessingham's stamp to talk of 'instinct.' Atherton stared too. Then, on a sudden, he burst out, 'By the Lord, I believe the Apostle's right,--the whole place reeks to me of hankey-pankey,--it did as soon as I put my nose inside. In matters of prestidigitation, Champnell, we Westerns are among the rudiments,--we've everything to learn,--Orientals leave us at the post. If their civilisation's what we're pleased to call extinct, their conjuring--when you get to know it!--is all alive oh!' He moved towards the door. As he went he slipped, or seemed to, all but stumbling on to his knees. 'Something tripped me up,--what's this?' He was stamping on the floor with his foot. 'Here's a board loose. Come and lend me a hand, one of you fellows, to get it up. Who knows what mystery's beneath?' I went to his aid. As he said, a board in the floor was loose. His stepping on it unawares had caused his stumble. Together we prised it out of its place,--Lessingham standing by and watching us the while. Having removed it, we peered into the cavity it disclosed. There was something there. 'Why,' cried Atherton 'it's a woman's clothing!' CHAPTER XXXVIII THE REST OF THE FIND It was a woman's clothing, beyond a doubt, all thrown in anyhow,--as if the person who had placed it there had been in a desperate hurry. An entire outfit was there, shoes, stockings, body linen, corsets, and all,--even to hat, gloves, and hairpins;--these latter were mixed up with the rest of the garments in strange confusion. It seemed plain that whoever had worn those clothes had been stripped to the skin. Lessingham and Sydney stared at me in silence as I dragged them out and laid them on the floor. The dress was at the bottom,--it was an alpaca, of a pretty shade in blue, bedecked with lace and ribbons, as is the fashion of the hour, and lined with sea-green silk. It had perhaps been a 'charming confection' once--and that a very recent one!--but now it was all soiled and creased and torn and tumbled. The two spectators made a simultaneous pounce at it as I brought it to the light. 'My God!' cried Sydney, 'it's Marjorie's!--she was wearing it when I saw her last!' 'It's Marjorie's!' gasped Lessingham,--he was clutching at the ruined costume, staring at it like a man who has just received sentence of death. 'She wore it when she was with me yesterday,--I told her how it suited her, and how pretty it was!' There was silence,--it was an eloquent find; it spoke for itself. The two men gazed at the heap of feminine glories,--it might have been the most wonderful sight they ever had seen. Lessingham was the first to speak,--his face had all at once grown grey and haggard. 'What has happened to her?' I replied to his question with another. 'Are you sure this is Miss Linden's dress?' 'I am sure,--and were proof needed, here it is.' He had found the pocket, and was turning out the contents. There was a purse, which contained money and some visiting cards on which were her name and address; a small bunch of keys, with her nameplate attached; a handkerchief, with her initials in a corner. The question of ownership was placed beyond a doubt. 'You see,' said Lessingham, exhibiting the money which was in the purse, 'it is not robbery which has been attempted. Here are two ten-pound notes, and one for five, besides gold and silver,--over thirty pounds in all.' Atherton, who had been turning over the accumulation of rubbish between the joists, proclaimed another find. 'Here are her rings, and watch, and a bracelet,--no, it certainly does not look as if theft had been an object.' Lessingham was glowering at him with knitted brows. 'I have to thank you for this.' Sydney was unwontedly meek. 'You are hard on me, Lessingham, harder than I deserve,--I had rather have thrown away my own life than have suffered misadventure to have come to her.' 'Yours are idle words. Had you not meddled this would not have happened. A fool works more mischief with his folly than of malice prepense. If hurt has befallen Marjorie Lindon you shall account for it to me with your life's blood.' 'Let it be so,' said Sydney. 'I am content. If hurt has come to Marjorie, God knows that I am willing enough that death should come to me.' While they wrangled, I continued to search. A little to one side, under the flooring which was still intact, I saw something gleam. By stretching out my hand, I could just manage to reach it,--it was a long plait of woman's hair. It had been cut off at the roots,--so close to the head in one place that the scalp itself had been cut, so that the hair was clotted with blood. They were so occupied with each other that they took no notice of me. I had to call their attention to my discovery. 'Gentlemen, I fear that I have here something which will distress you,--is not this Miss Lindon's hair?' They recognised it on the instant. Lessingham, snatching it from my hands, pressed it to his lips. 'This is mine,--I shall at least have something.' He spoke with a grimness which was a little startling. He held the silken tresses at arm's length. 'This points to murder,--foul, cruel, causeless murder. As I live, I will devote my all,--money, time, reputation!--to gaining vengeance on the wretch who did this deed.' Atherton chimed in. 'To that I say, Amen!' He lifted his hand. 'God is my witness!' 'It seems to me, gentlemen, that we move too fast,--to my mind it does not by any means of necessity point to murder. On the contrary, I doubt if murder has been done. Indeed, I don't mind owning that I have a theory of my own which points all the other way.' Lessingham caught me by the sleeve. 'Mr Champnell, tell me your theory.' 'I will, a little later. Of course it may be altogether wrong;--though I fancy it is not; I will explain my reasons when we come to talk of it. But, at present, there are things which must be done.' 'I vote for tearing up every board in the house!' cried Sydney. 'And for pulling the whole infernal place to pieces. It's a conjurer's den.--I shouldn't be surprised if cabby's old gent is staring at us all the while from some peephole of his own.' We examined the entire house, methodically, so far as we were able, inch by inch. Not another board proved loose,--to lift those which were nailed down required tools, and those we were without. We sounded all the walls,--with the exception of the party walls they were the usual lath and plaster constructions, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. The ceilings were intact; if anything was concealed in them it must have been there some time,--the cement was old and dirty. We took the closet to pieces; examined the chimneys; peered into the kitchen oven and the copper;--in short, we pried into everything which, with the limited means at our disposal, could be pried into,--without result. At the end we found ourselves dusty, dirty, and discomfited. The cabman's 'old gent' remained as much a mystery as ever, and no further trace had been discovered of Miss Lindon. Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin. 'Now what's to be done? There seems to be just nothing in the place at all, and yet that there is, and that it's the key to the whole confounded business I should be disposed to swear.' 'In that case I would suggest that you should stay and look for it. The cabman can go and look for the requisite tools, or a workman to assist you, if you like. For my part it appears to me that evidence of another sort is, for the moment, of paramount importance; and I propose to commence my search for it by making a call at the house which is over the way.' I had observed, on our arrival, that the road only contained two houses which were in anything like a finished state,--that which we were in, and another, some fifty or sixty yards further down, on the opposite side. It was to this I referred. The twain immediately proffered their companionship. 'I will come with you,' said Mr Lessingham. 'And I,' echoed Sydney. 'We'll leave this sweet homestead in charge of the cabman,--I'll pull it to pieces afterwards.' He went out and spoke to the driver. 'Cabby, we're going to pay a visit to the little crib over there,--you keep an eye on this one. And if you see a sign of anyone being about the place,--living, or dead, or anyhow--you give me a yell. I shall be on the lookout, and I'll be with you before you can say Jack Robinson.' 'You bet I'll yell,--I'll raise the hair right off you.' The fellow grinned. 'But I don't know if you gents are hiring me by the day,--I want to change my horse; he ought to have been in his stable a couple of hours ago.' 'Never mind your horse,--let him rest a couple of hours extra to-morrow to make up for those he has lost to-day. I'll take care you don't lose anything by this little job,--or your horse either.--By the way, look here,--this will be better than yelling.' Taking a revolver out of his trousers' pocket he handed it up to the grinning driver. 'If that old gent of yours does appear, you have a pop at him,--I shall hear that easier than a yell. You can put a bullet through him if you like,--I give you my word it won't be murder.' 'I don't care if it is,' declared the cabman, handling the weapon like one who was familiar with arms of precision. 'I used to fancy my revolver shooting when I was with the colours, and if I do get a chance I'll put a shot through the old hunks, if only to prove to you that I'm no liar.' Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell,--nor whether Atherton meant what he said in answer. 'If you shoot him I'll give you fifty pounds.' 'All right!' The driver laughed. 'I'll do my best to earn that fifty!' CHAPTER XXXIX MISS LOUISA COLEMAN That the house over the way was tenanted was plain to all the world,--at least one occupant sat gazing through the window of the first floor front room. An old woman in a cap,--one of those large old-fashioned caps which our grandmothers used to wear, tied with strings under the chin. It was a bow window, and as she was seated in the bay looking right in our direction she could hardly have failed to see us as we advanced,--indeed she continued to stare at us all the while with placid calmness. Yet I knocked once, twice, and yet again without the slightest notice being taken of my summons. Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein. 'Knockers in this part of the world seem intended for ornament only,--nobody seems to pay any attention to them when they're used. The old lady upstairs must be either deaf or dotty.' He went out into the road to see if she still was there. 'She's looking at me as calmly as you please,--what does she think we're doing here, I wonder; playing a tune on her front door by way of a little amusement?--Madam!' He took off his hat and waved it to her. 'Madam! might I observe that if you won't condescend to notice that we're here your front door will run the risk of being severely injured!--She don't care for me any more than if I was nothing at all,--sound another tattoo upon that knocker. Perhaps she's so deaf that nothing short of a cataclysmal uproar will reach her auditory nerves.' She immediately proved, however, that she was nothing of the sort. Hardly had the sounds of my further knocking died away than, throwing up the window, she thrust out her head and addressed me in a fashion which, under the circumstances, was as unexpected as it was uncalled for. 'Now, young man, you needn't be in such a hurry!' Sydney explained. 'Pardon me, madam, it's not so much a hurry we're in as pressed for time,--this is a matter of life and death.' She turned her attention to Sydney,--speaking with a frankness for which, I imagine, he was unprepared. 'I don't want none of your imperence, young man. I've seen you before,--you've been hanging about here the whole day long!--and I don't like the looks of you, and so I'll let you know. That's my front door, and that's my knocker,--I'll come down and open when I like, but I'm not going to be hurried, and if the knocker's so much as touched again, I won't come down at all.' She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between mirth and indignation. 'That's a nice old lady, on my honour,--one of the good old crusty sort. Agreeable characters this neighbourhood seems to grow,--a sojourn hereabouts should do one good. Unfortunately I don't feel disposed just now to stand and kick my heels in the road.' Again saluting the old dame by raising his hat he shouted to her at the top of his voice. 'Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for troubling you, but this is a matter in which every second is of vital importance,--would you allow me to ask you one or two questions?' Up went the window; out came the old lady's head. 'Now, young man, you needn't put yourself out to holler at me,--I won't be hollered at! I'll come down and open that door in five minutes by the clock on my mantelpiece, and not a moment before.' The fiat delivered, down came the window. Sydney looked rueful,--he consulted his watch. 'I don't know what you think, Champnell, but I really doubt if this comfortable creature can tell us anything worth waiting another five minutes to hear. We mustn't let the grass grow under our feet, and time is getting on.' I was of a different opinion,--and said so. 'I'm afraid, Atherton, that I can't agree with you. She seems to have noticed you hanging about all day; and it is at least possible that she has noticed a good deal which would be well worth our hearing. What more promising witness are we likely to find?--her house is the only one which overlooks the one we have just quitted. I am of opinion that it may not only prove well worth our while to wait five minutes, but also that it would be as well, if possible, not to offend her by the way. She's not likely to afford us the information we require if you do.' 'Good. If that's what you think I'm sure I'm willing to wait,--only it's to be hoped that that clock upon her mantelpiece moves quicker than its mistress.' Presently, when about a minute had gone, he called to the cabman. 'Seen a sign of anything?' The cabman shouted back. 'Ne'er a sign,--you'll hear a sound of popguns when I do.' Those five minutes did seem long ones. But at last Sydney, from his post of vantage in the road, informed us that the old lady was moving. 'She's getting up;--she's leaving the window;--let's hope to goodness she's coming down to open the door. That's been the longest five minutes I've known.' I could hear uncertain footsteps descending the stairs. They came along the passage. The door was opened--'on the chain.' The old lady peered at us through an aperture of about six inches. 'I don't know what you young men think you're after, but have all three of you in my house I won't. I'll have him and you'--a skinny finger was pointed to Lessingham and me; then it was directed towards Atherton--'but have him I won't. So if it's anything particular you want to say to me, you'll just tell him to go away.' On hearing this Sydney's humility was abject. His hat was in his hand,--he bent himself double. 'Suffer me to make you a million apologies, madam, if I have in any way offended you; nothing, I assure you, could have been farther from my intention, or from my thoughts.' 'I don't want none of your apologies, and I don't want none of you neither; I don't like the looks of you, and so I tell you. Before I let anybody into my house you'll have to sling your hook.' The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney. 'The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for us over the way.' He shrugged his shoulders, and groaned,--half in jest, half in earnest. 'If I must I suppose I must,--it's the first time I've been refused admittance to a lady's house in all my life! What have I done to deserve this thing?--If you keep me waiting long I'll tear that infernal den to pieces!' He sauntered across the road, viciously kicking the stones as he went. The door reopened. 'Has that other young man gone?' 'He has.' 'Then now I'll let you in. Have him inside my house I won't.' The chain was removed. Lessingham and I entered. Then the door was refastened and the chain replaced. Our hostess showed us into the front room on the ground floor; it was sparsely furnished and not too clean,--but there were chairs enough for us to sit upon; which she insisted on our occupying. 