 Section 8 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories. Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories. Volume 4. By Julian Hawthorne, Editor. Section 8. Part 2 of The Horlough, or Modern Ghosts. By Henri-René Albert Guy de Maupassant. There I have just come back, and I have not been able to eat any lunch, for this experiment has altogether upset me. July 19. Many people to whom I have told the adventure have laughed at me. I no longer know what to think. The wise man says, perhaps? July 21. I dined at Bougival, and then I spent the evening at a boatman's ball. Decidedly everything depends on place and surroundings. It would be the height of folly to believe in the supernatural on the Ile de la Grenouillère, but on top of Mosse Michel, and in India? We are terribly under the influence of our surroundings. I shall return home next week. July 30. I came back to my own house yesterday. Everything is going on well. August 2. Nothing fresh. It is splendid weather, and I spend my days in watching the sand flow past. August 4. Quarrels among my servants. They declare that the glasses are broken and the cupboards at night. The footman accuses the cook, who accuses the needle-woman, who accuses the other two. Who is the culprit? A clever person to be able to tell. August 6. This time I am not mad. I have seen. I have seen. I have seen. I can doubt no longer. I have seen it. I was walking at two o'clock among my rose-trees, in the full sunlight, in the walk bordered by autumn roses which are beginning to fall. As I stopped to look at a Jayanda Bhattai, which had three splendid blooms, I distinctly saw the stock of one of the roses bend. Close to me, as if an invisible hand had bent it, and then break, as if that hand had picked it. Then the flower raised itself, following the curve which a hand would have described in carrying it toward a mouth, and it remained suspended in the transparent air, all alone and motionless, a terrible red spot, three yards from my eyes. In desperation I rushed at it to take it. I found nothing. It had disappeared. Then I was seized with furious rage against myself, for it is not allowable for a reasonable and serious man to have such hallucinations. But was it a hallucination? I turned round to look for the stock, and I found it immediately under the bush, freshly broken, between two other roses which remained on the branch. And I returned home, then, with a much disturbed mind. For I am certain, now, as certain as I am of the alternation of day and night, that there exists, close to me, an invisible being that lives on milk and on water, which can touch objects, take them, and change their places, which is consequently endowed with the material nature, although it is imperceptible to our senses, and which lives as I do under my roof. August 7. I slept, tranquilly. He drank the water out of my decanter, but did not disturb my sleep. I asked myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me. Not vague doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who have been quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one point. They spoke clearly, readily, profoundly on everything, when suddenly their thoughts struck upon the breakers of their madness, and broke to pieces there, and were dispersed and foundered in that furious and terrible sea, full of bounding waves, fogs, and squalls, which is called madness. I certainly should think that I was mad, absolutely mad, if I were not conscious, did not perfectly know my state, if I did fathom it by analyzing it with the most complete lucidity. I should, in fact, be a reasonable man who was laboring under a hallucination. Some unknown disturbance must have been excited in my brain. One of those disturbances which physiologists of the present day try to note and to fix precisely, and that disturbance must have caused a profound gulf in my mind, and in the order and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur in the dreams which lead us through the most unlikely phintasmagoria, without causing us any surprise, because our verifying apparatus and our sense of control has gone to sleep, while our imaginative faculty wakes and works. Is it not possible that one of the imperceptible keys of the cerebral fingerboard has been paralyzed in me? Some men lose the recollection of proper names, or of verbs, or of numbers, or merely of dates, in consequence of an accident. The localization of all the particles of thought has been proved nowadays. What, then, would there be surprising in the fact that my faculty of controlling the unreality of certain hallucinations should be destroyed for the time being? I thought of all this as I walked by the side of the water. The sun was shining brightly on the river and made earth delightful, while it filled my looks with love for life, for the swallows whose agility is always delightful in my eyes, for the plants by the riverside whose rustling is a pleasure to my ears. By degrees, however, an inexplicable feeling of discomfort seized me. It seemed to me as if some unknown force were numbing and stopping me, were preventing me from going farther and were calling me back. I felt that painful wish to return which oppresses you when you have left a beloved invalid at home, and when you are seized by a presentiment that he is worse. I, therefore, returned, in spite of myself, feeling certain that I should find some bad news awaiting me, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing, however, and I was more surprised and uneasy than if I had had another fantastic vision. August 8. I spent a terrible evening yesterday. He does not show himself any more, but I feel that he is near me, watching me, looking at me, penetrating me, dominating me, and more redoubtable when he hides himself thus than if he were to manifest his constant and invisible by supernatural phenomena. However, I slept. August 9. Nothing but I am afraid. August 10. Nothing. What will happen tomorrow? August 11. Still nothing. I cannot stop at home with this fear hanging over me and these thoughts in my mind. I shall go away. August 12. Ten o'clock at night. All day long I have been trying to get away and have not been able. I wish to accomplish this simple and easy act of liberty. Go out, get into my carriage in order to go to Rouen, and I have not been able to do it. What is the reason? August 13. When one is attacked by certain maladies, all the springs of our physical being appear to be broken, all our energies destroyed, all our muscles relaxed, our bones to have become as soft as our flesh and our blood as liquid as water. I am experiencing that in my moral being in a strange and distressing manner. I have no longer any strength, any courage, any self-control, nor even any power to set my own will in motion. I have no power left to will anything, but someone does it for me and I obey. August 14. I am lost. Somebody possesses my soul and governs it. Somebody orders all my acts, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am no longer anything in myself, nothing except an enslaved and terrified spectator of all the things which I do. I wish to go out. I cannot. He does not wish to, and so I remain, trembling and distracted in the arm-chair in which he keeps me sitting. I merely wish to get up and to rouse myself, so as to think that I am still master of myself. I cannot. I am riveted to my chair, and my chair adheres to the ground in such a manner that no force could move us. Then suddenly I must. I must go to the bottom of my garden to pick some strawberries and to eat them, and I go there. I pick the strawberries, and I eat them. Oh, my God! My God! Is there a God? If there be one, deliver me! Save me! Sucker me! Pardon! Pity! Mercy! Save me! Oh, what sufferings! What torture! What horror! August 15. Certainly, this is the way in which my poor cousin was possessed and swayed when she came to borrow five thousand francs of me. She was under the power of a strange will which had entered into her like another soul, like another parasitic and ruling soul. Is the world coming to an end? But who is he, this invisible being that rules me? This unknowable being, this rover of a supernatural race. Invisible beings exist then. How is it, then, that since the beginning of the world they have never manifested themselves in such a manner precisely as they do to me? I have never read anything which resembles what goes on in my house. Oh, if I could only leave it, if I could only go away and flee, so as never to return, I should be saved. But I cannot. August 16. I managed to escape today for two hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon accidentally open. I suddenly felt that I was free and that he was far away, and so I gave orders to put the horses in as quickly as possible, and I drove to Rouen. Oh, how delightful to be able to say to a man who obeyed you, Go to Rouen! I made him pull up before the library, and I begged them to lend me Dr. Hermann Erdestraus's treatise of the unknown inhabitants of the ancient and modern world. Then, as I was getting into my carriage, I intended to say, to the railway station. But instead of this I shouted, I did not say, but I shouted, in such a loud voice that all the passersby turned round, home! And I fell back into the cushion of my carriage, overcome by mental agony. He had found me out and regained possession of me. August 17. Oh, what a night! What a night! And yet it seems to me that I ought to rejoice. I read, until one o'clock in the morning, Erdestraus, doctor of philosophy and theogony, wrote the history and the manifestation of all the invisible things which hover around man, or of whom he dreams. He describes their origin, their domains, their power. But none of them resembles the one which haunts me. One might say that man, ever since he has thought, has had a foreboding of, and feared a new being stronger than himself, his successor in this world, and that feeling him near and not being able to foretell the nature of that master, he has, in his terror, created the whole race of hidden beings, of vague phantoms born of fear. Having therefore read, until one o'clock in the morning, I went and sat down at the open window, in order to cool my forehead and my thoughts in the calm night air. It was very pleasant and warm. How I should have enjoyed such a night formally. There was no moon but the stars darted out their rays in the dark heavens. Who inhabits those worlds? What forms? What living beings? What animals are there yonder? What do those who are thinkers in those distant worlds know more than we do? What can they do more than we can? What do they see which we do not know? Will not one of them, some day or other, traversing space, appear on our earth to conquer it, just as the Norsemen formally crossed the sea in order to subjugate nations more feeble than themselves? We are so weak, so unarmed, so ignorant, so small. We who live on this particle of mud which turns round in a drop of water. I fell asleep, dreaming thus in the cool night air, and then, having slept for about three-quarters of an hour, I opened my eyes without moving, awakened by, I know not what, confused and strange sensation. At first I saw nothing, and then suddenly it appeared to me as if a page of a book which had remained open on my table turned over of its own accord. Not a breath of air had come in at my window, and I was surprised and waited. In about four minutes I saw, I saw, yes, I saw with my own eyes another page lift itself up and fall down on the others, as if a finger had turned it over. My armchair was empty, appeared empty, but I knew that he was there, he, and sitting in my place, and that he was reading. With a furious bound, the bound of an enraged wild beast that wishes to disembowel its tamer, I crossed my room to seize him, to strangle him, to kill him. But before I could reach it my chair fell over as if somebody had run away from me. My table rocked. My lamp fell and went out, and my windows closed as if some thief had been surprised, and had fled out into the night, shutting it behind him. So he had run away. He had been afraid, he, afraid of me. So, so, to-morrow, or later, some day or other, I should be able to hold him in my clutches and crush him against the ground. Do not dogs occasionally bite and strangle their masters? August 18. I have been thinking the whole day long. Oh, yes, I will obey him, follow his impulses, fulfill all his wishes, show myself humble, submissive, a coward. He is the stronger. But an hour will come. August 19. I know. I know. I know all. I have just read the following in the Review du Monde Scientifique. A curious piece of news comes to us from Rio de Janeiro. Madness, an epidemic of madness, which may be compared to that contagious madness which attacked the people of Europe in the Middle Ages, is at this moment raging in the province of São Paulo. The frightened inhabitants are leaving their houses, deserting their villages, abandoning their land, saying that they are pursued, possessed, governed like human cattle by invisible, though tangible, beings, a species of vampire which feed on their life while they are asleep, and who, besides, drink water and milk without appearing to touch any other nourishment. Professor Dom Pedro Enrique, accompanied by several medical savants, has gone to the province of São Paulo in order to study the origin and the manifestations of this surprising madness on the spot, and to propose such measures to the emperor as may appear to him to be most fitted to restore the mad population to reason. Ah! Ah! I remember now that fine Brazilian three-master which passed in front of my windows as it was going up the Sen on the 8th of last May. I thought it looked so pretty, so white and bright. That being was on board of her, coming from there where its race sprang from. And it saw me. It saw my house which was also white, and it sprang from the ship on to the land. Oh, good heavens! Now I know, I can divine. The reign of man is over, and he has come. He whom disquieted priests exercised, whom sorcerers evoked on dark nights without yet seeing him appear, to whom the presentiments of the transient masters of the world lent all the monstrous or graceful forms of gnomes, spirits, genie, fairies, and familiar spirits. After the coarse conceptions of primitive fear, more clear-sided men foresaw it more clearly. Mesmer devined him, and ten years ago physicians accurately discovered the nature of his power, even before he exercised it himself. They played with that weapon of their new Lord, the sway of a mysterious will over the human soul which had become enslaved. They called it magnetism, hypnotism, suggestion. What do I know? I have seen them amusing themselves like impudent children with this horrible power. Woe to us! Woe to man! He has come! The—the—what does he call himself? The—I fancy that he is shouting out his name to me, and I do not hear him. The—yes, he is shouting it out. I am listening. I cannot repeat it. Horla! I have heard. The Horla! It is he. The Horla! He has come. Ah! The vulture has eaten the pigeon. The wolf has eaten the lamb. The lion has devoured the buffalo with sharp horns. Man has killed the lion with an arrow, with a sword, with gunpowder. But the Horla will make of man what we have made of the horse and of the ox. His shadow, his slave, and his food, by the mere power of his will. Woe to us! But, nevertheless, the animal sometimes revolts and kills the man who has subjugated it. I should also like, I shall be able to. But I must know him, touch him, see him. Learned men say that beast's eyes, as they differ from ours, do not distinguish like ours do. And my eye cannot distinguish this newcomer who is oppressing me. Why? Oh! Now I remember the words of the monk at Monsemichel. Can we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here. There is the wind which is the strongest force in nature, which knocks men and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs, and casts great ships onto the breakers. The wind which kills, which whistles, which sighs, which roars. Have you ever seen it? And can you see it? It exists for all that, however. And I went on thinking. My eyes are so weak, so imperfect, that they do not even distinguish hard bodies, if they are as transparent as glass. If a glass without tin foil behind it were to bar my way, I should run into it, just as a bird which has flown into a room breaks its head against the window-panes. A thousand things, moreover, deceive him and lead him astray. How should it then be surprising that he cannot perceive a fresh body which is traversed by the light? A new being. Why not? It was assuredly bound to come. Why should we be the last? We do not distinguish it, like all the others created before us. The reason is that its nature is more perfect, its body finer and more finished than ours. That ours is so weak, so awkwardly conceived, and combered with organs that are always tired, always on the strain like locks that are too complicated, which lives like a plant and like a beast, nourishing itself with difficulty on air, herbs and flesh, an animal machine which is a prey to maladies, to malformations, to