The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie
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at him as he knelt in the splendid glow of the flames, and his own heavy brows were frowning.
“Was she beautiful?” he asked abruptly.
Theirry took this as an atonement for the late ill temper, and answered pleasantly ——“Why, she was beautiful, Dirk.”
“And fair?”
“Certes, yellow hair.”
“No more of her,” said the youth in a kind of fierce mournfulness. “The legend is finished?” “Yea.” Theirry rose from his knees. “And now?”
Dirk was anointing the little image of the student on the breast, the eyes and mouth with a liquid poured from a purple phial; then he set it within the circle round the flame.
“’Tis carved of ash plucked from a churchyard,” he said. “And the ingredients of the fire are correct. Now if this fails, Zerdusht lies.”
He stepped up to the fire and addressed an invocation in Persian to the soaring flame, then retreated to Theirry’s side.
The whole room was glowing in the clear red light cast by the unholy fire; the cobweb-hung rafters, the gaunt walls, the books and jars on the bare floor were all distinctly visible, and the two could see each other, red, from head to foot.
“Look,” said Dirk, with a slow smile.
The image lying in the magic circle and almost touching the flames (though not burnt or even scorched), was beginning to writhe and twist on its back like a creature in pain.
“Ah!” Dirk showed his teeth. “The Magian spell has worked.”
A sensation of giddiness seized Theirry; he heard something beating loud and fast in his ear, it seemed, but he knew it was his heart that thumped so, up and down.
The figure, horribly like Joris with its flat hat and student’s robe, was struggling to its feet and emitting little moans of agony.
“It cannot get out,” breathed Theirry.
“Nay,” whispered Dirk, “wherefore did ye draw the circle?”
The flame was a column of pure fire, and it cast a glow of gold on the thing imprisoned in the ring Theirry had made; Dirk watched in an eager way, with neither fear nor compunction, but Theirry felt a wave of sickness mount to his brain.
The creature was making useless endeavours to escape from the fiery glare; it groaned and fell on its face, twisted on its back and made frantic attempts to cross the line that imprisoned it. “Let it out,” whispered Theirry faintly.
But Dirk was elate with success.
“Ye are mad,” he retorted. “The spell works bravely.”
On the end of his words came a sound that caused both to wince; even in the lurid light Dirk saw his companion pale.
It was the bell of the college chapel ringing the students to the vespers.
“I had forgotten,” muttered Dirk. “We must go — it would be noticed.”
“We cannot put the fire out,” cried Theirry.
“Nay, we must leave it — it must burn out,” answered Dirk hurriedly.
The creature, after rushing round the circle in an attempt to escape had fallen, as if exhausted with its agony, and lay quivering.
“We will leave him, too,” said Dirk unpleasantly.
But Theirry had a tearing memory of a lady kneeling among green grasses and bending towards him with a dead bird in her hand — tears for it on her cheeks — a dead bird, and this —
He stooped and snatched up the creature; it shrieked dismally as he touched it, and he felt the quick flame burn his fingers.
Instantly the fire had sunk into ashes, and he held in his hand a mere morsel of charred wood. With a sound of disgust he flung this on the ground.
“Should have let it burn,” said Dirk, with the lamp held aloft to show him the way across the now dark chamber. “Perchance we cannot relight it, and I have not finished with the ugly knave.”
They stepped into the outer chamber and Dirk locked the door; Theirry gasped to feel the fresher air in his nostrils, and a sense of terror clouded his brain; but Dirk was in high spirits; his eyes narrowed with excitement, his pale lips set in a hard fashion.
They descended into the hall.
It was a close and sultry evening; through the blunt arches of the window, dark purple clouds could be seen, lying heavily across the horizon; the clang of the vesper bell came persistently and with a jarring note; though the sun had set it was still light, which had a curious effect of strangeness after the dark chambers upstairs.
Without a word to each other, but side by side, the two students passed into the ante-chamber that led into the chapel.
And there they stopped.
The pale rays of a candle dispersed the gathering dark and revealed a group of men standing together and conversing in whispers.
“Why do they not enter the church?” breathed Theirry, with a curious sensation at his heart. “Something has happened.”
Some of the students turned and saw them; they were forced to come forward; Dirk was silent and smiling.
“Have you heard?” asked one; all were sober and subdued.
“A horrible thing,” said another. “Joris of Thuringia is struck with a strange illness. Certes! he fell down amongst us as if in the grip of hell fire.”
The speaker crossed himself; Theirry could not answer, he felt that they were all looking at him suspiciously, accusingly, and he trembled.
“We carried him up to his chamber,” said another. “He shrieked and tore at his flesh, imploring us to keep the flames off. The priest is with him now — God guard us from unholy things.” “Why do you say that?” demanded Theirry fiercely. “Belike his disease was but natural.” A look passed round the students. “I know not,” one muttered. “It was strange.”
Dirk, still smiling and silent, turned into the chapel; Theirry and the others, hushing their surmises, followed.
There were candles on the altar, six feet high, and a confusion of the senses came over Theirry, in which he saw them as white angels with flaming haloes coming grievingly for his destruction. A wave of fear and sorrow rushed over him; he sank on his knees on the stone floor and fixed his eyes on the priest, whose chasuble was gleaming gold through the dimness of the incense-filled chapel. The blasphemy and mortal sin of what he had done sickened and frightened him; was not his being here the most horrible blasphemy of all? — he had no right; he had made false confessions to the priest, he had received absolution on lies; daily he had come here worshipping God with his lips and Satan with his heart. A groan broke from him, he bowed his beautiful face in his hands and his shoulders shook. He thought of Joris of Thuringia writhing in the agony caused by their unhallowed spells, of the eager devils crowding to their service — and far away, in a blinding white mist, he seemed to see the arc of the saints and angels looking down on him while he fell away further, further, into unfathomable depths of darkness. With an uncontrollable movement of agony he looked up, and his starting eyes fell on the figure of Dirk kneeling in front of him. The youth’s calm both horrified and soothed him; there he knelt, who had but a little while before been playing with devils, with a face as unmoved as a sculptured saint, with a placid brow, quiet eyes and hands folded on his breviary.
He seemed to feel Theirry’s intense gaze, for he looked swiftly round and a look of caution, of warning shot under his white lids.
Theirry’s glance fell; his companions were singing with uplifted faces, but he could not join them; the pillars with their foliated capitals oppressed him by their shadow, the saints glowing in mosaic on the drums of the arches frightened him with the unforgiving look in their long eyes.
“Laudate,