'Sit down, do,--I can't abide to see folks standing; it gives me the fidgets.' So soon as we were seated, without any overture on our parts she plunged in medias res. 'I know what it is you've come about,--I know! You want me to tell you who it is as lives in the house over the road. Well, I can tell you,--and I dare bet a shilling that I'm about the only one who can.' I inclined my head. 'Indeed. Is that so, madam?' She was huffed at once. 'Don't madam me,--I can't bear none of your lip service. I'm a plain-spoken woman, that's what I am, and I like other people's tongues to be as plain as mine. My name's Miss Louisa Coleman; but I'm generally called Miss Coleman,--I'm only called Louisa by my relatives.' Since she was apparently between seventy and eighty--and looked every year of her apparent age--I deemed that possible. Miss Coleman was evidently a character. If one was desirous of getting information out of her it would be necessary to allow her to impart it in her own manner,--to endeavour to induce her to impart it in anybody else's would be time clean wasted. We had Sydney's fate before our eyes. She started with a sort of roundabout preamble. 'This property is mine; it was left me by my uncle, the late George Henry Jobson,--he's buried in Hammersmith Cemetery just over the way,--he left me the whole of it. It's one of the finest building sites near London, and it increases in value every year, and I'm not going to let it for another twenty, by which time the value will have more than trebled,--so if that is what you've come about, as heaps of people do, you might have saved yourselves the trouble. I keep the boards standing, just to let people know that the ground is to let,--though, as I say, it won't be for another twenty years, when it'll be for the erection of high-class mansions only, same as there is in Grosvenor Square,--no shops or public houses, and none of your shanties. I live in this place just to keep an eye upon the property,--and as for the house over the way, I've never tried to let it, and it never has been let, not until a month ago, when, one morning, I had this letter. You can see it if you like.' She handed me a greasy envelope which she ferreted out of a capacious pocket which was suspended from her waist, and which she had to lift up her skirt to reach. The envelope was addressed, in unformed characters, 'Miss Louisa Coleman, The Rhododendrons, Convolvulus Avenue, High Oaks Park, West Kensington.'--I felt, if the writer had not been of a humorous turn of mind, and drawn on his imagination, and this really was the lady's correct address, then there must be something in a name. The letter within was written in the same straggling, characterless caligraphy,--I should have said, had I been asked offhand, that the whole thing was the composition of a servant girl. The composition was about on a par with the writing. 'The undersigned would be oblidged if Miss Coleman would let her emptey house. I do not know the rent but send fifty pounds. If more will send. Please address, Mohamed el Kheir, Post Office, Sligo Street, London.' It struck me as being as singular an application for a tenancy as I remembered to have encountered. When I passed it on to Lessingham, he seemed to think so too. 'This is a curious letter, Miss Coleman.' 'So I thought,--and still more so when I found the fifty pounds inside. There were five ten-pound notes, all loose, and the letter not even registered. If I had been asked what was the rent of the house, I should have said, at the most, not more than twenty pounds,--because, between you and me, it wants a good bit of doing up, and is hardly fit to live in as it stands.' I had had sufficient evidence of the truth of this altogether apart from the landlady's frank admission. 'Why, for all he could have done to help himself I might have kept the money, and only sent him a receipt for a quarter. And some folks would have done,--but I'm not one of that sort myself, and shouldn't care to be. So I sent this here party,--I never could pronounce his name, and never shall--a receipt for a year.' Miss Coleman paused to smooth her apron, and consider. 'Well, the receipt should have reached this here party on the Thursday morning, as it were,--I posted it on the Wednesday night, and on the Thursday, after breakfast, I thought I'd go over the way to see if there was any little thing I could do,--because there wasn't hardly a whole pane of glass in the place,--when I all but went all of a heap. When I looked across the road, blessed it the party wasn't in already,--at least as much as he ever was in, which, so far as I can make out, never has been anything particular,--though how he had got in, unless it was through a window in the middle of the night, is more than I should care to say,--there was nobody in the house when I went to bed, that I could pretty nearly take my Bible oath,--yet there was the blind up at the parlour, and, what's more, it was down, and it's been down pretty nearly ever since. '"Well," I says to myself, "for right down imperence this beats anything,--why he's in the place before he knows if I'll let him have it. Perhaps he thinks I haven't got a word to say in the matter,--fifty pounds or no fifty pounds, I'll soon show him." So I slips on my bonnet, and I walks over the road, and I hammers at the door. 'Well, I have seen people hammering since then, many a one, and how they've kept it up has puzzled me,--for an hour, some of them,--but I was the first one as begun it. I hammers, and I hammers, and I kept on hammering, but it wasn't no more use than if I'd been hammering at a tombstone. So I starts rapping at the window, but that wasn't no use neither. So I goes round behind, and I hammers at the back door,--but there, I couldn't make anyone hear nohow. So I says to myself, "Perhaps the party as is in, ain't in, in a manner of speaking; but I'll keep an eye on the house, and when he is in I'll take care that he ain't out again before I've had a word to say." 'So I come back home, and as I said I would, I kept an eye on the house the whole of that livelong day, but never a soul went either out or in. But the next day, which it was a Friday, I got out of bed about five o'clock, to see if it was raining, through my having an idea of taking a little excursion if the weather was fine, when I see a party coming down the road. He had on one of them dirty-coloured bed-cover sort of things, and it was wrapped all over his head and round his body, like, as I have been told, them there Arabs wear,--and, indeed, I've seen them in them myself at West Brompton, when they was in the exhibition there. It was quite fine, and broad day, and I see him as plainly as I see you,--he comes skimming along at a tear of a pace, pulls up at the house over the way, opens the front door, and lets himself in. '"So," I says to myself, "there you are. Well, Mr Arab, or whatever, or whoever, you may be, I'll take good care that you don't go out again before you've had a word from me. I'll show you that landladies have their rights, like other Christians, in this country, however it may be in yours." So I kept an eye on the house, to see that he didn't go out again, and nobody never didn't, and between seven and eight I goes and I knocks at the door,--because I thought to myself that the earlier I was the better it might be. 'If you'll believe me, no more notice was taken of me than if I was one of the dead. I hammers, and I hammers, till my wrist was aching, I daresay I hammered twenty times,--and then I went round to the back door, and I hammers at that,--but it wasn't the least good in the world. I was that provoked to think I should be treated as if I was nothing and nobody, by a dirty foreigner, who went about in a bed-gown through the public streets, that it was all I could do to hold myself. 'I comes round to the front again, and I starts hammering at the window, with every knuckle on my hands, and I calls out, "I'm Miss Louisa Coleman, and I'm the owner of this house, and you can't deceive me,--I saw you come in, and you're in now, and if you don't come and speak to me this moment I'll have the police." 'All of a sudden, when I was least expecting it, and was hammering my very hardest at the pane, up goes the blind, and up goes the window too, and the most awful-looking creature ever I heard of, not to mention seeing, puts his head right into my face,--he was more like a hideous baboon than anything else, let alone a man. I was struck all of a heap, and plumps down on the little wall, and all but tumbles head over heels backwards, And he starts shrieking, in a sort of a kind of English, and in such a voice as I'd never heard the like,--it was like a rusty steam engine. '"Go away! go away! I don't want you! I will not have you,--never! You have your fifty pounds,--you have your money,--that is the whole of you,--that is all you want! You come to me no more!--never!--never no more!--or you be sorry!--Go away!" 'I did go away, and that as fast as ever my legs would carry me,--what with his looks, and what with his voice, and what with the way that he went on, I was nothing but a mass of trembling. As for answering him back, or giving him a piece of my mind, as I had meant to, I wouldn't have done it not for a thousand pounds. I don't mind confessing, between you and me, that I had to swallow four cups of tea, right straight away, before my nerves was steady. '"Well," I says to myself, when I did feel, as it might be, a little more easy, "you never have let that house before, and now you've let it with a vengeance,--so you have. If that there new tenant of yours isn't the greatest villain that ever went unhung it must be because he's got near relations what's as bad as himself,--because two families like his I'm sure there can't be. A nice sort of Arab party to have sleeping over the road he is!" 'But after a time I cools down, as it were,--because I'm one of them sort as likes to see on both sides of a question. "After all," I says to myself, "he has paid his rent, and fifty pounds is fifty pounds,--I doubt if the whole house is worth much more, and he can't do much damage to it whatever he does." 'I shouldn't have minded, so far as that went, if he'd set fire to the place, for, between ourselves, it's insured for a good bit over its value. So I decided that I'd let things be as they were, and see how they went on. But from that hour to this I've never spoken to the man, and never wanted to, and wouldn't, not of my own free will, not for a shilling a time,--that face of his will haunt me if I live till Noah, as the saying is. I've seen him going in and out at all hours of the day and night,--that Arab party's a mystery if ever there was one,--he always goes tearing along as if he's flying for his life. Lots of people have come to the house, all sorts and kinds, men and women--they've been mostly women, and even little children. I've seen them hammer and hammer at that front door, but never a one have I seen let in,--or yet seen taken any notice of, and I think I may say, and yet tell no lie, that I've scarcely took my eye off the house since he's been inside it, over and over again in the middle of the night have I got up to have a look, so that I've not missed much that has took place. 'What's puzzled me is the noises that's come from the house. Sometimes for days together there's not been a sound, it might have been a house of the dead; and then, all through the night, there've been yells and screeches, squawks and screams,--I never heard nothing like it. I have thought, and more than once, that the devil himself must be in that front room, let alone all the rest of his demons. And as for cats!--where they've come from I can't think. I didn't use to notice hardly a cat in the neighbourhood till that there Arab party came,--there isn't much to attract them; but since he came there's been regiments. Sometimes at night there's been troops about the place, screeching like mad,--I've wished them farther, I can tell you. That Arab party must be fond of 'em. I've seen them inside the house, at the windows, upstairs and downstairs, as it seemed to me, a dozen at a time. CHAPTER XL WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW As Miss Coleman had paused, as if her narrative was approaching a conclusion, I judged it expedient to make an attempt to bring the record as quickly as possible up to date. 'I take it, Miss Coleman, that you have observed what has occurred in the house to-day.' She tightened her nut-cracker jaws and glared at me disdainfully,--her dignity was ruffled. 'I'm coming to it, aren't I?--if you'll let me. If you've got no manners I'll learn you some. One doesn't like to be hurried at my time of life, young man.' I was meekly silent;--plainly, if she was to talk, every one else must listen. 'During the last few days there have been some queer goings on over the road,--out of the common queer, I mean, for goodness knows that they always have been queer enough. That Arab party has been flitting about like a creature possessed,--I've seen him going in and out twenty times a day. This morning--' She paused,--to fix her eyes on Lessingham. She apparently observed his growing interest as she approached the subject which had brought us there,--and resented it. 'Don't look at me like that, young man, because I won't have it. And as for questions, I may answer questions when I'm done, but don't you dare to ask me one before, because I won't be interrupted.' Up to then Lessingham had not spoken a word,--but it seemed as if she was endowed with the faculty of perceiving the huge volume of the words which he had left unuttered. 'This morning--as I've said already,--' she glanced at Lessingham as if she defied his contradiction--'when that Arab party came home it was just on the stroke of seven. I know what was the exact time because, when I went to the door to the milkman, my clock was striking the half hour, and I always keep it thirty minutes fast. As I was taking the milk, the man said to me, "Hollo, Miss Coleman, here's your friend coming along." "What friend?" I says,--for I ain't got no friends, as I know, round here, nor yet, I hope no enemies neither. 'And I looks round, and there was the Arab party coming tearing down the road, his bedcover thing all flying in the wind, and his arms straight out in front of him,--I never did see anyone go at such a pace. "My goodness," I says, "I wonder he don't do himself an injury." "I wonder someone else don't do him an injury," says the milkman. "The very sight of him is enough to make my milk go sour." And he picked up his pail and went away quite grumpy,--though what that Arab party's done to him is more than I can say.--I have always noticed that milkman's temper's short like his measure. I wasn't best pleased with him for speaking of that Arab party as my friend, which he never has been, and never won't be, and never could be neither. 'Five persons went to the house after the milkman was gone, and that there Arab party was safe inside,--three of them was commercials, that I know, because afterwards they came to me. But of course they none of them got no chance with that there Arab party except of hammering at his front door, which ain't what you might call a paying game, nor nice for the temper but for that I don't blame him, for if once those commercials do begin talking they'll talk for ever. 'Now I'm coming to this afternoon.' I thought it was about time,--though for the life of me, I did not dare to hint as much. 'Well, it might have been three, or it might have been half past, anyhow it was thereabouts, when up there comes two men and a woman, which one of the men was that young man what's a friend of yours. "Oh," I says to myself, "here's something new in callers, I wonder what it is they're wanting." That young man what was a friend of yours, he starts hammering, and hammering, as the custom was with every one who came, and, as usual, no more notice was taken of him than nothing,--though I knew that all the time the Arab party was indoors.' At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a question. 'You are sure he was indoors?' She took it better than I feared she might. 