decay, broken-winded, badly regulated, simple and eccentric, ingeniously badly made, a course and a delicate work, the outline of a being which might become intelligent and grand. We are only a few, so few in this world, from the oyster up to man. Why should there not be one more, when once that period is accomplished which separates the successive apparitions from all the different species? Why not one more? Why not also other trees with immense splendid flowers perfuming whole regions? Why not other elements besides fire, air, earth and water? There are four, only four, those nursing fathers of various beings. What a pity! Why are they not forty, four hundred, four thousand? How poor everything is, how mean and wretched, grudgingly given, dryly invented, clumsily made. Ah, the elephant and the hippopotamus, what grace, and the camel, what elegance! But the butterfly, you will say, a flying flower. I dream of one that should be as large as a hundred worlds, with wings whose shape, beauty, colors and motion I cannot even express. But I see it. It flutters from star to star, refreshing them and perfuming them with the light and harmonious breath of its flight. And the people up there look at it as it passes in an ecstasy of the light. What is the matter with me? It is he, the whorella who haunts me, and who makes me think of these foolish things. He is within me. He is becoming my soul. I shall kill him. August 19. I shall kill him. I have seen him. Yesterday I sat down at my table and pretended to write very assiduously. I knew quite well that he would come prowling round me, quite close to me, so close that I might perhaps be able to touch him, to seize him. And then, then I should have the strength of desperation. I should have my hands, my knees, my chest, my forehead, my teeth to strangle him, to crush him, to bite him, to tear him to pieces. And I watched for him with all my overexcited organs. I had lighted my two lamps and the eight wax candles on my mantelpiece, as if by this light I could have discovered him. My bed, my old oak bed with its columns, was opposite to me. On my right was the fireplace. On my left the door which was carefully closed, after I had left it open for some time, in order to attract him. Behind me was a very high wardrobe with a looking-glass on it, which served me to make my toilet every day, and in which I was in the habit of looking at myself from head to foot every time I passed it. So I pretended to be writing in order to deceive him, for he also was watching me, and suddenly I felt I was certain that he was reading over my shoulder, that he was there, almost touching my ear. I got up so quickly, with my hands extended, that I almost fell. Ah, well! It was as bright as at midday, but I did not see myself in the glass. It was empty, clear, profound, full of light. But my figure was not reflected in it, and I, I was opposite to it. I saw the large, clear glass from top to bottom, and I looked at it with unsteady eyes, and I did not dare to advance. I did not venture to make a movement, nevertheless feeling perfectly that he was there, but that he would escape me again, he whose imperceptible body had absorbed my reflection. How frightened I was! And then suddenly I began to see myself through a mist in the depths of the looking glass, in a mist as it were through a sheet of water, and it seemed to me as if this water were flowing slowly from left to right and making my figure clearer every moment. It was like the end of an eclipse. Whatever it was that hid me did not appear to possess any clearly defined outlines, but a sort of opaque transparency which gradually grew clearer. At last I was able to distinguish myself completely as I do every day when I look at myself. I had seen it, and the horror of it remained with me, and it makes me shudder even now. August 20. How could I kill it as I could not get hold of it? Poison? But it would not see me mix it with the water, and then would our poisons have any effect on its impalpable body? No, no, no doubt about the matter. Then, then... August 21. I sent for a blacksmith from Rouen, and ordered iron shutters of him for my room, such as some private hotels in Paris have on the ground floor, for fear of thieves, and he is going to make me a similar door as well. I have made myself out as a coward, but I do not care about that. September 10. Rouen, Hotel Continental. It is done. It is done. But is he dead? My mind is thoroughly upset by what I have seen. Well, then, yesterday, the locksmith, having put on the iron shutters and door, I left everything open until midnight, although it was getting cold. Suddenly I felt that he was there, and joy, mad joy, took possession of me. I got up softly, and I walked to the right and left for some time, so that he might not guess anything. Then I took off my boots and put on my slippers, carelessly. Then I fastened the iron shutters, and going back to the door quickly, I double-locked it with the padlock, putting the key into my pocket. Suddenly I noticed that he was moving restlessly around me, that in his turn he was frightened and was ordering me to let him out. I nearly yielded, though I did not yet, but putting my back to the door I half opened it, just enough to allow me to go out backward, and as I am very tall my head touched the lintel. I was sure that he had not been able to escape, and I shut him up quite alone, quite alone. What happiness! I had him fast. Then I ran downstairs. In the drawing-room, which was under my bedroom, I took the two lamps and I poured all the oil onto the carpet, the furniture, everywhere. Then I set fire to it and made my escape after having carefully double-locked the door. I went and hid myself at the bottom of the garden in a clump of laurel bushes. How long it was! How long it was! Everything was dark, silent, motionless, not a breath of air and not a star, but heavy banks of clouds which one could not see, but which weighed, oh, so heavily on my soul! I looked at my house and waited. How long it was! I already began to think that the fire had gone out of its own accord, or that he had extinguished it, when one of the lower windows gave way under the violence of the flames, and a long, soft, caressing sheet of red flame mounted up the white wall and kissed it as high as the roof. The light fell onto the trees, the branches, and the leaves, and a shiver of fear pervaded them also. The birds awoke, a dog began to howl, and it seemed to me as if the day were breaking. Almost immediately two other windows flew into fragments and I saw that the whole of the lower part of my house was nothing but a terrible furnace. But a cry, a horrible, shrill, heart-rending cry, a woman's cry sounded through the night, and two garret windows were opened. I had forgotten the servants. I saw the terror-struck faces and their frantically waving arms. Then, overwhelmed with horror, I set off to run to the village, shouting, Help! Help! Fire! Fire! I met some people who were already coming on to the scene, and I went back with them to see. By this time the house was nothing but a horrible and magnificent funeral-pile, a monstrous funeral-pile which lit up the whole country, a funeral-pile where men were burning, and where he was burning also. He, he, my prisoner, that new being, the new master, the horla. Suddenly the whole roof fell in between the walls and a volcano of flames darted up to the sky. Through all the windows which opened on to that furnace I saw the flames darting, and I thought that he was there in that kiln dead. Dead? Perhaps? His body? Was not his body, which was transparent, indestructible by such means as would kill ours? If he was not dead? Perhaps time alone has power over that invisible and redoubtable being. Why this transparent, unrecognizable body, this body belonging to a spirit, if it also had to fear ills, infirmities, and premature destruction? Premature destruction? All human terror springs from that? After man, the horla. After him, who can die every day, at any hour, at any moment, by any accident, he came, who was only to die at his own proper hour and minute, because he had touched the limits of his existence. No, no, without any doubt, he is not dead. Then, then I suppose I must kill myself. End of Section 8 Part 2 of The Horla, or Modern Ghosts. Section 9 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4. Section 9. The Miracle of Zobeyed by Pierre Mille. Always wise and prudent, Zobeyed cautiously put aside the Myrtle branches, and peeped through to see who were the persons talking by the fountain in the cool shadow of the