 Section one of Unprofessional Tales. 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 Wayne Cook. Unprofessional Tales by Norman Douglas. Section one. A Mystery. It was a favored morning in April, bright and balmy. The park was crowded. A breath of violets floated upon the breeze and the rustle of spring toilets was mingled confusedly with light laughter and the thud of horses hooves crushing the soft earth. Two men, friends of long standing, suddenly encountered one another after separation of many years. They sat down and discussed all that had happened to themselves in the long interval, looking up now and again to admire some pretty face or to greet an acquaintance in the colored throng that moved ceaselessly onward before their eyes. After some time one of them said, I was extremely surprised to meet you and in fact when I saw you first I thought it must be a ghost, for I understood you were still in Japan. And curiously enough I have been thinking a good deal about you lately. Some of these chance meetings are really very strange. There are coincidences that might almost make one believe in the supernatural. Some of them, replied his friend, are quite inexplicable. I will tell you of an experience that befell myself not long ago. Perhaps you can help me understand it. You have heard me speak of my friend Ponomerov. Often a man of heart and noble impulses. I look upon him as the embodiment of all that is best in the Russian character. After my return from Russia to England we wrote for a long time to one another, but the correspondent lagged and in the end ceased. I heard of him occasionally from mutual friends and often a thought of him. I thought thinking of him more particularly one evening in summer as I walked home from my club. I was on my way through London to the continent. The streets were dusty and hot and noisome. At that time of the year I remembered that I had last stayed with him in his estate in the Tula government. I thought of the many happy months that we had spent together in the patriarchal style of Russian country life. I remembered the laughing round-faced presence, the fragrance of trees and the mild, long-drawn evenings, and I felt again that operating charm of sadness, of yearning, that hangs in the pale Russian sky and penetrates to the very soul of the endless country. A sensation, not unlike home sickness, came over me. Suddenly, as if my thoughts had actually conjured him up, Ponomarov himself accosted me for somewhat older, somewhat grey-haired, but otherwise unchanged in appearance, he said. I know. But I am the same friend to you. You know the depths of my heart you have conquered in my heart long ago. Calm and have supper. I have just dined. I too, never mind. I must have supper. There is a restaurant near at hand. Sergei Alexeevich, you will ruin your digestion. We entered the restaurant unknown to myself. It was at Parisian in Piccadilly. The first first I saw there was something under the Yakim addition. See that at the table by himself. I exchanged a few words with him, and we passed on. My friend began. How long it's been since we have met. I only came to England to look at the mayor of Carburals, but she is not up to my wait. Tell me how you have done. No, no. Let me speak first. I have so much to say. In the first place I have married her. Any of an over? I asked. You remember. Just the very same. Let us have some tea-cold. And now I have a proposal to make. Come back with me tomorrow to Valesievo. Yes, tomorrow. You used to like me in mind. Do not deny it. And we are all enchanced. Honeyota will do her best for you. Come tomorrow. We will discuss manures and free will. I know you love the place. Come. The Mujiks are just making the inn now. Our Mujik is an ideal creature. But the foreigners know of our country nothing, or for one breath of Russian hay. And we will make them dance and sing. You used to like that. Ivan Ivanovich, come and make us happy. We love your cheery face. I gave you a conditional promise. We agreed to discuss the matter more fully next day. Meanwhile my friend drank a bottle or two where I told him all my news. He struck me as being restless and exalted in manner. In fact, a kind of distortion of his old self. He was usually rather calm. I imagined he had been dining generously in contrast to his habitual custom. There was something, I know not what, in his behavior to me that evening that gave me an unpleasant impression of him. Indeed his whole personality almost rebelled me. A feeling that I was thoroughly ashamed of at the time. I experienced an uncomfortable sensation. Difficult to describe and impossible to dispel. A sensation as though I were conversing. How shall I express myself? With a nightmare clothed in flesh and blood rather than with a man. He had changed wonderfully, I thought, in those few years. He went on. I detest these countries full of hills and hills. One cannot see in front of one's nose. We Russians do not like to be shut in. We have broad minds that cannot bear to be arrested by trivialities. You find me more patriotic than formally, I dare say. Our nation is a family of brothers. Our hearts throb with one pulse. Match me that in the