'Of course I'm sure,--hadn't I seen him come in at seven, and he never hadn't gone out since, for I don't believe that I'd taken my eyes off the place not for two minutes together, and I'd never had a sight of him. If he wasn't indoors, where was he then?' For the moment, so far as I was concerned, the query was unanswerable. She triumphantly continued: 'Instead of doing what most did, when they'd had enough of hammering, and going away, these three they went round to the back, and I'm blessed if they mustn't have got through the kitchen window, woman and all, for all of a sudden the blind in the front room was pulled not up, but down--dragged down it was, and there was that young man what's a friend of yours standing with it in his hand. '"Well," I says to myself, "if that ain't cool I should like to know what is. If, when you ain't let in, you can let yourself in, and that without so much as saying by your leave, or with your leave, things is coming to a pretty pass. Wherever can that Arab party be, and whatever can he be thinking of, to let them go on like that because that he's the sort to allow a liberty to be took with him, and say nothing, I don't believe." 'Every moment I expects to hear a noise and see a row begin, but, so far as I could make out, all was quiet and there wasn't nothing of the kind. So I says to myself, "There's more in this than meets the eye, and them three parties must have right upon their side, or they wouldn't be doing what they are doing in the way they are, there'd be a shindy." 'Presently, in about five minutes, the front door opens, and a young man--not the one what's your friend, but the other--comes sailing out, and through the gate, and down the road, as stiff and upright as a grenadier,--I never see anyone walk more upright, and few as fast. At his heels comes the young man what is your friend, and it seems to me that he couldn't make out what this other was a-doing of. I says to myself, "There's been a quarrel between them two, and him as has gone has hooked it." This young man what is your friend he stood at the gate, all of a fidget, staring after the other with all his eyes, as if he couldn't think what to make of him, and the young woman, she stood on the doorstep, staring after him too. 'As the young man what had hooked it turned the corner, and was out of sight, all at once your friend he seemed to make up his mind, and he started off running as hard as he could pelt,--and the young woman was left alone. I expected, every minute, to see him come back with the other young man, and the young woman, by the way she hung about the gate, she seemed to expect it too. But no, nothing of the kind. So when, as I expect, she'd had enough of waiting, she went into the house again, and I see her pass the front room window. After a while, back she comes to the gate, and stands looking and looking, but nothing was to be seen of either of them young men. When she'd been at the gate, I daresay five minutes, back she goes into the house,--and I never saw nothing of her again.' 'You never saw anything of her again?--Are you sure she went back into the house?' 'As sure as I am that I see you.' 'I suppose that you didn't keep a constant watch upon the premises?' 'But that's just what I did do. I felt something queer was going on, and I made up my mind to see it through. And when I make up my mind to a thing like that I'm not easy to turn aside. I never moved off the chair at my bedroom window, and I never took my eyes off the house, not till you come knocking at my front door.' 'But, since the young lady is certainly not in the house at present, she must have eluded your observation, and, in some manner, have left it without your seeing her.' 'I don't believe she did, I don't see how she could have done,--there's something queer about that house, since that Arab party's been inside it. But though I didn't see her, I did see someone else.' 'Who was that?' 'A young man.' 'A young man?' 'Yes, a young man, and that's what puzzled me, and what's been puzzling me ever since, for see him go in I never did do.' 'Can you describe him?' 'Not as to the face, for he wore a dirty cloth cap pulled down right over it, and he walked so quickly that I never had a proper look. But I should know him anywhere if I saw him, if only because of his clothes and his walk.' 'What was there peculiar about his clothes and his walk?' 'Why, his clothes were that old, and torn, and dirty, that a ragman wouldn't have given a thank you for them,--and as for fit,--there wasn't none, they hung upon him like a scarecrow--he was a regular figure of fun; I should think the boys would call after him if they saw him in the street. As for his walk, he walked off just like the first young man had done, he strutted along with his shoulders back, and his head in the air, and that stiff and straight that my kitchen poker would have looked crooked beside of him.' 'Did nothing happen to attract your attention between the young lady's going back into the house and the coming out of this young man?' Miss Coleman cogitated. 'Now you mention it there did,--though I should have forgotten all about it if you hadn't asked me,--that comes of your not letting me tell the tale in my own way. About twenty minutes after the young woman had gone in someone put up the blind in the front room, which that young man had dragged right down, I couldn't see who it was for the blind was between us, and it was about ten minutes after that that young man came marching out.' 'And then what followed?' 'Why, in about another ten minutes that Arab party himself comes scooting through the door.' 'The Arab party?' 'Yes, the Arab party! The sight of him took me clean aback. Where he'd been, and what he'd been doing with himself while them there people played hi-spy-hi about his premises I'd have given a shilling out of my pocket to have known, but there he was, as large as life, and carrying a bundle.' 'A bundle?' 'A bundle, on his head, like a muffin-man carries his tray. It was a great thing, you never would have thought he could have carried it, and it was easy to see that it was as much as he could manage; it bent him nearly double, and he went crawling along like a snail,--it took him quite a time to get to the end of the road.' Mr Lessingham leaped up from his seat, crying, 'Marjorie was in that bundle!' 'I doubt it,' I said. He moved about the room distractedly, wringing his hands. 'She was! she must have been! God help us all!' 'I repeat that I doubt it. If you will be advised by me you will wait awhile before you arrive at any such conclusion.' All at once there was a tapping at the window pane. Atherton was staring at us from without. He shouted through the glass, 'Come out of that, you fossils!--I've news for you!' CHAPTER XLI THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB Miss Coleman, getting up in a fluster, went hurrying to the door. 'I won't have that young man in my house. I won't have him! Don't let him dare to put his nose across my doorstep.' I endeavoured to appease her perturbation. 'I promise you that he shall not come in, Miss Coleman. My friend here, and I, will go and speak to him outside.' She held the front door open just wide enough to enable Lessingham and me to slip through, then she shut it after us with a bang. She evidently had a strong objection to any intrusion on Sydney's part. Standing just without the gate he saluted us with a characteristic vigour which was scarcely flattering to our late hostess. Behind him was a constable. 'I hope you two have been mewed in with that old pussy long enough. While you've been tittle-tattling I've been doing,--listen to what this bobby's got to say.' The constable, his thumbs thrust inside his belt, wore an indulgent smile upon his countenance. He seemed to find Sydney amusing. He spoke in a deep bass voice,--as if it issued from his boots. 'I don't know that I've got anything to say. It was plain that Sydney thought otherwise. 'You wait till I've given this pretty pair of gossips a lead, officer, then I'll trot you out.' He turned to us. 'After I'd poked my nose into every dashed hole in that infernal den, and been rewarded with nothing but a pain in the back for my trouble, I stood cooling my heels on the doorstep, wondering if I should fight the cabman, or get him to fight me, just to pass the time away,--for he says he can box, and he looks it,--when who should come strolling along but this magnificent example of the metropolitan constabulary.' He waved his hand towards the policeman, whose grin grew wider. 'I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then when we'd had enough of admiring each other's fine features and striking proportions, he said to me, "Has he gone?" I said, "Who?--Baxter?--or Bob Brown?" He said, "No, the Arab." I said, "What do you know about any Arab?" He said, "Well, I saw him in the Broadway about three-quarters of an hour ago, and then, seeing you here, and the house all open, I wondered if he had gone for good." With that I almost jumped out of my skin, though you can bet your life I never showed it. I said, "How do you know it was he?" He said, "It was him right enough, there's no doubt about that. If you've seen him once, you're not likely to forget him." "Where was he going?" "He was talking to a cabman,--four-wheeler. He'd got a great bundle on his head,--wanted to take it inside with him. Cabman didn't seem to see it." That was enough for me,--I picked this most deserving officer up in my arms, and carried him across the road to you two fellows like a flash of lightning.' Since the policeman was six feet three or four, and more than sufficiently broad in proportion, his scarcely seemed the kind of figure to be picked up in anybody's arms and carried like a 'flash of lightning,' which,--as his smile grew more indulgent, he himself appeared to think. Still, even allowing for Atherton's exaggeration, the news which he had brought was sufficiently important. I questioned the constable upon my own account. 'There is my card, officer, probably, before the day is over, a charge of a very serious character will be preferred against the person who has been residing in the house over the way. In the meantime it is of the utmost importance that a watch should be kept upon his movements. I suppose you have no sort of doubt that the person you saw in the Broadway was the one in question?' 'Not a morsel. I know him as well as I do my own brother,--we all do upon this beat. He's known amongst us as the Arab. I've had my eye on him ever since he came to the place. A queer fish he is. I always have said that he's up to some game or other. I never came across one like him for flying about in all sorts of weather, at all hours of the night, always tearing along as if for his life. As I was telling this gentleman I saw him in the Broadway,--well, now it's about an hour since, perhaps a little more. I was coming on duty when I saw a crowd in front of the District Railway Station,--and there was the Arab, having a sort of argument with the cabman. He had a great bundle on his head, five or six feet long, perhaps longer. He wanted to take this great bundle with him into the cab, and the cabman, he didn't see it.' 'You didn't wait to see him drive off.' 'No,--I hadn't time. I was due at the station,--I was cutting it pretty fine as it was.' 'You didn't speak to him,--or to the cabman?' 'No, it wasn't any business of mine you understand. The whole thing just caught my eye as I was passing.' 'And you didn't take the cabman's number?' 'No, well, as far as that goes it wasn't needful. I know the cabman, his name and all about him, his stable's in Bradmore.' I whipped out my note-book. 'Give me his address.' 'I don't know what his Christian name is, Tom, I believe, but I'm not sure. Anyhow his surname's Ellis and his address is Church Mews, St John's Road, Bradmore,--I don't know his number, but any one will tell you which is his place, if you ask for Four-Wheel Ellis,--that's the name he's known by among his pals because of his driving a four-wheeler.' 'Thank you, officer. I am obliged to you.' Two half-crowns changed hands. 'If you will keep an eye on the house and advise me at the address which you will find on my card, of any thing which takes place there during the next few days, you will do me a service.' We had clambered back into the hansom, the driver was just about to start, when the constable was struck by a sudden thought. 'One moment, sir,--blessed if I wasn't going to forget the most important bit of all. I did hear him tell Ellis where to drive him to,--he kept saying it over and over again, in that queer lingo of his. "Waterloo Railway Station, Waterloo Railway Station." "All right," said Ellis, "I'll drive you to Waterloo Railway Station right enough, only I'm not going to have that bundle of yours inside my cab. There isn't room for it, so you put it on the roof." "To Waterloo Railway Station," said the Arab, "I take my bundle with me to Waterloo Railway Station,--I take it with me." "Who says you don't take it with you?" said Ellis. "You can take it, and twenty more besides, for all I care, only you don't take it inside my cab,--put it on the roof." "I take it with me to Waterloo Railway Station," said the Arab, and there they were, wrangling and jangling, and neither seeming to be able to make out what the other was after, and the people all laughing.' 'Waterloo Railway Station,--you are sure that was what he said?' 'I'll take my oath to it, because I said to myself, when I heard it, "I wonder what you'll have to pay for that little lot, for the District Railway Station's outside the four-mile radius."' As we drove off I was inclined to ask myself, a little bitterly--and perhaps unjustly--if it were not characteristic of the average London policeman to almost forget the most important part of his information,--at any rate to leave it to the last and only to bring it to the front on having his palm crossed with silver. As the hansom bowled along we three had what occasionally approached a warm discussion. 'Marjorie was in that bundle,' began Lessingham, in the most lugubrious of tones, and with the most woe-begone of faces. 'I doubt it,' I observed. 'She was,--I feel it,--I know it. She was either dead and mutilated, or gagged and drugged and helpless. All that remains is vengeance.' 'I repeat that I doubt it.' Atherton struck in. 'I am bound to say, with the best will in the world to think otherwise, that I agree with Lessingham.' 'You are wrong.' 'It's all very well for you to talk in that cock-sure way, but it's easier for you to say I'm wrong than to prove it. If I am wrong, and if Lessingham's wrong, how do you explain his extraordinary insistance on taking it inside the cab with him, which the bobby describes? If there wasn't something horrible, awful in that bundle of his, of which he feared the discovery, why was he so reluctant to have it placed upon the roof?' 'There probably was something in it which he was particularly anxious should not be discovered, but I doubt if it was anything of the kind which you suggest.' 'Here is Marjorie in a house alone--nothing has been seen of her since,--her clothing, her hair, is found hidden away under the floor. This scoundrel sallies forth with a huge bundle on his head,--the bobby speaks of it being five or six feet long, or longer,--a bundle which he regards with so much solicitude that he insists on never allowing it to go, for a single instant, out of his sight and reach. What is in the thing? don't all the facts most unfortunately point in one direction?' Mr Lessingham covered his face with his hands, and groaned. 'I fear that Mr Atherton is right.' 'I differ from you both.' Sydney at once became heated. 'Then perhaps you can tell us what was in the bundle?' 'I fancy I could make a guess at the contents.' 'Oh you could, could you, then, perhaps, for our sakes, you'll make it,--and not play the oracular owl!--Lessingham and I are interested in this business, after all.' 'It contained the bearer's personal property: that, and nothing more. Stay! before you jeer at me, suffer me to finish. If I am not mistaken as to the identity of the person whom the constable describes as the Arab, I apprehend that the contents of that bundle were of much more importance to him than if they had consisted of Miss Lindon, either dead or living. More. I am inclined to suspect that if the bundle was placed on the roof of the cab, and if the driver did meddle with it, and did find out the contents, and understand them, he would have been driven, out of hand, stark staring mad.' Sydney was silent, as if he reflected. I imagine he perceived there was something in what I said. 