pink sandstone wall. And when she saw that it was only the Reverend John Feathercock, her Lord and Master, discoursing as usual of Mohammed Zikaulia, she went toward them frankly, but slowly. When she was quite near, she stopped, and from the light that played in her deep black eyes you would have thought that surely she was listening with the deepest attention. But the truth is that with all her little brain, with all her mouth, and with all her stomach, she was craving the yellow and odorous pulp of a melon which had been cut open and put on the table near two tall glasses half filled with snowy sherbet. For Zobeyed was a turtle of the ordinary kind, found in the grass of all the meadows around the city of Damascus. And as she waited, Mohammed continued his story. And, as I tell you, O Reverend one abounding in virtues, this lion which still lives near Tabariat was formerly a strong lion, a wonderful lion, a lion among lions. Today even he can strike a camel dead with one blow of his paw, and then plunging his fangs into the spine of the dead animal, toss it upon his shoulders with a single movement of his neck. But, unfortunately, having one day brought down a goat in the chase by simply blowing upon it the breath of his nostrils, the lion was inflated with pride and cried, there is no God but God, and I am as strong as God, let him acknowledge it. Allah, who heard him, Allah, the all-powerful, said in a loud voice, O lion of Tabariat, try now to carry off thy prey. Then the lion planted his great teeth firmly in the spine of the animal right under the ears and attempted to throw it on his back. Oh, Nali, it was as though he had tried to lift Mount Libanus, and his right leg fell lame to the ground, and the voice of Allah still held him, declaring, lion, never more shall thou kill a goat. And it has remained thus to this day, the lion of Tabariat has still in his old time power to carry off camels, but he can never do the slightest harm even to a newborn kid. The goats of the flock dance in front of him at night, deriding him to his face, and always from that moment his right leg has been stiff and lame. Muhammad, said the Reverend Mr. Feathercock, contemptuously, these are stories fit only for babies. How then, replied Muhammad Siqualdea, do you refuse to believe that God is able to do whatever he may wish, that the world itself is but a perpetual dream of God's and that in consequence God may change this dream at will? Are you a Christian if you deny the power of the all-powerful? I am a Christian, replied the clergyman with a trace of embarrassment, but for a long time we have been obliged to admit, we pastors of the civilized Church of the Occident, that God would not be able, without belying himself, to change the order of things which he established when he created the universe. We consider that faith and miracles is a superstition, which we must leave to the monks of the Churches of Rome and of Russia, and also to your Muslims who live in ignorance of the truth. It is in order to teach you this truth that I have come here to your country, and at the same time to fight against the pernicious political influence exerted by these same Romitian Greek monks of whom I have just been speaking. By invoking the name of Allah, responded Mohammed with intense solemnity, and by virtue of the collarbone of the mighty Solomon, I can perform great miracles. You see this turtle before us? I shall cause it to grow each day by the breadth of a finger. In saying these words he made a sudden movement of his foot towards Zobaid, and Zobaid promptly drew her head into her shell. You claim to be able to work a miracle like that? said the clergyman scornfully. You, Mohammed, a man immersed in sin, a Musselman whom I have seen drunk. I was drunk, replied Mohammed calmly, but not as drunk as the others. So you think yourself able to force the power of Allah? pursued Mr. Feathercock, disdaining the interruption. I could do it without a moment's difficulty, said Mohammed. Taking Zobaid in his hand he lifted her to the table. The frightened turtle had again drawn in her head. Nothing could be seen but the black and circled golden squares of her shell against a backdrop of juicy melon pulp. Mohammed chanted, Thou thyself art a miracle, O turtle, for thy head is the head of a serpent, thy tail the tail of a water rat, thy bones are birds' bones and thy covering is of stone, and yet thou knowest love as it is known by men, and from thy eggs, O turtle of stone, other turtles come forth. Thou thyself art a miracle, O turtle, for one would say that thou weren't a shell, not but a shell, and behold, thou art a beast that eats. Eat of this melon, O turtle, and grow this night the length of my nail, if Allah permit. And when thou hast grown by the breadth of a finger, O turtle, eat further of this melon, or of its sister another melon, and grow further by the breadth of a finger until thou hast reached the size of a mosque. Thou thyself art a miracle, O shell endowed with life, perform another miracle, if Allah permit, if Allah permit. Zobaid, reassured by the monotony of his voice, decided at last to come out of her shell. First she showed the point of her little horny nose, then her black eyes, her flat pointed tail, and finally her strong little claw tipped feet. Seeing the melon, she made a gesture of ascent, and began to eat. Nothing in the world will happen, remarked the Reverend John Feathercock rather doubtfully. Wait and see, answered Mohammed gravely, I shall come back tomorrow. The next morning he returned, measured Zobaid with his finger, and declared, She has grown. Do you imagine you can make me believe such a thing? cried Mr. Feathercock anxiously. It is written in the Quran, answered Mohammed. I swear by the rosy glow which fiddles the air when the sun is setting, by the shades of the night, and by the light of the moon, that ye shall all change in substance and in size. Allah has manifested himself. The size of this turtle has changed. It will continue to change. Measure it yourself, and you will see. Mr. Feathercock did measure Zobaid, and was forced to admit that she had indeed grown the breadth of a finger. He became thoughtful. Thus day by day Zobaid grew in size, in vigor, and in appetite. At first she had only been as big as a saucer, and took each day but a few ounces of nourishment. Then she reached the size of a dessert plate, then of a soup plate. With her strong beak she could split the rind of a melon at a blow, distinctly could be heard the sound of her heavy jaws, as she crunched the sweet pulp of the fruits which she loved, and which she devoured in great quantities. In one week she had grown so tremendously that she was as big as a meat platter. The Reverend Mr. Feathercock no longer dared to go near this monster, from whose eyes seemed to glisten a look of deviltry, and, always and forever, apparently devoured by a perpetual hunger, the monster ate. The members of Mr. Feathercock's flock came to hear that he was keeping in his house a turtle that had been enchanted in the name of Allah, and not by the power of the Occidental Divinity. This proved to be anything but helpful to the evangelical labours of the clergymen. But he himself refused steadily and obstinately to believe in the miracle, although Mohamed C. Coaldia had never set foot in the house since the day when he had invoked the charm. He remained outside the grounds, seated at the door of the little cafe, plunged in meditation or in dreams, and consuming hashish in large quantities. At the end of some time Mr. Feathercock succeeded in persuading himself that what he was witnessing was nothing more nor less than a perfectly simple and natural phenomenon, perhaps not well understood hitherto, and due entirely to the extraordinarily favourable action of the melon pulp on the physical development of turtles. He decided to cut off Zobaiid's supply of melons. Finally there came a day when Mohamed, drunk with hashish, saw Hakim, Mr. Feathercock's valet, returning from market with a large bunch of fresh greens. He rose majestically, though with features distorted by the drug, and followed the boy with hasty steps. "'Miserable one!' he cried to Mr. Feathercock. Rretched worm, that you have tried to break the charm! Rejoice then, for you have succeeded, and it is broken. But let despair follow upon the heels of your rapture, for it is broken in a way that you do not dream. Henceforth your turtle shall dwindle every day by day.' The reverend Mr. Feathercock tried to laugh, but he did not feel entirely happy. On Sundays at the services the few faithful