world. I think I am inclined for a little music now. Let us listen to some Siganese. But no Siganese in London. Then how do you spend your evenings? He discourse for some time in this exaggerated strain. Talking so loudly that some there I dare to afterwards. Ask me who the eccentric foreigner heard of me in. At last he left me. Giving me an address at one of the principal hotels. I gave him mine and walked home. The speaker paused as if undecided how to continue his narrative. His friend said, that was certainly a strange meeting. Did you see him again? Him? Whom? Why Ponomerov, of course. Ponomerov. I never saw him at all. What I saw and spoke to was something else. Good heavens! I met my friend, the wearer of Ponomerov, last winter in Petersburg. He was quite different from the thing, the meaningless and unlovely caricature that I had seen. Needless to say, he was utterly demfounded at the story. Good heavens! He is not grey-haired and not married to this day. And at the time of our presumable meeting he was shooting with his brother in the Caucasus. Can you explain that? The other thought a while and then remarked, I cannot explain it at all. It is a mystery. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Louise J. Bell Unprofessional Tales by Norman Douglas Section 2. Elf Water 1. Far away among desolate peaks, in that voiceless wilderness of stone and ice where the clouds linger, a horde of rivulets bursting from patches of eternal snow joined their waters and sped away. And the stream leapt downwards through groves of bearded fur or glided in a smiling flood over smooth meads of fox-glove and tiger-lily and marigolds, caressing their roots with its eddies. To the country folk who lived in the valley below, it was a living and a spiteful thing. They called it Elf Water. Its waves were dull, bluish, insipid to the taste and fraught with unhealthy chills from the snows above. None cared to drink of them. And its shores were encrusted with fanciful stone shapes of grass and moss, elves' work, like the ice crystals on the window panes in December. And none cared to build houses near the water or to own the fields on either side. For sometimes, in the bluest days of mid-summer, the stream suddenly swelled to a furious torrent and overleapt its flowery banks, drowning the lush meadows far and near. The elves, the old folks would then whisper, shaking their heads. They knew its elvish and wayward tricks, and some of them, maybe, still believed in such creatures. And the young men would come out to view the mischief and gaze into the sunny sky and up at the hills and talk together and look wise, secretly wondering. Only one man could foretell the floods. He had lived on the elf water all his life. But he is dead long ago. His cottage is deserted. The roof has fallen in, the wooden beams are decayed, and green moss sprouts between the planks of his floor. He used to look up at the hills and see a small, vapory cloud anchored against one snowy peak. And say nothing. Whenever they asked him to explain, he merely smiled as if the elf water kept no secrets from him. Meanwhile, the fair meadows were flooded and the crops buried till only a few bright green tips showed above the seething foam. And up in the forest where all should be still, the shriek of the torrent could be heard from afar. It thundered among the ravines and roared for freedom in its narrow prison, churning the boulders with hideous din and tumbling the tall pines, whose painted bowls loosened at the root, shivered and rocked like the limbs of some convulsed giant. The pale wood flowers nodded helplessly in the tawny spray. It was unearthly in its rage. And then, with as little show of reason, its elfin wrath melted to a smile, and it shrunk back into a silvery thread of water, hushed and clear. It was ashamed of its freak and weary. But the harm was done, and only this one man's meadows were spared, for they lay out of reach of the wildest floods. They were remote from the valley by a many hours' climb, damp, sloping meads, fringed by dark furs on the shady side of the stream that rushed in a deep strid below the cottage. The folks called them elf meadows. Perhaps because, in times of flood, two or three tall columns of spray could be seen rising up from the gulf below, bearing some fancied resemblance to white elves or fairies. The man had often watched these misty pillars swaying gracefully. He loved the elf water. He had learned to identify himself with all its moods. The ripple of its gray wavelets was the voice of an old friend, a friend of his boyhood. The sound that met his ears in the earliest morning, and that charmed him to sleep at night. And he often thought of the days when, as a child, he used to hang over the dim forest pools and watch the bubbles and hearken to rare music streaming upwards from the depths. It was the pebbles dancing in the current. But, to his childish ears, it sounded like the faint songs of the water fairies disporting themselves on the crystal floor. And, if by chance he dropped anything into the stream, the elves were sure to bring it to the surface again. Everyone, indeed, was agreed upon that point. Sides and axes and sickles that