'But what has become of Miss Lindon?' 'I fancy that Miss Lindon, at this moment, is--somewhere; I don't, just now, know exactly where, but I hope very shortly to be able to give you a clearer notion,--attired in a rotten, dirty pair of boots; a filthy, tattered pair of trousers; a ragged, unwashed apology for a shirt; a greasy, ancient, shapeless coat; and a frowsy peaked cloth cap.' They stared at me, opened-eyed. Atherton was the first to speak. 'What on earth do you mean?' 'I mean that it seems to me that the facts point in the direction of my conclusions rather than yours--and that very strongly too. Miss Coleman asserts that she saw Miss London return into the house; that within a few minutes the blind was replaced at the front window; and that shortly after a young man, attired in the costume I have described, came walking out of the front door. I believe that young man was Miss Marjorie Lindon.' Lessingham and Atherton both broke out into interrogations, with Sydney, as usual, loudest. 'But--man alive! what on earth should make her do a thing like that? Marjorie, the most retiring, modest girl on all God's earth, walk about in broad daylight, in such a costume, and for no reason at all! my dear Champnell, you are suggesting that she first of all went mad.' 'She was in a state of trance.' 'Good God!--Champnell!' 'Well?' 'Then you think that--juggling villain did get hold of her?' 'Undoubtedly. Here is my view of the case, mind it is only a hypothesis and you must take it for what it is worth. It seems to me quite clear that the Arab, as we will call the person for the sake of identification, was somewhere about the premises when you thought he wasn't.' 'But--where? We looked upstairs, and downstairs, and everywhere--where could he have been?' 'That, as at present advised, I am not prepared to say, but I think you may take it for granted that he was there. He hypnotised the man Holt, and sent him away, intending you to go after him, and so being rid of you both--' 'The deuce he did, Champnell! You write me down an ass!' 'As soon as the coast was clear he discovered himself to Miss Lindon, who, I expect, was disagreeably surprised, and hypnotised her.' 'The hound!' 'The devil!' The first exclamation was Lessingham's, the second Sydney's. 'He then constrained her to strip herself to the skin--' 'The wretch!' 'The fiend!' 'He cut off her hair; he hid it and her clothes under the floor where we found them--where I think it probable that he had already some ancient masculine garments concealed--' 'By Jove! I shouldn't be surprised if they were Holt's. I remember the man saying that that nice joker stripped him of his duds,--and certainly when I saw him,--and when Marjorie found him!--he had absolutely nothing on but a queer sort of cloak. Can it be possible that that humorous professor of hankey-pankey--may all the maledictions of the accursed alight upon his head!--can have sent Marjorie Lindon, the daintiest damsel in the land!--into the streets of London rigged out in Holt's old togs!' 'As to that, I am not able to give an authoritative opinion, but, if I understand you aright, it at least is possible. Anyhow I am disposed to think that he sent Miss Lindon after the man Holt, taking it for granted that he had eluded you.--' 'That's it. Write me down an ass again!' 'That he did elude you, you have yourself admitted.' 'That's because I stopped talking with that mutton-headed bobby,--I'd have followed the man to the ends of the earth if it hadn't been for that.' 'Precisely; the reason is immaterial, it is the fact with which we are immediately concerned. He did elude you. And I think you will find that Miss Lindon and Mr Holt are together at this moment.' 'In men's clothing?' 'Both in men's clothing, or, rather, Miss Lindon is in a man's rags.' 'Great Potiphar! To think of Marjorie like that!' 'And where they are, the Arab is not very far off either.' Lessingham caught me by the arm. 'And what diabolical mischief do you imagine that he proposes to do to her?' I shirked the question. 'Whatever it is, it is our business to prevent his doing it.' 'And where do you think they have been taken?' 'That it will be our immediate business to endeavour to discover,--and here, at any rate, we are at Waterloo.' CHAPTER XLII THE QUARRY DOUBLES I turned towards the booking-office on the main departure platform. As I went, the chief platform inspector, George Bellingham, with whom I had some acquaintance, came out of his office. I stopped him. 'Mr Bellingham, will you be so good as to step with me to the booking-office, and instruct the clerk in charge to answer one or two questions which I wish to put to him. I will explain to you afterwards what is their exact import, but you know me sufficiently to be able to believe me when I say that they refer to a matter in which every moment is of the first importance.' He turned and accompanied us into the interior of the booking-case. 'To which of the clerks, Mr Champnell, do you wish to put your questions?' 'To the one who issues third-class tickets to Southampton.' Bellingham beckoned to a man who was counting a heap of money, and apparently seeking to make it tally with the entries in a huge ledger which lay open before him,--he was a short, slightly-built young fellow, with a pleasant face and smiling eyes. 'Mr Stone, this gentleman wishes to ask you one or two questions.' 'I am at his service.' I put my questions. 'I want to know, Mr Stone, if, in the course of the day, you have issued any tickets to a person dressed in Arab costume?' His reply was prompt. 'I have--by the last train, the 7.25,--three singles.' Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly. 'Can you describe the person?' Mr Stone's eyes twinkled. 'I don't know that I can, except in a general way,--he was uncommonly old and uncommonly ugly, and he had a pair of the most extraordinary eyes I ever saw,--they gave me a sort of all-overish feeling when I saw them glaring at me through the pigeon hole. But I can tell you one thing about him, he had a great bundle on his head, which he steadied with one hand, and as it bulged out in all directions it's presence didn't make him popular with other people who wanted tickets too.' Undoubtedly this was our man. 'You are sure he asked for three tickets?' 'Certain. He said three tickets to Southampton; laid down the exact fare,--nineteen and six--and held up three fingers--like that. Three nasty looking fingers they were, with nails as long as talons.' 'You didn't see who were his companions?' 'I didn't,--I didn't try to look. I gave him his tickets and off he went,--with the people grumbling at him because that bundle of his kept getting in their way.' Bellingham touched me on the arm. 'I can tell you about the Arab of whom Mr Stone speaks. My attention was called to him by his insisting on taking his bundle with him into the carriage,--it was an enormous thing, he could hardly squeeze it through the door; it occupied the entire seat. But as there weren't as many passengers as usual, and he wouldn't or couldn't be made to understand that his precious bundle would be safe in the luggage van along with the rest of the luggage, and as he wasn't the sort of person you could argue with to any advantage, I had him put into an empty compartment, bundle and all.' 'Was he alone then?' 'I thought so at the time, he said nothing about having more than one ticket, or any companions, but just before the train started two other men--English men--got into his compartment; and as I came down the platform, the ticket inspector at the barrier informed me that these two men were with him, because he held tickets for the three, which, as he was a foreigner, and they seemed English, struck the inspector as odd.' 'Could you describe the two men?' 'I couldn't, not particularly, but the man who had charge of the barrier might. I was at the other end of the train when they got in. All I noticed was that one seemed to be a commonplace looking individual and that the other was dressed like a tramp, all rags and tatters, a disreputable looking object he appeared to be.' 'That,' I said to myself, 'was Miss Marjorie Lindon, the lovely daughter of a famous house; the wife-elect of a coming statesman.' To Bellingham I remarked aloud: 'I want you to strain a point, Mr Bellingham, and to do me a service which I assure you you shall never have any cause to regret. I want you to wire instructions down the line to detain this Arab and his companions and to keep them in custody until the receipt of further instructions. They are not wanted by the police as yet, but they will be as soon as I am able to give certain information to the authorities at Scotland Yard,--and wanted very badly. But, as you will perceive for yourself, until I am able to give that information every moment is important.--Where's the Station Superintendent?' 'He's gone. At present I'm in charge.' 'Then will you do this for me? I repeat that you shall never have any reason to regret it.' 'I will if you'll accept all responsibility.' 'I'll do that with the greatest pleasure.' Bellingham looked at his watch. 'It's about twenty minutes to nine. The train's scheduled for Basingstoke at 9.6. If we wire to Basingstoke at once they ought to be ready for them when they come.' 'Good!' The wire was sent. We were shown into Bellingham's office to await results Lessingham paced agitatedly to and fro; he seemed to have reached the limits of his self-control, and to be in a condition in which movement of some sort was an absolute necessity. The mercurial Sydney, on the contrary, leaned back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, and stared at Lessingham, as if he found relief to his feelings in watching his companion's restlessness. I, for my part, drew up as full a precis of the case as I deemed advisable, and as time permitted, which I despatched by one of the company's police to Scotland Yard. Then I turned to my associates. 'Now, gentlemen, it's past dinner time. We may have a journey in front of us. If you take my advice you'll have something to eat.' Lessingham shook his head. 'I want nothing.' 'Nor I,' echoed Sydney. I started up. 'You must pardon my saying nonsense, but surely you of all men, Mr Lessingham, should be aware that you will not improve the situation by rendering yourself incapable of seeing it through. Come and dine.' I haled them off with me, willy nilly, to the refreshment room, I dined,--after a fashion; Mr Lessingham swallowed with difficulty, a plate of soup; Sydney nibbled at a plate of the most unpromising looking 'chicken and ham,'--he proved, indeed, more intractable than Lessingham, and was not to be persuaded to tackle anything easier of digestion. I was just about to take cheese after chop when Bellingham came hastening in, in his hand an open telegram. 'The birds have flown,' he cried. 'Flown!--How?' In reply he gave me the telegram. I glanced at it. It ran: 'Persons described not in the train. Guard says they got out at Vauxhall. Have wired Vauxhall to advise you.' 'That's a level-headed chap,' said Bellingham. 'The man who sent that telegram. His wiring to Vauxhall should save us a lot of time,--we ought to hear from there directly. Hollo! what's this? I shouldn't be surprised if this is it.' As he spoke a porter entered,--he handed an envelope to Bellingham. We all three kept our eyes fixed on the inspector's face as he opened it. When he perceived the contents he gave an exclamation of surprise. 'This Arab of yours, and his two friends, seem rather a curious lot, Mr Champnell.' He passed the paper on to me. It took the form of a report. Lessingham and Sydney, regardless of forms and ceremonies, leaned over my shoulder as I read it. 'Passengers by 7.30 Southampton, on arrival of train, complained of noises coming from a compartment in coach 8964. Stated that there had been shrieks and yells ever since the train left Waterloo, as if someone was being murdered. An Arab and two Englishmen got out of the compartment in question, apparently the party referred to in wire just to hand from Basingstoke. All three declared that there was nothing the matter. That they had been shouting for fun. Arab gave up three third singles for Southampton, saying, in reply to questions, that they had changed their minds, and did not want to go any farther. As there were no signs of a struggle or of violence, nor, apparently, any definite cause for detention, they were allowed to pass. They took a four-wheeler, No. 09435. The Arab and one man went inside, and the other man on the box. They asked to be driven to Commercial Road, Limehouse. The cab has since returned. Driver says he put the three men down, at their request, in Commercial Road, at the corner of Sutcliffe Street, near the East India Docks. They walked up Sutcliffe Street, the Englishmen in front, and the Arab behind, took the first turning to the right, and after that he saw nothing of them. The driver further states that all the way the Englishman inside, who was so ragged and dirty that he was reluctant to carry him, kept up a sort of wailing noise which so attracted his attention that he twice got off his box to see what was the matter, and each time he said it was nothing. The cabman is of opinion that both the Englishmen were of weak intellect. We were of the same impression here. They said nothing, except at the seeming instigation of the Arab, but when spoken to stared and gaped like lunatics. 'It may be mentioned that the Arab had with him an enormous bundle, which he persisted, in spite of all remonstrances, on taking with him inside the cab.' As soon as I had mastered the contents of the report, and perceived what I believed to be--unknown to the writer himself--its hideous inner meaning, I turned to Bellingham. 'With your permission, Mr Bellingham, I will keep this communication,--it will be safe in my hands, you will be able to get a copy, and it may be necessary that I should have the original to show to the police. If any inquiries are made for me from Scotland Yard, tell them that I have gone to the Commercial Road, and that I will report my movements from Limehouse Police Station.' In another minute we were once more traversing the streets of London,--three in a hansom cab. CHAPTER XLIII THE MURDER AT MRS 'ENDERSON'S It is something of a drive from Waterloo to Limehouse,--it seems longer when all your nerves are tingling with anxiety to reach your journey's end; and the cab I had hit upon proved to be not the fastest I might have chosen. For some time after our start, we were silent. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. Then Lessingham, who was sitting at my side, said to me, 'Mr Champnell, you have that report.' 'I have.' 'Will you let me see it once more?' I gave it to him. He read it once, twice,--and I fancy yet again. I purposely avoided looking at him as he did so. Yet all the while I was conscious of his pallid cheeks, the twitched muscles of his mouth, the feverish glitter of his eyes,--this Leader of Men, whose predominate characteristic in the House of Commons was immobility, was rapidly approximating to the condition of a hysterical woman. The mental strain which he had been recently undergoing was proving too much for his physical strength. This disappearance of the woman he loved bade fair to be the final straw. I felt convinced that unless something was done quickly to relieve the strain upon his mind he was nearer to a state of complete mental and moral collapse than he himself imagined. Had he been under my orders I should have commanded him to at once return home, and not to think; but conscious that, as things were, such a direction would be simply futile, I decided to do something else instead. Feeling that suspense was for him the worst possible form of suffering I resolved to explain, so far as I was able, precisely what it was I feared, and how I proposed to prevent it. Presently there came the question for which I had been waiting, in a harsh, broken voice which no one who had heard him speak on a public platform, or in the House of Commons, would have recognised as his. 