souls who remained in his flock looked upon him with suspicion. At the English consulate they spoke very plainly, telling him unsympathetically, that anyone who would make a friend of such a man as Mohamed C. Koaldia, and who would mingle perniscuously with such rabble, need look for nothing but harm from it. Zobaid, when she was first confronted with the fresh damp greens, showed the most profound contempt for them, unquestionably she preferred melons. Mr. Feathercock applauded his own acumen. She was eating too much, that was the whole trouble, he said to himself, and that was what made her grow so remarkably. If she eats less she will probably not grow so much, and if she should happen to die I shall burrid of her, whatever comes it will be for the best. But the next day Zobaid gave up pouting, and began very docilely to eat the greens, and when the boy Hakim carried her next bunch to her, he said slyly, Effendi, she is growing smaller. The clergyman attempted to shrug his shoulders, but it was impossible to disguise the fact from himself. Zobaid had certainly shrunk, and within an hour all Damascus knew that Zobaid had shrunk. When Mr. Feathercock went to the barbershop, the Greek barber said to him, Sir, your turtle is no ordinary turtle. When he went to call on Mrs. Hollingshead, a lady who was always intensely interested in all subjects that she failed to understand, and who discussed them with a beautiful freedom, she said to him, Dear sir, your turtle, how exciting it must be to watch it shrink! I am certainly coming to see it myself. When he went to the Anglican orphanage, all the little Syrians, all the little Arabs, all the little Armenians, all the little Jews, drew turtles in their copy books, turtles of every size and every description, the big ones walking behind the little ones, the tail of each and the mouth of another, making an interminable line, and in the street the donkey drivers, the water carriers, the fishmongers, the vendors of broiled meats, of baked breads, of beans, of cream, all cried, Mr. Turtle, Mr. Turtle, try our wares, buy something for your poor stubborn beast that is pining away. And in truth the turtle continued to shrink. She became again the size of a soup plate, then of a dessert plate, then of a saucer, till finally one morning there was nothing there but a little round thing, tiny, frail, translucent, a spot about as big as a lady's watch, almost invisible at the base of the fountain. And the next day, ah, the next day there was nothing there, nothing whatever, neither turtle nor the shadow of turtle, or more trace of a turtle than of an elephant in all the grounds. Mohamed C. Koaldia had stopped taking Hashish because he was saturated with it, but he remained all day long, huddled in a heap at the door of the little cafe, immediately opposite the clergyman's house. His eyes enlarged out of all proportion, set in a face the colour of death, gave him the look of a veritable sorcerer. At this moment the Reverend Mr. Feathercock was returning from a visit to the English consul who had said to him coldly, all I can tell you is that you have made an ass of yourself or, as a Frenchman would say, played the donkey to hear yourself bray. The best thing you can do is go and hunt up a congregation somewhere else. The Reverend John Feathercock accepted the advice with deference and took the train for Beiruth. That same evening Mohamed C. Koaldia but took himself to the house of one Antonio, interpreter and public scribe, and ordered him to translate into French the following letter, which he dictated in Arabic. Afterwards he carried this letter to Father Stephen, prior of the monastery of the Greek Yükresolomites. May heaven paint your cheeks with the colours of health, most venerable father, and may happiness reign in your heart. I have the honour to inform you that the Reverend John Feathercock has just left for Beiruth, but that he has had put upon his trunks the address of a city called Livvairpool, which I am informed is in the Kingdom of England, and also everything points to the belief that he will never return. Therefore I dare to hope that you will send me the second part of the reward you agreed upon, as well as a generous present for Hakim, Mr. Feathercock's valet, who carried every day a new turtle to the house of the clergyman, and carried away the old one under his cloak. I also pray you to tell your friends that I have for sale at prices exceptionally low, fifty-five turtles, all of different sizes, the last and smallest of which is no larger than the watch of a European hoary. I have been at infinite pains to find them, and they have served to prove to me with what exquisite care Allah fashions the members of the least of his creatures, and ornaments their bodies with the most delicate designs. End of Section 9. Recording by Elaine Tweddle, Sterling, Ontario. Filename, Best Mystery Stories, 09, Hawthorne. ID tags for this file are Title 09, The Miracle of Zobaid, Artist Julian Hawthorne Editor, Album, Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4. Section 10 of Library of World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 4, by Julian Hawthorne Editor, Section 10. The Torture by Hope, by Vier de Leo Adem. Many years ago, as the evening was closing in, the venerable Pedro Arbuez de Aspala, six prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, and third Grand Inquisitor of Spain, followed by Afral Redemptor, and preceded by two familiars of the Holy Office, the latter carrying lanterns, made their way to a subterranean dungeon. The bolt of a massive door creaked, and they entered a mephitic in pace, where the dim light revealed between rings fastened to the wall a blood-stained rack, a brassier, and a jug. On a pile of straw, loaded with fetters, and his neck encircled by an iron car can, sat a haggard man of uncertain age, clothed in rags. This prisoner was no other than rabbi, azer, a barbagnel, a Jew of Aragon, who, accused of usury and pitiless scorn for the poor, had been daily subjected to torture for more than a year. Yet his blindness was as dense as his hide, and he had refused to abjure his faith. Proud of affiliation dating back thousands of years, proud of his ancestors, for all Jews worthy of the name or vein of their blood, he descended Talmudically from Atheniel, and consequently from Ipsaba, the wife of the last judge of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his courage amid incessant torture. With tears in his eyes at the thought of this resolute soul rejecting salvation, the venerable Pedro Arbuez de Aspila, approaching the shuttering rabbi, addressed him as follows, My son, rejoice, your trials here below are about to end. If in the presence of such obstancy I was forced to permit, with deep regret, the use of great severity, my task of fraternal correction has its limits. You are the fig tree, which, having failed so many times to bear fruit, at last withered, but God alone can judge your soul. Perhaps infinite mercy will shine upon you at the last moment. We must hope so. There are examples. So sleep in peace tonight. Tomorrow you will be included in the auto-defei. That is, you will be exposed to the Cay Madero, the symbolical flames of the everlasting fire. It burns, as you know, only at a distance, my son. And death is at least two hours, often three, in coming, on accounts of the wet, iced bandages, with which we protect the heads and hearts of the condemned. There will be forty-three of you, placed in the last row. You will have time to invoke God and offer to him this baptism of fire, which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope in the light and rest. With these words, having signed to his companions to unchain the prisoner, the prior tenderly embraced him. Then came the turn of the fra redemptor, who, in a low tone, entreated the Jews' forgiveness for what he had made him suffer for the purpose of redeeming him. Then the two familiars silently kissed him. This ceremony over, the captive was left, solitary and bewildered, in the darkness. Rabbi Acer of Barbinelle, with parched lips, and visage worn by suffering, at first gazed at the closed door with vacant eyes. Closed? The word unconsciously roused a vague fancy in his mind, the fancy that he had seen for an instant the light of the lanterns through a chink between the door and the wall. A morbid idea of hope, due to the weakness of his brain, stirred his whole being. He dragged himself towards the strange appearance. Then, very gently and cautiously, slipped one finger into the crevice. He drew the door toward him. Marvelous! By