The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie
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the room to the door by which they had entered; he did not look back, though both were watching him; the door closed after him violently, and they were alone in the vast darkening hall.
“This is fine hospitality,” sneered Dirk. “Is there none to light us to our chamber?” Theirry walked to and fro with an irregular agitated step.
“What was that song of yours?” he asked. “What did you mean? What ails this place and these people? She never looked at me.”
Dirk pulled at the strings of the instrument he still held; they emitted little wailing sounds.
“She is pretty, your chatelaine,” he said. “I did not think to see her so soon. You love her — or you might love her.”
His bright eyes glanced across the shadowy space between them.
“Ye mock and sneer at me,” answered Theirry hotly, “because she is a great dame. I do not love her, and yet —”
“And yet —?” goaded Dirk.
“If our arts can do anything for us — could they not — if I wished it — some day — get this lady for me?”
He paused, his hand to his pale brow.
“You shall never have her,” said Dirk, biting his under lip.
Theirry turned on him violently.
“You cannot tell. Of what use to serve Evil for nought?”
“Ye have done with remorse belike?” mocked Dirk. “Ye have ceased to long for priests and holy water?”
“Ay,” said Theirry recklessly, “I shall not falter again — I will take these means — any means —”
“To attain — her?” Dirk got up from the window-seat and rose to his full height.
Theirry gave him a sick look.
“I will not bandy taunts with you. I must sleep a little.”
“They have given us the first chamber ye come to, ascending those stairs,” answered Dirk quietly. “There is a lamp, and the door is set open. Good-night.”
“You will not come?” asked Theirry sullenly.
“Nay. I will sleep here.”
“Why? You are strange to-night.”
Dirk smiled unpleasantly.
“There is a reason. A good reason. Get to bed.” Theirry left him without an answer, and closed the door upon him.
When he had gone, and there was no longer a sound of his footstep, a rustle of the arras to tell he had been, a great change swept over Dirk’s face; a look of agony, of distraction contorted his proud features, he paced softly here and there, twisting his hands together and lifting his eyes blindly to the painted ceiling.
Half the candles had flickered out; the others smoked and flared in the sockets; the rain dripping on the window-sill without made an insistent sound.
Dirk paused before the vast bare hearth.
“He shall never have her,” he said in a low, steady voice as if he saw and argued with some personage facing him. “No. You will prevent it. Have I not served you well? Ever since I left the convent? Did you not promise me great power — as the black letters of the forbidden books swam before my eyes; did I not hear you whispering, whispering?”
He turned about as though following a movement in the person he spoke to, and shivered.
“I will keep my comrade. Do you hear me? Did you send me here to prevent it? — they seemed to know you were at my elbow to-night — hush! — one comes!”
He fell back against the wall, his finger on his lips, his o her hand clutching the arras behind him.
“Hush!” he repeated.
The door at the far end of the chamber was slowly opened; a man stepped in and cautiously closed it; a little cry of triumph rose to Dirk’s lips, but he repressed it and gave a glance into the pulsating shadows as if he communicated with some mysterious companion.
It was Sebastian who had entered; he looked swiftly round, and seeing Dirk, came towards him.
In the steward’s hand was a little cresset lamp; the clear, heart-shaped flame illuminated his dark face and his pink habit; his eyes looked over this light in a burning way at Dirk. “So — you are not abed?” he said.
There was more than the aimless comment in his tone, an expectation, an excitement. “You came to find me,” answered Dirk. “Why?”
Sebastian set the lamp on a little bracket by the window he put his hand to his neck, loosening his doublet, and looked away.
“It is very hot,” he said in a low voice. “I cannot rest. I feel to-night as I have never felt — I think the cause is with you — what you said has distracted me.” he turned his head. “Who are you? What did you mean?” “You know,” answered Dirk, “what I am-a poor student from Basle college. And in your heart you know what I meant.”
Sebastian stared at him a moment.
“God! But how could you discern — even if it be true? — you, a stranger. But now I think of it, belike there is reason in it — certes, she has shown me favour.”
Dirk smiled.
“’Tis a rich lady, her husband would be a noble, think of it.”
“What ye put into me!” cried Sebastian in a distracted voice. “That I should talk thus to a prating boy! But the thought clings and burns — and surely ye are wise.”
Dirk, still leaning against the wall, smoothed the arras with delicate fingers.
“Surely I am wise. Well skilled in difficult sciences am I, and quick to see — and understand —— take this for your hospitality, sir steward — watch your mistress.”
Sebastian put his hand to his head.
“I have a wife.”
Dirk laughed.
“Will she live for ever?”
Sebastian looked at him and stammered, as if some sudden sight of terror seared his eyes. “There — there is witchcraft in this — your meaning —”
“Think of it!” flashed Dirk. “Remember it! Ye get no more from me.”
The steward stood quite still, gazing at him.
“I think that I have lost my wits to-night,” he said in a low voice. “I do not know what I came down to you for — nor whence come these strange thoughts.”
Dirk nodded his head; a small, slow smile trembled on the corners of his lips.
“Perchance I shall see you in Frankfort, sir steward.”
Sebastian caught at the words with eagerness.
“Yea — I go there with — my lady —” He stopped blankly.
“As yet,” said Dirk, “I know neither my dwelling there nor the name I shall assume. But you —— if I need to I shall find you at the Emperor’s court?”
“Yea,” answered Sebastian; then, reluctantly, “What should you want with me?”
“Will it not be you who may need me?” smiled Dirk. “I, who have to-night put thoughts into your brain that you will not forget?”
Sebastian turned about quickly, and caught up the cresset lamp.
“I will see you before you go,” he whispered, horror in his face. “Yea, on the morrow I shall desire more speech with you.”
Like a man afraid, in terror of himself, filled with a dread of his companion, Sebastian, the pure flame of the lamp quivering with the shaking of his hand, crossed