'Mr Champnell,--who do you think this person is of whom the report from Vauxhall Station speaks as being all in rags and tatters?' He knew perfectly well,--but I understood the mental attitude which induced him to prefer that the information should seem to come from me. 'I hope that it will prove to be Miss Lindon.' 'Hope!' He gave a sort of gasp. 'Yes, hope,--because if it is I think it possible, nay probable, that within a few hours you will have her again enfolded in your arms.' 'Pray God that it may be so! pray God!--pray the good God!' I did not dare to look round for, from the tremor which was in his tone, I was persuaded that in the speaker's eyes were tears. Atherton continued silent. He was leaning half out of the cab, staring straight ahead, as if he saw in front a young girl's face, from which he could not remove his glance, and which beckoned him on. After a while Lessingham spoke again, as if half to himself and half to me. 'This mention of the shrieks on the railway, and of the wailing noise in the cab,--what must this wretch have done to her? How my darling must have suffered!' That was a theme on which I myself scarcely ventured to allow my thoughts to rest. The notion of a gently-nurtured girl being at the mercy of that fiend incarnate, possessed--as I believed that so-called Arab to be possessed--of all the paraphernalia of horror and of dread, was one which caused me tangible shrinkings of the body. Whence had come those shrieks and yells, of which the writer of the report spoke, which had caused the Arab's fellow-passengers to think that murder was being done? What unimaginable agony had caused them? what speechless torture? And the 'wailing noise,' which had induced the prosaic, indurated London cabman to get twice off his box to see what was the matter, what anguish had been provocative of that? The helpless girl who had already endured so much, endured, perhaps, that to which death would have been preferred!--shut up in that rattling, jolting box on wheels, alone with that diabolical Asiatic, with the enormous bundle, which was but the lurking place of nameless terrors,--what might she not, while being borne through the heart of civilised London, have been made to suffer? What had she not been made to suffer to have kept up that continued 'wailing noise'? It was not a theme on which it was wise to permit one's thoughts to linger,--and particularly was it clear that it was one from which Lessingham's thoughts should have been kept as far as possible away. 'Come, Mr Lessingham, neither you nor I will do himself any good by permitting his reflections to flow in a morbid channel. Let us talk of something else. By the way, weren't you due to speak in the House to-night?' 'Due!--Yes, I was due,--but what does it matter?' 'But have you acquainted no one with the cause of your non-attendance?' 'Acquaint!--whom should I acquaint?' 'My good sir! Listen to me, Mr Lessingham. Let me entreat you very earnestly, to follow my advice. Call another cab,--or take this! and go at once to the House. It is not too late. Play the man, deliver the speech you have undertaken to deliver, perform your political duties. By coming with me you will be a hindrance rather than a help, and you may do your reputation an injury from which it never may recover. Do as I counsel you, and I will undertake to do my very utmost to let you have good news by the time your speech is finished.' He turned on me with a bitterness for which I was unprepared. 'If I were to go down to the House, and try to speak in the state in which I am now, they would laugh at me, I should be ruined.' 'Do you not run an equally great risk of being ruined by staying away?' He gripped me by the arm. 'Mr Champnell, do you know that I am on the verge of madness? Do you know that as I am sitting here by your side I am living in a dual world? I am going on and on to catch that--that fiend, and I am back again in that Egyptian den, upon that couch of rugs, with the Woman of the Songs beside me, and Marjorie is being torn and tortured, and burnt before my eyes! God help me! Her shrieks are ringing in my ears!' He did not speak loudly, but his voice was none the less impressive on that account. I endeavoured my hardest to be stern. 'I confess that you disappoint me, Mr Lessingham. I have always understood that you were a man of unusual strength; you appear instead, to be a man of extraordinary weakness; with an imagination so ill-governed that its ebullitions remind me of nothing so much as feminine hysterics, Your wild language is not warranted by circumstances. I repeat that I think it quite possible that by to-morrow morning she will be returned to you.' 'Yes,--but how? as the Marjorie I have known, as I saw her last,--or how?' That was the question which I had already asked myself, in what condition would she be when we had succeeded in snatching her from her captor's grip? It was a question to which I had refused to supply an answer. To him I lied by implication. 'Let us hope that, with the exception of being a trifle scared, she will be as sound and hale and hearty as even in her life.' 'Do you yourself believe that she'll be like that,--untouched, unchanged, unstained?' Then I lied right out,--it seemed to me necessary to calm his growing excitement. 'I do.' 'You don't!' 'Mr Lessingham!' 'Do you think that I can't see your face and read in it the same thoughts which trouble me? As a man of honour do you care to deny that when Marjorie Lindon is restored to me,--if she ever is!--you fear she will be but the mere soiled husk of the Marjorie whom I knew and loved?' 'Even supposing that there may be a modicum of truth in what you say,--which I am far from being disposed to admit--what good purpose do you propose to serve by talking in such a strain?' 'None,--no good purpose,--unless it be the desire of looking the truth in the face. For, Mr Champnell, you must not seek to play with me the hypocrite, nor try to hide things from me as if I were a child. If my life is ruined--it is ruined,--let me know it, and look the knowledge in the face. That, to me, is to play the man.' I was silent. The wild tale he had told me of that Cairene inferno, oddly enough--yet why oddly, for the world is all coincidence!--had thrown a flood of light on certain events which had happened some three years previously and which ever since had remained shrouded in mystery. The conduct of the business afterwards came into my hands,--and briefly, what had occurred was this: Three persons,--two sisters and their brother, who was younger than themselves, members of a decent English family, were going on a trip round the world. They were young, adventurous, and--not to put too fine a point on it--foolhardy. The evening after their arrival in Cairo, by way of what is called 'a lark,' in spite of the protestations of people who were better informed than themselves, they insisted on going, alone, for a ramble through the native quarter. They went,--but they never returned. Or, rather the two girls never returned. After an interval the young man was found again,--what was left of him. A fuss was made when there were no signs of their re-appearance, but as there were no relations, nor even friends of theirs, but only casual acquaintances on board the ship by which they had travelled, perhaps not so great a fuss as might have been was made. Anyhow, nothing was discovered. Their widowed mother, alone in England, wondering how it was that beyond the receipt of a brief wire, acquainting her with their arrival at Cairo, she had heard nothing further of their wanderings, placed herself in communication with the diplomatic people over there,--to learn that, to all appearances, her three children had vanished from off the face of the earth. Then a fuss was made,--with a vengeance. So far as one can judge the whole town and neighbourhood was turned pretty well upside down. But nothing came of it,--so far as any results were concerned, the authorities might just as well have left the mystery of their vanishment alone. It continued where it was in spite of them. However, some three months afterwards a youth was brought to the British Embassy by a party of friendly Arabs who asserted that they had found him naked and nearly dying in some remote spot in the Wady Haifa desert. It was the brother of the two lost girls. He was as nearly dying as he very well could be without being actually dead when they brought him to the Embassy,--and in a state of indescribable mutilation. He seemed to rally for a time under careful treatment, but he never again uttered a coherent word. It was only from his delirious ravings that any idea was formed of what had really occurred. Shorthand notes were taken of some of the utterances of his delirium. Afterwards they were submitted to me. I remembered the substance of them quite well, and when Mr Lessingham began to tell me of his own hideous experiences they came back to me more clearly still. Had I laid those notes before him I have little doubt but that he would have immediately perceived that seventeen years after the adventure which had left such an indelible scar upon his own life, this youth--he was little more than a boy--had seen the things which he had seen, and suffered the nameless agonies and degradations which he had suffered. The young man was perpetually raving about some indescribable den of horror which was own brother to Lessingham's temple and about some female monster, whom he regarded with such fear and horror that every allusion he made to her was followed by a convulsive paroxysm which taxed all the ingenuity of his medical attendants to bring him out of. He frequently called upon his sisters by name, speaking of them in a manner which inevitably suggested that he had been an unwilling and helpless witness of hideous tortures which they had undergone; and then he would rise in bed, screaming, 'They're burning them! they're burning them! Devils! devils!' And at those times it required all the strength of those who were in attendance to restrain his maddened frenzy. The youth died in one of these fits of great preternatural excitement, without, as I have previously written, having given utterance to one single coherent word, and by some of those who were best able to judge it was held to have been a mercy that he did die without having been restored to consciousness. And, presently, tales began to be whispered, about some idolatrous sect, which was stated to have its headquarters somewhere in the interior of the country--some located it in this neighbourhood, and some in that--which was stated to still practise, and to always have practised, in unbroken historical continuity, the debased, unclean, mystic, and bloody rites, of a form of idolatry which had had its birth in a period of the world's story which was so remote, that to all intents and purposes it might be described as pre-historic. While the ferment was still at its height, a man came to the British Embassy who said that he was a member of a tribe which had its habitat on the banks of the White Nile. He asserted that he was in association with this very idolatrous sect,--though he denied that he was one of the actual sectaries. He did admit, however, that he had assisted more than once at their orgies, and declared that it was their constant practice to offer young women as sacrifices--preferably white Christian women, with a special preference, if they could get them, to young English women. He vowed that he himself had seen with his own eyes, English girls burnt alive. The description which he gave of what preceded and followed these foul murders appalled those who listened. He finally wound up by offering, on payment of a stipulated sum of money, to guide a troop of soldiers to this den of demons, so that they should arrive there at a moment when it was filled with worshippers, who were preparing to participate in an orgie which was to take place during the next few days. His offer was conditionally accepted. He was confined in an apartment with one man on guard inside and another on guard outside the room. That night the sentinel without was startled by hearing a great noise and frightful screams issuing from the chamber in which the native was interned. He summoned assistance. The door was opened. The soldier on guard within was stark, staring mad,--he died within a few months, a gibbering maniac to the end. The native was dead. The window, which was a very small one, was securely fastened inside and strongly barred without. There was nothing to show by what means entry had been gained. Yet it was the general opinion of those who saw the corpse that the man had been destroyed by some wild beast. A photograph was taken of the body after death, a copy of which is still in my possession. In it are distinctly shown lacerations about the neck and the lower portion of the abdomen, as if they had been produced by the claws of some huge and ferocious animal. The skull is splintered in half-a-dozen places, and the face is torn to rags. That was more than three years ago. The whole business has remained as great a mystery as ever. But my attention has once or twice been caught by trifling incidents, which have caused me to more than suspect that the wild tale told by that murdered native had in it at least the elements of truth; and which have even led me to wonder if the trade in kidnapping was not being carried on to this very hour, and if women of my own flesh and blood were not still being offered up on that infernal altar. And now, here was Paul Lessingham, a man of world-wide reputation, of great intellect, of undoubted honour, who had come to me with a wholly unconscious verification of all my worst suspicions! That the creature spoken of as an Arab,--and who was probably no more an Arab than I was, and whose name was certainly not Mohamed el Kheir!--was an emissary from that den of demons, I had no doubt. What was the exact purport of the creature's presence in England was another question, Possibly part of the intention was the destruction of Paul Lessingham, body, soul and spirit; possibly another part was the procuration of fresh victims for that long-drawn-out holocaust. That this latter object explained the disappearance of Miss Lindon I felt persuaded. That she was designed by the personification of evil who was her captor, to suffer all the horrors at which the stories pointed, and then to be burned alive, amidst the triumphant yells of the attendant demons, I was certain. That the wretch, aware that the pursuit was in full cry, was tearing, twisting, doubling, and would stick at nothing which would facilitate the smuggling of the victim out of England, was clear. My interest in the quest was already far other than a merely professional one. The blood in my veins tingled at the thought of such a woman as Miss Lindon being in the power of such a monster. I may assuredly claim that throughout the whole business I was urged forward by no thought of fee or of reward. To have had a share in rescuing that unfortunate girl, and in the destruction of her noxious persecutor, would have been reward enough for me. One is not always, even in strictly professional matters, influenced by strictly professional instincts. The cab slowed. A voice descended through the trap door. 'This is Commercial Road, sir,--what part of it do you want?' 'Drive me to Limehouse Police Station.' We were driven there. I made my way to the usual inspector behind the usual pigeon-hole. 'My name is Champnell. Have you received any communication from Scotland Yard to-night having reference to a matter in which I am interested?' 'Do you mean about the Arab? We received a telephonic message about half an hour ago.' 'Since communicating with Scotland Yard this has come to hand from the authorities at Vauxhall Station. Can you tell me if anything has been seen of the person in question by the men of your division?' I handed the Inspector the 'report.' His reply was laconic. 'I will inquire.' He passed through a door into an inner room and the 'report' went with him. 