an extraordinary accident the familiar who closed it had turned a huge key an instant before it struck the stern casing, so that the rusty bolt, not having entered the hole, the door again rolled on its hinges. The rabbi ventured to glance outside. By the aid of a sort of luminous dusk he distinguished at first a semi-circle of walls, indented by winding stairs, and, opposite to him, at the top of five or six stone steps, a sort of black portal, opening into an immense corridor whose first arches only were visible from below. Stretching himself flat, he crept to the thresholds. Yes, it was really a corridor, but endless in length. A wan light illumined it, lamp suspended from the vaulted ceiling, lightened at intervals the dull hue of the atmosphere. The distance was veiled in shadow. Not a single door appeared in the whole extents. Only on one side, the left, heavily graded loopholes, sunk in the walls, admitted a light which must be that of evening, for crimson bars at intervals, rested on the flags of the pavements. What a terrible silence! Yet yonder, at the far ends of that passage, there might be a doorway of escape. The Jews' vacillating hope was tenacious, for it was the last. Without hesitating, he ventured on the flags, keeping close under the loopholes, trying to make himself part of the blackness of the long walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself along on his breast, forcing back the cry of pain, when some raw wound sent a keen pang through his whole body. Suddenly the sound of a sandaled foot, approaching, reached his ears. He trembled violently. Fear stifled him. His sight grew dim. Well, it was over, no doubt. He pressed himself into a niche, and, half lifeless with terror, waited. It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed swiftly by, holding in his clenched hand an instrument of torture, a frightful figure, and vanished. The suspense which the rabbi had endured seemed to have suspended the functions of life, and he lay nearly an hour unable to move. Fearing an increase of tortures, if he were captured, he thought of returning to his dungeon. But the old hope whispered in his soul, that divine, perhaps, which comforts us in our sorrows trials. A miracle had happened. He could doubt no longer. He began to crawl toward the chance of escape. Exhausted by suffering and hunger, trembling with pain, he pressed onward. The sepulchral corridor seemed to lengthen mysteriously, while he, still advancing, gazed into the gloom, where there must be some avenue of escape. Oh, oh, he again heard footsteps. But this time they were slower, more heavy. The white and black forms of two inquisitors appeared, emerging from the obscurity beyonds. They were conversing in low tones, and seemed to be discussing some important subjects, for they were gesticulating vehemently. At this spectacle, Rabbi Acer at Barbenyal closed his eyes. His heart beat so violently that it almost suffocated him. His rags were damp with the cold sweat of agony. He lay motionless by the wall, his mouth wide open, under the rays of a lamp, praying to the God of David. Just opposite to him the two inquisitors paused under the light of the lamp, doubtless owing to some accident due to the course of their arguments. One, while listening to his companion, gazed at the rabbi. And, beneath the look, whose absence of expression the hapless man did not at first notice, he fancied he again felt the burning pincers scorch his flesh. He was to be once more a living wound. Fainting, breathless, with fluttering eyelids, he shivered at the touch of the monk's flirting robe. But, strange yet natural fact, the inquisitor's gaze was evidently that of a man deeply absorbed in his intended reply, engrossed by what he was hearing. His eyes were fixed, and seemed to look at the Jew without seeing him. In fact, after the lapse of a few minutes, the two gloomy figures slowly pursued their way, still conversing in low tones toward the place once the prisoner had come. He had not been seen. Amid the horrible confusion of the rabbi's thoughts, the idea darted through his brain. Can I be already dead that they did not see me? A hideous impression roused him from his lethargy. And looking at the wall against which his face was pressed, he imagined he beheld two fierce eyes watching him. He flung his hand back in a sudden frenzy of fright, his hair fairly bristling. Yet, no, no. His hand groped over the stones. It was the reflection of the inquisitor's eyes, still retained in his own, which had been refracted from two spots on the wall. Forward he must hasten toward that goal which he fancied, absurdly no doubt, to be deliverance, toward the darkness from which he was now barely thirty paces distant. He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor. Suddenly the poor wretch felt a gust of cold air on the hands resting upon the flags. It came from under the little door to which the two walls led. Oh, heaven, if that door should open outward! Every nerve in the miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope. He examined it from top to bottom, though scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the surrounding darkness. He passed his hand over it. No bolt, no lock. A latch, he started up. The latch yielded to the pressure of his thumb. The door silently swung open before him. Hallelujah! Remember the rabbi in a transport of gratitude, as, standing on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him. The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit sky, into spring, liberty, life. It revealed the neighboring fields, stretching toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom. Oh, to escape! He would journey all night through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached him. Once in the mountains, and he was safe, he inhaled the delicious air, the breeze revived him, his lungs expanded. He felt in his swelling hearts the veni forahs of Lazarus. And to thank once more the God who had bestowed this mercy upon him, he extended his arms, raising his eyes toward heaven. It was an estacy of joy. Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him. Fancied that he felt these shadowy arms enclose, embrace him, and that he was pressed tenderly to someone's breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly before him. He lowered his eyes, and remained motionless, gasping for breath, dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly driveling with terror. Horror! He was in the clasp of the grand inquisitor himself, the venerable Pedro Arbues de Aspila, who gazed at him with tearful eyes, like a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb. The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart, with so fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the minocle hair-cloth rubbed the Dominican's breast. And while Acer Arbabaniel, with protruding eyes, gasped in agony, in the ascetics embrace, vaguely comprehending that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture. That of hope. The grand inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach, and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long-fasting. What, my son, on the eve, perchance of salvation, you wished to leave us? CHAPTER X. LIBERVOX RECORDING. DETECTIVE STORIES, VOLUME FULL, by Julian Hawthorne, editor. Section XI. THE OWL'S EAR, by Erkman Katrien. On the 29th of July 1835, Kasper Buk, a shepherd of the little village of Hirschwelle, with his large felt-head tipped back, his wallet of stringy sack-cloth hanging at his hip, and his great tawny dog at his heels, presented himself at about nine o'clock in the evening, at the house of the burgamaster, Petrus Maurer, who had just finished supper and was taking a little glass of Kirchwasser to facilitate digestion. This burgamaster was a tall, thin man, and wore a bushy gray moustache. He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles. He had a jovial disposition, and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger and with the rod. Mr. Burgamaster cried his shepherd in evident excitement, but Petrus Maurer, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and said, Kasper Buk, begin by taking off your head, put your dog out of the room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I may understand you. Hereupon the burgamaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied his little glass, and wiped his great gray moustaches indifferently. Kasper put his dog out and came back with his head off. Well, said Petrus, seeing that he was silent, what has happened? It happens that the spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein. Ha! I doubt it. You've seen it yourself? Very clearly, Mr. Burgamaster. Without closing your eyes? Yes, Mr. Burgamaster. My eyes were wide open. There was plenty of moonlight. What form did it have? The form of a small man. Good. And turning toward a glass door at the left, Kato, cried the burgamaster, an old-serving woman opened the door. Sir? I am going out for a walk on the hillside, sit up for me until ten o'clock. Here's the key. Yes, sir. Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he addressed Kasper Book. Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the Holy Path, and tell him behind the mill. Your spirit must be some marauder. But if it's a fox, I'll make a fine hood of it with long ear-laps. Master Petrus Maurer and humble Kasper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock at the rural guard's door, the burgamaster plunged among the elder bushes in a little lane that wound around behind the old church. Two minutes later, Kasper and Hans Görner winger at his side by running overtook Master Petrus in the Holy Path. All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein. These ruins, which are twenty minutes' walk from the village, seem to be insignificant enough. They consist of the ridges of a few decrepit walls from four to six feet high, which extend among the briar bushes. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Serranus, the Roman camp of Haldelok, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The only thing about these ruins, which could be considered remarkable, is a stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an arch-tacterial freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction? It matters little to us. The result was, to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of the hill. Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens of Hirshvilla. I see nothing, the burgamaster would say, turning up his nose derisively. Nor I either, the royal guard would repeat, imitating the other's tone. It's down the hole, muttered the shepherd. We shall see, we shall see, returned the burgamaster. It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the cistern. As I have said, the night was clear, limpid, and perfectly still. The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The blueing briar and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odour, and the frogs of a neighbouring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good rustics. They thought of nothing but laying hands on the spirit. When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared, nothing stirred. That devil, said the burgamaster, we forgot to bring a bit of candle. The scent, Kasper, you know the way better than I. I'll follow you. At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly. If he had consulted his inclinations, the poor man would have taken to flight. His pitiful expression made the burgamaster burst out laughing. Well, Hans, since he doesn't want to go down, show me the way, he said to the game warden. But Mr. Burgamaster, said the letter, you know very well that steps are missing, we should risk breaking our necks. Then what's to be done? Yes, what's to be done? Send your dog, replied Petrus. The shepherd, whistled to his dog, showed in the stairway, urged him. But he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others. At this moment a bright idea struck the royal guardsman. Ah, Mr. Burgamaster, said he, if you should fire your gun inside. Faith, cried the other, you're right, we shall catch a glimpse at least. And, without hesitating, the worthy man approached the stairway and leveled his gun. But, by the acoustic effect which I've already pointed out, the spirit, the marauder, the individual who chanced to be actually in the cistern, had heard everything. The idea of stopping a gunshot did not strike him as amusing. For, in a shrill, piercing voice, he cried, Stop! Don't fire! I'm coming! Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly, and the Burgamaster, leading over the opening again, cried rudely, Be quick about it, you violet, or I'll shoot. Be quick about it. He cocked his gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the mysterious person. They heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless, it still took him another minute before he appeared, the cistern being at a depth of sixty feet. What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great criminal. So, at least, thought Petrus Maurer and his acolytes. At last a vague form could be discerned in the dark. Then, slowly, by degrees, a little man, four and a half feet high at the most, frail, ragged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpies, and his hair tangled, came out, shouting, By what right do you come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures? This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in accord with his costume and physiognomy. Accordingly, the Burgamaster indignantly replied, Try to show that you're honest, you naive, or I'll begin by administering a correction. A correction! said a little man, leaping with anger and drawing himself up under the nose of the Burgamaster. Yes, replied the other, who, nevertheless, did not fail to admire the pygmies' courage. If you do not answer the questions satisfactorily, I'm going to put to you. I am the Burgamaster of Hershviller. Here are the rural guard, the shepherd, and his dog. We are stronger than you. Be wise and tell me peaceably who you are, what you're doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight. Then we shall see what's to be done with you. Oh, that's none of your business! replied the little man in his cracked voice. I shall not answer. In that case, forward march, ordered the Burgamaster, who grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck. You're going to sleep in prison. The little man writhed like a weasel. He even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity. Let go, sir! I surrender to superior force. I'm yours! The Burgamaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breathing, became calmer. Do you promise? said he. I promise. Very well. Walk in front. And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the Burgamaster took captive a little red-haired man issuing from the cavern of Geierstein. Upon arriving at Hirschville, the rule-guard ran to find the key of the prison, and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside bold and pat-lock. Everyone, then, could repose after his fatigues, and Petros Maurer went to bed and dreamt till midnight of this singular adventure. On the morrow, towards nine o'clock, Hans Görna, the rule-guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the townhouse for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the will of the wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his neck-tie. Some say that he was still writhing, others that he was already stiff. However that may be, they ran to Petros Maurer's house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter's arrival the little man had breathed his last. The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschville drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe. Then they buried the unknown in a field of meadow-gras, and it was all over. Now, about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin, Petros Maurer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us. We were a dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgamaster recounted the foregoing little story as I've just reported it. This strange cousin, said I, truly strange, and you have no other information concerning the unknown? None. And you have found nothing which could give you a clue as to his purpose? Absolutely nothing, Christian. But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern, on what did he live? The burgamaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and replied with, To your health, cousin. To yours. We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I am used with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world like the gras of the field, without leaving the least memory or the least regret. Cousin, I resumed, how far may it be from here to the ruins of Gaiostain? Twenty minutes walk at the most? Why? Because I should like to see them. You know that we have a meeting of the municipal council, and that I can't accompany you. Oh, I can find them by myself. No, the rural guard will show you the way. He is nothing better to do. And my worthy cousin, having