THE MIDNIGHT BURIAL

Darkness had barely fallen when I was back again in the Monastery wood. Von Lindheim had offered to accompany me, but I had thought it better not to bring him. In the first place I anticipated little to be done except watching, and one pair of eyes would be as good there as two. Then if he came with me the chances of being discovered would be increased, since two men are easier seen than one. Beyond these there was a stronger reason for leaving him behind. I was convinced that pluckily as he fought against it, his nerve was seriously shaken. He had brightened up considerably since leaving SchÖnvalhof, still it is no joke—although, brave fellow that he was, he tried hard to treat it as one—it is no joke to go for weeks in hourly fear of secret assassination. It was manifest that he felt his utter helplessness to escape ultimately from Rallenstein’s long arm, and indeed all the police in Europe cannot safeguard a man from foes who, cost what it may, are resolved on his death. Von Lindheim’s nerves were hardly equal to his spirit, and certainly his life since the day he fled from Buyda had been depressing enough. So I dissuaded him from coming with me; his help might have been useful, even indispensable, but I thought the chances were rather the other way. So I left him with some literature we had brought from Carlzig and set off alone. The Monastery was as dark and silent as ever. Indeed, the strange character of the place was its utter absence of any indication of life within. All the same, I could not but imagine it under that silent exterior to be full of active villainy. Yet the dark stillness of the place seemed to chill the nerves, and I felt glad Von Lindheim was not with me.

Now my plan was to keep watch near the grave, which I first of all ascertained was still as it had been left the night before. After some little searching in the dark wood I found a tree, with its trunk less bare than the rest, which I could climb and so command a view of the grave, to which it stood quite close, without much chance of being detected. I took pains to mark its exact position, so that I could find it at once, if in a hurry; then I went down to the moat and, taking my stand opposite the postern door, watched and waited.

My vigil was a long one; a light wind swept through the trees and just ruffled the placid water before me. A gentle shower fell, then the moon came out in her glory, making the house of death yet more sombre in its grey inscrutableness. Clouds drifted across the light, hour followed hour, the great house was as grim and hushed as ever; not a sound broke the stillness save the overhead rustle of the trees and the occasional “tw-hoo” of an owl. Still I waited on, content with the solace of my pipe, till at last my patience was rewarded.

My eyes, accustomed to the normal look of the objects before them, caught on the wall opposite a faint gleam of light, which I knew did not fall from the moon. It came from the point where I should have expected it, the door I was watching so keenly. I rose, slipped my pipe into my pocket, and stood in anxious expectation, ready to retreat to my hiding-place.

The light was now more noticeable, glancing to and fro; it was difficult, owing to the shadow of the buttress, to make out anything clearly, but I was certain that dark figures were moving about the door. Presently I just caught the faint sound of the grazing of the boat’s side against the steps. They, the dark figures, were getting into it now; the time they took and their movements assured me that they were bringing with them the dread burden I anticipated. In another moment they would push off, so I judged it time to make for my perch of observation. My last glimpse as I retreated was of the dark boat-load slowly advancing towards the point I had quitted. In a few minutes more I had climbed up the tree and swung myself into a secure position amid the thick branches.

If ever a man felt sick at heart I did then, perched there waiting for the last scene of that ghastly business. My imagination would picture the poor girl’s death agony, almost a relief when it came to end that hopeless suspense. How had their vile work been done? Was it poison, the knife, or perhaps that mysterious death-touch that had struck down poor Szalay? My mind would run on the imagined scene till the approaching sound of men’s feet drew my thoughts to actualities.

I could now see a light through the trees. The man who carried it in a lantern was followed by two others, bearing between them an improvised stretcher on which was no doubt a human body. Certainly as I had expected this, the sight made my heart give a great throb, and I trembled as I had never done before. The men set their burden down by the grave (it was wrapped round in some dark cloth or canvas), and then proceeded to remove the hurdles, the first man still holding the light. Once when he raised it to the level of his face I recognized him; he was the same who had fetched the priest that afternoon from Carlzig. Not a word was spoken by any one of the three, at least that I could hear. One of the hurdles was placed beside the body, which was then laid on it; two ropes were produced and passed underneath. One man, the dwarf, took the ropes at the foot, while the fellow who held the lantern came forward to help the other man. As he did so he stooped down, and lifting the covering from the dead face held the light to it. An irresistible fascination overcame my desire to avert my eyes, and it was as well it did so.

For with a great shock of something like relief I recognized not the face of Asta von Winterstein, but that of the priest we had seen that day in Carlzig.