'Beg pardon, sir, but was that a Harab you was a-talking about to the Hinspector?' The speaker was a gentleman unmistakably of the gutter-snipe class. He was seated on a form. Close at hand hovered a policeman whose special duty it seemed to be to keep an eye upon his movements. 'Why do you ask?' 'I beg your pardon, sir, but I saw a Harab myself about a hour ago,--leastways he looked like as if he was a Harab.' 'What sort of a looking person was he?' 'I can't 'ardly tell you that, sir, because I didn't never have a proper look at him,--but I know he had a bloomin' great bundle on 'is 'ead. ... It was like this, 'ere. I was comin' round the corner, as he was passin', I never see 'im till I was right atop of 'im, so that I haccidentally run agin 'im,--my heye! didn't 'e give me a downer! I was down on the back of my 'ead in the middle of the road before I knew where I was and 'e was at the other end of the street. If 'e 'adn't knocked me more'n 'arf silly I'd been after 'im, sharp,--I tell you! and hasked 'im what 'e thought 'e was a-doin' of, but afore my senses was back agin 'e was out o' sight,--clean!' 'You are sure he had a bundle on his head?' 'I noticed it most particular.' 'How long ago do you say this was? and where?' 'About a hour ago,--perhaps more, perhaps less.' 'Was he alone?' 'It seemed to me as if a cove was a follerin' 'im, leastways there was a bloke as was a-keepin' close at 'is 'eels,--though I don't know what 'is little game was, I'm sure. Ask the pleesman--he knows, he knows everything the pleesman do.' I turned to the 'pleesman.' 'Who is this man?' The 'pleesman' put his hands behind his back, and threw out his chest. His manner was distinctly affable. 'Well,--he's being detained upon suspicion. He's given us an address at which to make inquiries, and inquiries are being made. I shouldn't pay too much attention to what he says if I were you. I don't suppose he'd be particular about a lie or two.' This frank expression of opinion re-aroused the indignation of the gentleman on the form. 'There you hare! at it again! That's just like you peelers,--you're all the same! What do you know about me?--Nuffink! This gen'leman ain't got no call to believe me, not as I knows on,--it's all the same to me if 'e do or don't, but it's trewth what I'm sayin', all the same.' At this point the Inspector re-appeared at the pigeon-hole. He cut short the flow of eloquence. 'Now then, not so much noise outside there!' He addressed me. 'None of our men have seen anything of the person you're inquiring for, so far as we're aware. But, if you like, I will place a man at your disposal, and he will go round with you, and you will be able to make your own inquiries.' A capless, wildly excited young ragamuffin came dashing in at the street door. He gasped out, as clearly as he could for the speed which he had made: 'There's been murder done, Mr Pleesman,--a Harab's killed a bloke.' 'Mr Pleesman' gripped him by the shoulder. 'What's that?' The youngster put up his arm, and ducked his head, instinctively, as if to ward off a blow. 'Leave me alone! I don't want none of your 'andling!--I ain't done nuffink to you! I tell you 'e 'as!' The Inspector spoke through the pigeon-hole. 'He has what, my lad? What do you say has happened?' 'There's been murder done--it's right enough!--there 'as!--up at Mrs 'Enderson's, in Paradise Place,--a Harab's been and killed a bloke!' CHAPTER XLIV THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED The Inspector spoke to me. 'If what the boy says is correct it sounds as if the person whom you are seeking may have had a finger in the pie.' I was of the same opinion, as, apparently, were Lessingham and Sidney. Atherton collared the youth by the shoulder which Mr Pleesman had left disengaged. 'What sort of looking bloke is it who's been murdered?' 'I dunno! I 'aven't seen 'im! Mrs 'Enderson, she says to me! "'Gustus Barley," she says, "a bloke's been murdered. That there Harab what I chucked out 'alf a hour ago been and murdered 'im, and left 'im behind up in my back room. You run as 'ard as you can tear and tell them there dratted pleese what's so fond of shovin' their dirty noses into respectable people's 'ouses." So I comes and tells yer. That's all I knows about it.' We went four in the hansom which had been waiting in the street to Mrs Henderson's in Paradise Place,--the Inspector and we three. 'Mr Pleesman' and ''Gustus Barley' followed on foot. The Inspector was explanatory. 'Mrs Henderson keeps a sort of lodging-house,--a "Sailors' Home" she calls it, but no one could call it sweet. It doesn't bear the best of characters, and if you asked me what I thought of it, I should say in plain English that it was a disorderly house.' Paradise Place proved to be within three or four hundred yards of the Station House. So far as could be seen in the dark it consisted of a row of houses of considerable dimensions,--and also of considerable antiquity. They opened on to two or three stone steps which led directly into the street. At one of the doors stood an old lady with a shawl drawn over her head. This was Mrs Henderson. She greeted us with garrulous volubility. 'So you 'ave come, 'ave you? I thought you never was a-comin' that I did.' She recognised the Inspector. 'It's you, Mr Phillips, is it?' Perceiving us, she drew a little back 'Who's them 'ere parties? They ain't coppers?' Mr Phillips dismissed her inquiry, curtly. 'Never you mind who they are. What's this about someone being murdered.' 'Ssh!' The old lady glanced round. 'Don't you speak so loud, Mr Phillips. No one don't know nothing about it as yet. The parties what's in my 'ouse is most respectable,--most! and they couldn't abide the notion of there being police about the place.' 'We quite believe that, Mrs Henderson.' The Inspector's tone was grim. Mrs Henderson led the way up a staircase which would have been distinctly the better for repairs. It was necessary to pick one's way as one went, and as the light was defective stumbles were not infrequent. Our guide paused outside a door on the topmost landing. From some mysterious recess in her apparel she produced a key. 'It's in 'ere. I locked the door so that nothing mightn't be disturbed. I knows 'ow particular you pleesmen is.' She turned the key. We all went in--we, this time, in front, and she behind. A candle was guttering on a broken and dilapidated single washhand stand. A small iron bedstead stood by its side, the clothes on which were all tumbled and tossed. There was a rush-seated chair with a hole in the seat,--and that, with the exception of one or two chipped pieces of stoneware, and a small round mirror which was hung on a nail against the wall, seemed to be all that the room contained. I could see nothing in the shape of a murdered man. Nor, it appeared, could the Inspector either. 'What's the meaning of this, Mrs Henderson? I don't see anything here.' 'It's be'ind the bed, Mr Phillips. I left 'im just where I found 'im, I wouldn't 'ave touched 'im not for nothing, nor yet 'ave let nobody else 'ave touched 'im neither, because, as I say, I know 'ow particular you pleesmen is.' We all four went hastily forward. Atherton and I went to the head of the bed, Lessingham and the Inspector, leaning right across the bed, peeped over the side. There, on the floor in the space which was between the bed and the wall, lay the murdered man. At sight of him an exclamation burst from Sydney's lips. 'It's Holt!' 'Thank God!' cried Lessingham. 'It isn't Marjorie!' The relief in his tone was unmistakable. That the one was gone was plainly nothing to him in comparison with the fact that the other was left. Thrusting the bed more into the centre of the room I knelt down beside the man on the floor. A more deplorable spectacle than he presented I have seldom witnessed. He was decently clad in a grey tweed suit, white hat, collar and necktie, and it was perhaps that fact which made his extreme attenuation the more conspicuous. I doubt if there was an ounce of flesh on the whole of his body. His cheeks and the sockets of his eyes were hollow. The skin was drawn tightly over his cheek bones,--the bones themselves were staring through. Even his nose was wasted, so that nothing but a ridge of cartilage remained. I put my arm beneath his shoulder and raised him from the floor; no resistance was offered by the body's gravity,--he was as light as a little child. 'I doubt,' I said, 'if this man has been murdered. It looks to me like a case of starvation, or exhaustion,--possibly a combination of both.' 'What's that on his neck?' asked the Inspector,--he was kneeling at my side. He referred to two abrasions of the skin,--one on either side of the man's neck. 'They look to me like scratches. They seem pretty deep, but I don't think they're sufficient in themselves to cause death.' 'They might be, joined to an already weakened constitution. Is there anything in his pockets?--let's lift him on to the bed.' We lifted him on to the bed,--a featherweight he was to lift. While the Inspector was examining his pockets--to find them empty--a tall man with a big black beard came bustling in. He proved to be Dr Glossop, the local police surgeon, who had been sent for before our quitting the Station House. His first pronouncement, made as soon as he commenced his examination, was, under the circumstances, sufficiently startling. 'I don't believe the man's dead. Why didn't you send for me directly you found him?' The question was put to Mrs Henderson. 'Well, Dr Glossop, I wouldn't touch 'im myself, and I wouldn't 'ave 'im touched by no one else, because, as I've said afore, I know 'ow particular them pleesmen is.' 'Then in that case, if he does die you'll have had a hand in murdering him,--that's all' The lady sniggered. 'Of course Dr Glossop, we all knows that you'll always 'ave your joke.' 'You'll find it a joke if you have to hang, as you ought to, you--' The doctor said what he did say to himself, under his breath. I doubt if it was flattering to Mrs Henderson. 'Have you got any brandy in the house?' 'We've got everythink in the 'ouse for them as likes to pay for it,--everythink.' Then, suddenly remembering that the police were present, and that hers were not exactly licensed premises, 'Leastways we can send out for it for them parties as gives us the money, being, as is well known, always willing to oblige.' 'Then send for some,--to the tap downstairs, if that's the nearest! If this man dies before you've brought it I'll have you locked up as sure as you're a living woman.' The arrival of the brandy was not long delayed,--but the man on the bed had regained consciousness before it came. Opening his eyes he looked up at the doctor bending over him. 'Hollo, my man! that's more like the time of day! How are you feeling?' The patient stared hazily up at the doctor, as if his sense of perception was not yet completely restored,--as if this big bearded man was something altogether strange. Atherton bent down beside the doctor. 'I'm glad to see you looking better, Mr Holt. You know me don't you? I've been running about after you all day long.' 'You are--you are--' The man's eyes closed, as if the effort at recollection exhausted him. He kept them closed as he continued to speak. 'I know who you are. You are--the gentleman.' 'Yes, that's it, I'm the gentleman,--name of Atherton.--Miss Lindon's friend. And I daresay you're feeling pretty well done up, and in want of something to eat and drink,--here's some brandy for you.' The doctor had some in a tumbler. He raised the patient's head, allowing it to trickle down his throat. The man swallowed it mechanically, motionless, as if unconscious what it was that he was doing. His cheeks flushed, the passing glow of colour caused their condition of extraordinary, and, indeed, extravagant attentuation, to be more prominent than ever. The doctor laid him back upon the bed, feeling his pulse with one hand, while he stood and regarded him in silence. Then, turning to the Inspector, he said to him in an undertone; 'If you want him to make a statement he'll have to make it now, he's going fast. You won't be able to get much out of him,--he's too far gone, and I shouldn't bustle him, but get what you can.' The Inspector came to the front, a notebook in his hand. 'I understand from this gentleman--' signifying Atherton--'that your name's Robert Holt. I'm an Inspector of police, and I want you to tell me what has brought you into this condition. Has anyone been assaulting you?' Holt, opening his eyes, glanced up at the speaker mistily, as if he could not see him clearly,--still less understand what it was that he was saying. Sydney, stooping over him, endeavoured to explain. 'The Inspector wants to know how you got here, has anyone been doing anything to you? Has anyone been hurting you?' The man's eyelids were partially closed. Then they opened wider and wider. His mouth opened too. On his skeleton features there came a look of panic fear. He was evidently struggling to speak. At last words came. 'The beetle!' He stopped. Then, after an effort, spoke again. 'The beetle!' 'What's he mean?' asked the Inspector. 'I think I understand,' Sydney answered; then turning again to the man in the bed. 'Yes, I hear what you say,--the beetle. Well, has the beetle done anything to you?' 'It took me by the throat!' 'Is that the meaning of the marks upon your neck?' 'The beetle killed me.' The lids closed. The man relapsed into a state of lethargy. The Inspector was puzzled;--and said so. 'What's he mean about a beetle?' Atherton replied. 'I think I understand what he means,--and my friends do too. We'll explain afterwards. In the meantime I think I'd better get as much out of him as I can,--while there's time.' 'Yes,' said the doctor, his hand upon the patient's pulse, 'while there's time. There isn't much--only seconds.' Sydney endeavoured to rouse the man from his stupor. 'You've been with Miss Lindon all the afternoon and evening, haven't you, Mr Holt?' Atherton had reached a chord in the man's consciousness. His lips moved,--in painful articulation. 'Yes--all the afternoon--and evening--God help me!' 'I hope God will help you my poor fellow; you've been in need of His help if ever man was. Miss Lindon is disguised in your old clothes, isn't she?' 'Yes,--in my old clothes. My God!' 'And where is Miss Lindon now?' The man had been speaking with his eyes closed. Now he opened them, wide; there came into them the former staring horror. He became possessed by uncontrollable agitation,--half raising himself in bed. Words came from his quivering lips as if they were only drawn from him by the force of his anguish. 'The beetle's going to kill Miss Lindon.' A momentary paroxysm seemed to shake the very foundations of his being. His whole frame quivered. He fell back on to the bed,--ominously. The doctor examined him in silence--while we too were still. 'This time he's gone for good, there'll be no conjuring him back again.' I felt a sudden pressure on my arm, and found that Lessingham was clutching me with probably unconscious violence. The muscles of his face were twitching. He trembled. I turned to the doctor. 'Doctor, if there is any of that brandy left will you let me have it for my friend?' Lessingham disposed of the remainder of the 'shillings worth.' I rather fancy it saved us from a scene. The Inspector was speaking to the woman of the house. 'Now, Mrs Henderson, perhaps you'll tell us what all this means. Who is this man, and how did he come in here, and who came in with him, and what do you know about it altogether? If you've got anything to say, say it, only you'd better be careful, because it's my duty to warn you that anything you do say may be used against you.' CHAPTER XLV ALL THAT MRS 'ENDERSON KNEW Mrs Henderson put her hands under her apron and smirked. 'Well, Mr Phillips, it do sound strange to 'ear you talkin' to me like that. Anybody'd think I'd done something as I didn't ought to 'a' done to 'ear you going on. As for what's 'appened, I'll tell you all I know with the greatest willingness on earth. And as for bein' careful, there ain't no call for you to tell me to be that, for that I always am, as by now you ought to know.' 'Yes,--I do know. Is that all you have to say?' 'Rilly, Mr Phillips, what a man you are for catching people up, you rilly are. O' course that ain't all I've got to say,--ain't I just a-comin' to it?' 