wrapped on his glass, called his servant. Cato, go and find Hans Görner. Let him hurry, and get here by two o'clock. I must be going. The servant went out, and the rural guard was not tardy in coming. He was directed to take me to the ruins. While the burgamaster proceeded gravely toward the hall of the municipal council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Görner, with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the same moment the rocky rips of the plateau, the blue distances of Hunsrück, the sad, crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling of the Hirschwelle Bell, summoning the notables to the council, the rural guardsmen panting and catching at the brambles, assumed in my eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account. It was the story of the hanged man which took the color out of the prospect. The system's staircase struck me as being exceedingly curious, with its elegant spiral. The bushes, bristling in the fissures at every step, the deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my sadness. We descended, and soon the luminous point of the opening, which seemed to contract more and more, and to take the shape of a star with curved rays, alone sent us its pale light. When we attained the very bottom of the cistern, we found a superb sight was to be had of all those steps, lighted from above, and cutting off their shadows with marvellous precision. I then heard the hum of which I've already spoken. The immense granite conge had as many echoes as stones. Has nobody been down here since a little man? I asked the rural guardsmen. No, sir. The peasants are afraid. They imagine that the hanged man will return. Tent you? I? I'm not curious. But the gestures of the peace, his duty was to— What could he have come to the owl's ear for? They call this the owl's ear? Yes. That's pretty near it, said I, raising my eyes. This reversed vault forms the pavilion well enough. The underside of the steps makes the covering of the tympanum, and the winding of the staircase, the cochlear, the labyrinth, and the vestibule of the ear. That is the cause of the murmur which we hear. We are at the back of a colossal ear. It's very likely, said Hans Görner, who did not seem to have understood my observations. We started up again, and I had ascended the first steps, when I felt something crush under my foot. I stopped to see what it could be, and at that moment perceived a white object before me. It was a torn sheet of paper. As for the hard object, which I had felt grinding up, I recognized it as a sort of glazed, earthenware jug. Aha! I said to myself, this may clear up the Bergamas's story. I rejoined Hans Görner, who was now waiting for me at the edge of the pit. And how, sir? cried he. Where would you like to go? First let's sit down for a while. We shall see presently. I sat down on a large stone, while the royal guard cast his falcon eyes over the village, to see if there chanced to be any trespassers in the gardens. I carefully examined the glazed vase, of which nothing but splinters remained. These fragments presented the appearance of a funnel, lined with wool. It was impossible for me to perceive its purpose. I then read the piece of a letter, written in an easy, running, and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word for word. It seems to follow the other half of the sheet, for which I looked vainly, all about the runes. My micro-acoustic air-trumpet thus has a double advantage of infinitely multiplying the intensity of sounds, and of introducing them into the air, without causing the observer the least discomfort. You would never have imagined, dear master, the charm which one feels in perceiving these thousands of imperceptible sounds which are confounded, on a fine summer day, in an immense murmuring. The bumblebee has his song, as well as the nightingale. The honeybee is the warbler of the mosses. The cricket is the lark of the tall grass. The maggot is the wren. It is only a sigh, but a sigh is melodious. This discovery, from the point of view of sentiment, which makes us live in the universal life, surpasses in its importance all that I could say on the matter. After so much suffering, privations, and wariness, how happy it makes one to reap the rewards of all his labours. How this soul soars towards the divine author of all these microscopic worlds, the magnificence of which is revealed to us. Where now are the long hours of anguish, hunger, contempt, which overwhelmed us before? Gone, sir, gone. Tears of gratitude, moist in our eyes. One is proud to have achieved, through suffering, new joys for humanity, and to have contributed to its mental development. But how so ever vast, how so ever admirable, maybe he defers fruits of my microcoustic ear-trumpet, these do not delimit its advantages. There are more positive ones, more material, and ones which may be expressed in figures. Just as a telescope brought the discovery of myriads of worlds performing their harmonious revolutions in infinite space, so also will my microcoustic ear-trumpet extend the sense of the unbearable beyond all possible bounds. Thus, sir, the circulation of the blood and the fluids of the body will not give me pause. You shall hear them flow with the impetriosity of cataracts. You shall perceive them so distinctly as to startle you. The slightest irregularity of the pulse, the least obstacle, is striking, and produces the same effect as a rock against which the waves of a torrent are dashing. It is doubtless an immense conquest in the development of our knowledge of physiology and pathology, but this is not the point on which I would emphasise. Upon applying your ear to the ground, sir, you may hear the mineral waters springing up at immeasurable depths. You may judge of their volume, their currents, and the obstacles which they meet. Do you wish to go further? Enter a subterranean vault which is so constructed as to gather a quantity of loud sounds. Then, at night, when the world sleeps, when nothing will be confused with the interior noises of our globe, listen. Sir, all that it is possible for me to tell you at the present moment, for in the midst of my profound misery, of my privations, and often of my despair, I am left only a few lucid instance to pursue my geological observations. All that I confirm is that the seeding of glowworms, the explosions of boiling fluids, is something terrifying and sublime, which can only be compared to the impression of the astronomer whose glass fathoms deaths of limitless extent. Nevertheless, I must avow that these impressions should be studied further and classified in a methodical manner in order that definite conclusions may be derived therefrom. Likewise, as soon as you shall have deigned dear and noble master to transmit the little sum for use at Neustadt, as I asked, to supply my first needs, we shall see our way to an understanding in regard to the establishment of three great subterranean observatories, one in the valley of Katania, another in Iceland, then a third in Kappak-Uren, Songai, or Kajembe-Uren, the deepest of the cordularies, and consequently, here the letter stopped. I let my hands fall into perfection. Had I read the conceptions of an idiot, or the inspirations of a genius which had been realised, what am I to say, to think? So this man, this miserable creature, living at the bottom of a burrow like a fox, dying of hunger, had had perhaps one of those inspirations which the supreme being sends on earth to enlighten future generations. And this man had hanged himself in disgust, despair. No one had answered his prayer, though he asked only for a crust of bread in exchange for a discovery. It was horrible. Long, long I sat there dreaming, thanking heaven for having limited my intelligence to the needs of ordinary life, for not having desired to make me a superior man in the community of martyrs. At length the rural guardsmen, seeing me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me on the shoulder. Mr. Christian, said he, see it's getting late, the burgrimaster must have come back from the council. Ah, that's a fact, cried I, crumpling up the paper. Come on. We descended the hill. My worthy cousin met me with a smiling face at the threshold of his house. Well, well, Christian, so you found no trace of the imbecile who hanged himself? No. I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from Steffensfeld or somewhere. Faith. He did well to hang himself. When one is good for nothing, that's the simplest way for it. The following day I left Hirschwelle. I shall never return. End of Section 11