'Then come.' 'If you presses me so you'll muddle of me up, and then if I do 'appen to make a herror, you'll say I'm a liar, when goodness knows there ain't no more truthful woman not in Limehouse.' Words plainly trembled on the Inspector's lips,--which he refrained from uttering. Mrs Henderson cast her eyes upwards, as if she sought for inspiration from the filthy ceiling. 'So far as I can swear it might 'ave been a hour ago, or it might 'ave been a hour and a quarter, or it might 'ave been a hour and twenty minutes--' 'We're not particular as to the seconds.' 'When I 'ears a knockin' at my front door, and when I comes to open it, there was a Harab party, with a great bundle on 'is 'ead, bigger nor 'isself, and two other parties along with him. This Harab party says, in that queer foreign way them Harab parties 'as of talkin', "A room for the night, a room." Now I don't much care for foreigners, and never did, especially them Harabs, which their 'abits ain't my own,--so I as much 'ints the same. But this 'ere Harab party, he didn't seem to quite foller of my meaning, for all he done was to say as he said afore, "A room for the night, a room." And he shoves a couple of 'arf crowns into my 'and. Now it's always been a motter o' mine, that money is money, and one man's money is as good as another man's. So, not wishing to be disagreeable--which other people would have taken 'em if I 'adn't, I shows 'em up 'ere. I'd been downstairs it might 'ave been 'arf a hour, when I 'ears a shindy a-coming from this room--' 'What sort of a shindy?' 'Yelling and shrieking--oh my gracious, it was enough to set your blood all curdled,--for ear-piercingness I never did 'ear nothing like it. We do 'ave troublesome parties in 'ere, like they do elsewhere, but I never did 'ear nothing like that before. I stood it for about a minute, but it kep' on, and kep' on, and every moment I expected as the other parties as was in the 'ouse would be complainin', so up I comes and I thumps at the door, and it seemed that thump I might for all the notice that was took of me.' 'Did the noise keep on?' 'Keep on! I should think it did keep on! Lord love you! shriek after shriek, I expected to see the roof took off.' 'Were there any other noises? For instance, were there any sounds of struggling, or of blows?' 'There weren't no sounds except of the party hollering.' 'One party only?' 'One party only. As I says afore, shriek after shriek,--when you put your ear to the panel there was a noise like some other party blubbering, but that weren't nothing, as for the hollering you wouldn't have thought that nothing what you might call 'umin could 'ave kep' up such a screechin'. I thumps and thumps and at last when I did think that I should 'ave to 'ave the door broke down, the Harab says to me from inside, "Go away! I pay for the room! go away!" I did think that pretty good, I tell you that. So I says, "Pay for the room or not pay for the room, you didn't pay to make that shindy!" And what's more I says, "If I 'ear it again," I says, "out you goes! And if you don't go quiet I'll 'ave somebody in as'll pretty quickly make you!"' 'Then was there silence?' 'So to speak there was,--only there was this sound as if some party was a-blubbering, and another sound as if a party was a-panting for his breath.' 'Then what happened?' 'Seeing that, so to speak, all was quiet, down I went again. And in another quarter of a hour, or it might 'ave been twenty minutes, I went to the front door to get a mouthful of hair. And Mrs Barker, what lives over the road, at No. 24, she comes to me and says, "That there Arab party of yours didn't stop long." I looks at 'er, "I don't quite foller you," I says,--which I didn't. "I saw him come in," she says, "and then, a few minutes back, I see 'im go again, with a great bundle on 'is 'ead he couldn't 'ardly stagger under!" "Oh," I says, "that's news to me, I didn't know 'e'd gone, nor see him neither---" which I didn't. So, up I comes again, and, sure enough, the door was open, and it seems to me that the room was empty, till I come upon this pore young man what was lying be'ind the bed,' There was a growl from the doctor. 'If you'd had any sense, and sent for me at once, he might have been alive at this moment.' ''Ow was I to know that, Dr Glossop? I couldn't tell. My finding 'im there murdered was quite enough for me. So I runs downstairs, and I nips 'old of 'Gustus Barley, what was leaning against the wall, and I says to him, "'Gustus Barley, run to the station as fast as you can and tell 'em that a man's been murdered,--that Harab's been and killed a bloke." And that's all I know about it, and I couldn't tell you no more, Mr Phillips, not if you was to keep on asking me questions not for hours and hours' 'Then you think it was this man'--with a motion towards the bed--'who was shrieking?' 'To tell you the truth, Mr Phillips, about that I don't 'ardly know what to think. If you 'ad asked me I should 'ave said it was a woman. I ought to know a woman's holler when I 'ear it, if any one does, I've 'eard enough of 'em in my time, goodness knows. And I should 'ave said that only a woman could 'ave hollered like that and only 'er when she was raving mad. But there weren't no woman with him. There was only this man what's murdered, and the other man,--and as for the other man I will say this, that 'e 'adn't got twopennyworth of clothes to cover 'im. But, Mr Phillips, howsomever that may be, that's the last Harab I'll 'ave under my roof, no matter what they pays, and you may mark my words I'll 'ave no more.' Mrs Henderson, once more glancing upward, as if she imagined herself to have made some declaration of a religious nature, shook her head with much solemnity. CHAPTER XLVI THE SUDDEN STOPPING As we were leaving the house a constable gave the Inspector a note. Having read it he passed it to me. It was from the local office. 'Message received that an Arab with a big bundle on his head has been noticed loitering about the neighbourhood of St Pancras Station. He seemed to be accompanied by a young man who had the appearance of a tramp. Young man seemed ill. They appeared to be waiting for a train, probably to the North. Shall I advise detention?' I scribbled on the flyleaf of the note. 'Have them detained. If they have gone by train have a special in readiness.' In a minute we were again in the cab. I endeavoured to persuade Lessingham and Atherton to allow me to conduct the pursuit alone,--in vain. I had no fear of Atherton's succumbing, but I was afraid for Lessingham. What was more almost than the expectation of his collapse was the fact that his looks and manner, his whole bearing, so eloquent of the agony and agitation of his mind, was beginning to tell upon my nerves. A catastrophe of some sort I foresaw. Of the curtain's fall upon one tragedy we had just been witnesses. That there was worse--much worse, to follow I did not doubt. Optimistic anticipations were out of the question,--that the creature we were chasing would relinquish the prey uninjured, no one, after what we had seen and heard, could by any possibility suppose. Should a necessity suddenly arise for prompt and immediate action, that Lessingham would prove a hindrance rather than a help I felt persuaded. But since moments were precious, and Lessingham was not to be persuaded to allow the matter to proceed without him, all that remained was to make the best of his presence. The great arch of St Pancras was in darkness. An occasional light seemed to make the darkness still more visible. The station seemed deserted. I thought, at first, that there was not a soul about the place, that our errand was in vain, that the only thing for us to do was to drive to the police station and to pursue our inquiries there. But as we turned towards the booking-office, our footsteps ringing out clearly through the silence and the night, a door opened, a light shone out from the room within, and a voice inquired: 'Who's that?' 'My name's Champnell. Has a message been received from me from the Limehouse Police Station?' 'Step this way.' We stepped that way,--into a snug enough office, of which one of the railway inspectors was apparently in charge. He was a big man, with a fair beard. He looked me up and down, as if doubtfully. Lessingham he recognised at once. He took off his cap to him. 'Mr Lessingham, I believe?' 'I am Mr Lessingham. Have you any news for me? I fancy, by his looks,--that the official was struck by the pallor of the speaker's face,--and by his tremulous voice. 'I am instructed to give certain information to a Mr Augustus Champnell.' 'I am Mr Champnell. What's your information?' 'With reference to the Arab about whom you have been making inquiries. A foreigner, dressed like an Arab, with a great bundle on his head, took two single thirds for Hull by the midnight express.' 'Was he alone?' 'It is believed that he was accompanied by a young man of very disreputable appearance. They were not together at the booking-office, but they had been seen together previously. A minute or so after the Arab had entered the train this young man got into the same compartment--they were in the front waggon.' 'Why were they not detained?' 'We had no authority to detain them, nor any reason, until your message was received a few minutes ago we at this station were not aware that inquiries were being made for them.' 'You say he booked to Hull,--does the train run through to Hull?' 'No--it doesn't go to Hull at all. Part of it's the Liverpool and Manchester Express, and part of it's for Carlisle. It divides at Derby. The man you're looking for will change either at Sheffield or at Cudworth Junction and go on to Hull by the first train in the morning. There's a local service.' I looked at my watch. 'You say the train left at midnight. It's now nearly five-and-twenty past. Where's it now?' 'Nearing St Albans, it's due there 12.35.' 'Would there be time for a wire to reach St Albans?' 'Hardly,--and anyhow there'll only be enough railway officials about the place to receive and despatch the train. They'll be fully occupied with their ordinary duties. There won't be time to get the police there.' 'You could wire to St Albans to inquire if they were still in the train?' 'That could be done,--certainly. I'll have it done at once if you like. 'Then where's the next stoppage?' 'Well, they're at Luton at 12.51. But that's another case of St Albans. You see there won't be much more than twenty minutes by the time you've got your wire off, and I don't expect there'll be many people awake at Luton. At these country places sometimes there's a policeman hanging about the station to see the express go through, but, on the other hand, very often there isn't, and if there isn't, probably at this time of night it'll take a good bit of time to get the police on the premises. I tell you what I should advise.' 'What's that?' 'The train is due at Bedford at 1.29--send your wire there. There ought to be plenty of people about at Bedford, and anyhow there'll be time to get the police to the station.' 'Very good. I instructed them to tell you to have a special ready,--have you got one?' 'There's an engine with steam up in the shed,--we'll have all ready for you in less than ten minutes. And I tell you what,--you'll have about fifty minutes before the train is due at Bedford. It's a fifty mile run. With luck you ought to get there pretty nearly as soon as the express does.--Shall I tell them to get ready?' 'At once.' While he issued directions through a telephone to what, I presume, was the engine shed, I drew up a couple of telegrams. Having completed his orders he turned to me. 'They're coming out of the siding now--they'll be ready in less than ten minutes. I'll see that the line's kept clear. Have you got those wires?' 'Here is one,--this is for Bedford.' It ran: 'Arrest the Arab who is in train due at 1.29. When leaving St Pancras he was in a third-class compartment in front waggon. He has a large bundle, which detain. He took two third singles for Hull. Also detain his companion, who is dressed like a tramp. This is a young lady whom the Arab has disguised and kidnapped while in a condition of hypnotic trance. Let her have medical assistance and be taken to a hotel. All expenses will be paid on the arrival of the undersigned who is following by special train. As the Arab will probably be very violent a sufficient force of police should be in waiting. 'AUGUSTUS CHAMPNELL.' 'And this is the other. It is probably too late to be of any use at St Albans,--but send it there, and also to Luton.' 'Is Arab with companion in train which left St Pancras at 13.0? If so, do not let them get out till train reaches Bedford, where instructions are being wired for arrest.' The Inspector rapidly scanned them both. 'They ought to do your business, I should think. Come along with me--I'll have them sent at once, and we'll see if your train's ready.' The train was not ready,--nor was it ready within the prescribed ten minutes. There was some hitch, I fancy, about a saloon. Finally we had to be content with an ordinary old-fashioned first-class carriage. The delay, however, was not altogether time lost. Just as the engine with its solitary coach was approaching the platform someone came running up with an envelope in his hand. 'Telegram from St Albans.' I tore it open. It was brief and to the point. 'Arab with companion was in train when it left here. Am wiring Luton.' 'That's all right. Now unless something wholly unforeseen takes place, we ought to have them.' That unforeseen! I went forward with the Inspector and the guard of our train to exchange a few final words with the driver. The Inspector explained what instructions he had given. 'I've told the driver not to spare his coal but to take you into Bedford within five minutes after the arrival of the express. He says he thinks that he can do it.' The driver leaned over his engine, rubbing his hands with the usual oily rag. He was a short, wiry man with grey hair and a grizzled moustache, with about him that bearing of semi-humorous, frank-faced resolution which one notes about engine-drivers as a class. 'We ought to do it, the gradients are against us, but it's a clear night and there's no wind. The only thing that will stop us will be if there's any shunting on the road, or any luggage trains; of course, if we are blocked, we are blocked, but the Inspector says he'll clear the way for us.' 'Yes,' said the Inspector, 'I'll clear the way. I've wired down the road already.' Atherton broke in. 'Driver, if you get us into Bedford within five minutes of the arrival of the mail there'll be a five-pound note to divide between your mate and you.' The driver grinned. 'We'll get you there in time, sir, if we have to go clear through the shunters. It isn't often we get a chance of a five-pound note for a run to Bedford, and we'll do our best to earn it.' The fireman waved his hand in the rear. 'That's right, sir!' he cried. 'We'll have to trouble you for that five-pound note.' So soon as we were clear of the station it began to seem probable that, as the fireman put it, Atherton would be 'troubled.' Journeying in a train which consists of a single carriage attached to an engine which is flying at topmost speed is a very different business from being an occupant of an ordinary train which is travelling at ordinary express rates. I had discovered that for myself before. That night it was impressed on me more than ever. A tyro--or even a nervous 'season'--might have been excused for expecting at every moment we were going to be derailed. It was hard to believe that the carriage had any springs,--it rocked and swung, and jogged and jolted. Of smooth travelling had we none. Talking was out of the question;--and for that, I, personally, was grateful. Quite apart from the difficulty we experienced in keeping our seats--and when every moment our position was being altered and we were jerked backwards and forwards up and down, this way and that, that was a business which required care,--the noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a legion of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons. 'George!' shrieked Atherton, 'he does mean to earn that fiver. I hope I'll be alive to pay it him!' He was only at the other end of the carriage, but though I could see by the distortion of his visage that he was shouting at the top of his voice,--and he has a voice,--I only caught here and there a word or two of what he was saying. I had to make sense of the whole. Lessingham's contortions were a study. Few of that large multitude of persons who are acquainted with him only by means of the portraits which have appeared in the illustrated papers, would then have recognised the rising statesman. Yet I believe that few things could have better fallen in with his mood than that wild travelling. He might have been almost shaken to pieces,--but the very severity of the shaking served to divert his thoughts from the one dread topic which threatened to absorb them to the exclusion of all else beside. Then there was the tonic influence of the element of risk. The pick-me-up effect of a spice of peril. Actual danger there quite probably was none; but there very really seemed to be. And one thing was absolutely certain, that if we did come to smash while going at that speed we should come to as everlasting smash as the heart of man could by any possibility desire. It is probable that the knowledge that this was so warmed the blood in Lessingham's veins. At any rate as--to use what in this case, was simply a form of speech--I sat and watched him, it seemed to me that he was getting a firmer hold of the strength which had all but escaped him, and that with every jog and jolt he was becoming more and more of a man. On and on we went dashing, clashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling. Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window, strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible. 'Where the devil are we?' Looking at my watch I screamed back at him. 'It's nearly one, so I suppose we're somewhere in the neighbourhood of Luton.--Hollo! What's the matter?' That something was the matter seemed certain. There was a shrill whistle from the engine. In a second we were conscious--almost too conscious--of the application of the Westinghouse brake. Of all the jolting that was ever jolted! the mere reverberation of the carriage threatened to resolve our bodies into their component parts. Feeling what we felt then helped us to realise the retardatory force which that vacuum brake must be exerting,--it did not seem at all surprising that the train should have been brought to an almost instant stand-still. Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my window and Atherton let down his,--he shouting out, 'I should think that Inspector's wire hasn't had it's proper effect, looks as if we're blocked--or else we've stopped at Luton. It can't be Bedford.' It wasn't Bedford--so much seemed clear. Though at first from my window I could make out nothing. I was feeling more than a trifle dazed,--there was a singing in my ears,--the sudden darkness was impenetrable. Then I became conscious that the guard was opening the door of his compartment. He stood on the step for a moment, seeming to hesitate. Then, with a lamp in his hand, he descended on to the line. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Don't know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road. What's up there?' This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied: 'Someone in front there's waving a red light like mad,--lucky I caught sight of him, we should have been clean on top of him in another moment. Looks as if there was something wrong. Here he comes.' As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness I became aware that someone was making what haste he could along the six-foot way, swinging a red light as he came. Our guard advanced to meet him, shouting as he went: 'What's the matter! Who's that?' A voice replied, 'My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on top of us!' Our guard again. 'What! Jim Branson! What the devil are you doing here, what's wrong? I thought you were on the twelve out, we're chasing you.' 'Are you? Then you've caught us. Thank God for it!--We're a wreck.' I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three clambered out on to the line. CHAPTER XLVII THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in official uniform. 'Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?' 'I am.' 'Where's your train? What's happened?' 'As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what's left of it. As to what's happened, why, we're wrecked.' 'What do you mean by you're wrecked?' 'Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came running down the hill on top of us.' 'How long ago was it?' 'Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the signal box, it's a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My God! I thought there was going to be another smash.' 'Much damage done?' 'Seems to me as if we're all smashed up. As far as I can make out they're matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up inside of me. I've been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is the first accident I've been in.' It was too dark to see the man's face, but judging from his tone he was either crying or very near to it. Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine, 'You'd better go back to the box and let 'em know!' 'All right!' came echoing back. The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as it went. All the country side must have heard the engine shrieking, and all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was seriously wrong. The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering candle, there the glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the scene. People were piling up debris by the side of the line, for the purpose of making a fire,--more for illumination than for warmth. Many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and were moving hither and thither about the line. But the majority appeared to be still imprisoned. The carriage doors were jammed. Without the necessary tools it was impossible to open them. Every step we took our ears were saluted by piteous cries. Men, women, children, appealed to us for help. 'Open the door, sir!' 'In the name of God, sir, open the door!' Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of violence, the supplication was repeated. The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, half-frenzied creatures. 'All right, sir! If you'll only wait a minute or two, madam! We can't get the doors open without tools, a special train's just started off to get them. If you'll only have patience there'll be plenty of help for everyone of you directly. You'll be quite safe in there, if you'll only keep still.' But that was just what they found it most difficult to do--keep still! In the front of the train all was chaos. The trucks which had done the mischief--there were afterwards shown to be six of them, together with two guards' vans--appeared to have been laden with bags of Portland cement. The bags had burst, and everything was covered with what seemed gritty dust. The air was full of the stuff, it got into our eyes, half blinding us. The engine of the express had turned a complete somersault. It vomited forth smoke, and steam, and flames,--every moment it seemed as if the woodwork of the carriages immediately behind and beneath would catch fire. The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, 'match-boxed.' They were nothing but a heap of debris,--telescoped into one another in a state of apparently inextricable confusion. It was broad daylight before access was gained to what had once been the interiors. The condition of the first third-class compartment revealed an extraordinary state of things. Scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially burnt rags, and fragments of silk and linen. I have those fragments now. Experts have assured me that they are actually neither of silk nor linen! but of some material--animal rather than vegetable--with which they are wholly unacquainted. On the cushions and woodwork--especially on the woodwork of the floor--were huge blotches,--stains of some sort. When first noticed they were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant smell. One of the pieces of woodwork is yet in my possession,--with the stain still on it. Experts have pronounced upon it too,--with the result that opinions are divided. Some maintain that the stain was produced by human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and, so to speak, parboiled. Others declare that it is the blood of some wild animal,--possibly of some creature of the cat species. Yet others affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. While a fourth describes it as--I quote the written opinion which lies in front of me--'caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of viscid matter, probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.' In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young man costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon. So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the compartment contained. CHAPTER XLVIII THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER It is several years since I bore my part in the events which I have rapidly sketched,--or I should not have felt justified in giving them publicity. Exactly how many years, for reasons which should be sufficiently obvious, I must decline to say. Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in her, when she was extricated from among the debris of the wrecked express, was fanned again into flame. Her restoration was, however, not merely an affair of weeks or months, it was a matter of years. I believe that, even after her physical powers were completely restored--in itself a tedious task--she was for something like three years under medical supervision as a lunatic. But all that skill and money could do was done, and in course of time--the great healer--the results were entirely satisfactory. Her father is dead,--and has left her in possession of the family estates. She is married to the individual who, in these pages, has been known as Paul Lessingham. Were his real name divulged she would be recognised as the popular and universally reverenced wife of one of the greatest statesmen the age has seen. Nothing has been said to her about the fateful day on which she was--consciously or unconsciously--paraded through London in the tattered masculine habiliments of a vagabond. She herself has never once alluded to it. With the return of reason the affair seems to have passed from her memory as wholly as if it had never been, which, although she may not know it, is not the least cause she has for thankfulness. Therefore what actually transpired will never, in all human probability, be certainly known and particularly what precisely occurred in the railway carriage during that dreadful moment of sudden passing from life unto death. What became of the creature who all but did her to death; who he was--if it was a 'he,' which is extremely doubtful; whence he came; whither he went; what was the purport of his presence here,--to this hour these things are puzzles. Paul Lessingham has not since been troubled by his old tormentor. He has ceased to be a haunted man. None the less he continues to have what seems to be a constitutional disrelish for the subject of beetles, nor can he himself be induced to speak of them. Should they be mentioned in a general conversation, should he be unable to immediately bring about a change of theme, he will, if possible, get up and leave the room. More, on this point he and his wife are one. The fact may not be generally known, but it is so. Also I have reason to believe that there still are moments in which he harks back, with something like physical shrinking, to that awful nightmare of the past, and in which he prays God, that as it is distant from him now so may it be kept far off from him for ever. Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale has never been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for its authenticity. During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body of native troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert was aroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud explosion. The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of miles from the camp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground,--as if blasting operations, on an enormous scale, had recently been carried on. In the hole itself, and round about it, were found fragments of what seemed bodies; credible witnesses have assured me that they were bodies neither of men nor women, but of creatures of some monstrous growth. I prefer to believe, since no scientific examination of the remains took place, that these witnesses ignorantly, though innocently, erred. One thing is sure. Numerous pieces, both of stone and of metal, were seen, which went far to suggest that some curious subterranean building had been blown up by the force of the explosion. Especially were there portions of moulded metal which seemed to belong to what must have been an immense bronze statue. There were picked up also, more than a dozen replicas in bronze of the whilom sacred scarabaeus. That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that night, at last come to an end, and that these things which lay scattered, here and there, on that treeless plain, were the evidences of its final destruction, is not a hypothesis which I should care to advance with any degree of certainty. But, putting this and that together, the facts seem to point that way,--and it is a consummation devoutly to be desired. By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling. Her wealth has made him one of the richest men in England. She began, the story goes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact that he has ended by loving her as much. Their devotion to each other contradicts the pessimistic nonsense which supposes that every marriage must be of necessity a failure. He continues his career of an inventor. His investigations into the subject of aerial flight, which have brought the flying machine within the range of practical politics, are on everybody's tongue. The best man at Atherton's wedding was Percy Woodville, now the Earl of Barnes. Within six months afterwards he married one of Mrs Atherton's bridesmaids. It was never certainly shown how Robert Holt came to his end. At the inquest the coroner's jury was content to return a verdict of 'Died of exhaustion.' He lies buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, under a handsome tombstone, the cost of which, had he had it in his pockets, might have indefinitely prolonged his days. It should be mentioned that that portion of this strange history which purports to be The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt was compiled from the statements which Holt made to Atherton, and to Miss Lindon, as she then was, when, a mud-stained, shattered derelict he lay at the lady's father's house. Miss Linden's contribution towards the elucidation of the mystery was written with her own hand. After her physical strength had come back to her, and, while mentally, she still hovered between the darkness and the light, her one relaxation was writing. Although she would never speak of what she had written, it was found that her theme was always the same. She confided to pen and paper what she would not speak of with her lips. She told, and re-told, and re-told again, the story of her love, and of her tribulation so far as it is contained in the present volume. Her MSS. invariably began and ended at the same point. They have all of them been destroyed, with one exception. That exception is herein placed before the reader. On the subject of the Mystery of the Beetle I do not propose to pronounce a confident opinion. Atherton and I have talked it over many and many a time, and at the end we have got no 'forrarder.' So far as I am personally concerned, experience has taught me that there are indeed more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy, and I am quite prepared to believe that the so-called Beetle, which others saw, but I never, was--or is, for it cannot be certainly shown that the thing is not still existing--a creature born neither of God nor man.