had fallen into the deep pools were always churned up again and found lying on the banks. Sharper than before, the folks said. And once a heavy cart loaded with hay was overtaken by a sudden flood and borne away. Next day, wonderful to relate, they found it standing upright and unharmed on the bank. If there are no elves, who had done it? Even the man's old mother was sometimes amazed at these things, although she generally scoffed at the mountaineer's beliefs. For she came from the green plains far beyond the hills where the folks are quite different. She laughed at the dull peasants and their ways. She was no dreamer. She knew about everything and believed in nothing. They feared her, but she feared none. She was calm and upright and even tempered and prodigiously old, ninety years maybe, or even a hundred. But she was lithe and strong, and her back was straight as a lance. Her husband had died long ago. She had lived in that lonely cottage with her son, all his life. Two. Will she live forever? He often wondered. He hoped she would die, and that soon. For they hated one another. And yet, strangely enough, both were just and honest and even kind according to their lights. And they lived together, both thinking that they were performing a duty towards each other. In that low-ceilinged room, with its wooden wainscoting stained and blackened by age, they often sat and looked at one another for many hours without speaking a word. You are your father's child, she would at last say regretfully. She never reproached him with ought else, for he was a good son, and he never dreamed of vexing her, for she was his mother. And then she would look at him again, and he would look back and say nothing. What should he say? It was true enough he was like his father in all things, short and heavy-chested, indifferent to cold and heat, with dark eyes and crafty features that reflected in their harshness, the crags and chasms of his home. Slow to laugh, slow to speak, slow to decide, superstitious, gentle, but pitiless in resolve, a peculiar compound of strength and weakness. She would have wished to herself another son, tall, gay, ambitious, instead of this contented and crooked creature of the mountains. And perhaps she thought of her own home in the rich plains, with their white-domed cities and laughing merchant folk. Did she regret having exchanged them for a hard life among the mountains? Doubtless. But she was never heard to complain of her lot, and, much as they disliked her, none could find an evil word to say of her. She had a sense of duty and an unbending will, such as would have driven her in other times and places to seek a martyr's death rather than yield in her conviction. She had served her husband faithfully up to the day of his death, and, although she exacted blind obedience from the child, she never treated him with harshness. But from his earliest youth he had never understood his mother, and after his father's death he smiled seldom. He soon learned to close the channels of his heart, to retire within himself, wondering and dismayed, and leaving unspoken many thoughts. Even in the olden days it had been a strange love that they bore to one another. There was little charity in that house. The old woman, accustomed to have her own way, treated him like a child long after he was grown to manhood, and such was his piety that he seldom dared to cross her wishes. Her mind was stronger than his, but he was warmer of heart. Why, then, do you not leave me and return to your own home? He would sometimes ask. He longed for her to take him at his word, but she never left him. She evidently thought this a passing whim on his part. Indeed, what vexed him most of all, she seldom entered seriously into any of his ideas, regarding him rather as an idle visionary whose fancies must be humored, or, if mischievous, repressed. Leave you! Leave you, my son! And why leave you? My folks are all dead, and what would befall you without me? She seemed to doubt whether the man of fifty could provide for himself, and yet she was not wholly insincere. There was something of pity mingled with her contempt. He was her son, her weak son. How else could he suggest such a thing? You drove her away, he once dared to reply, trembling with rage. If she were here, there would be no need for you. Since that day I have suffered. He spoke of his lifelong grief and wondered at his own boldness in thus reproaching his mother. These are foolish words, my son. She looked bravely into his eye. Foolish words. But she feared inwardly, for he spoke the truth. The matter of the man's wife was the only one she dreaded to discuss with him. The old woman knew that she had made a mistake. But it was against her nature ever to acknowledge a fault, and she therefore affected to ignore his grief. And, in truth, she could not easily bring herself to comprehend such an enduring affection. Twenty years have passed since then. She mused. Why does he not forget? No son of hers would think so long of one and the same woman. In this one thing, the man had thwarted his mother and brought home a bride who was not to her liking. But the victory had sapped his energy and he was too weak or maybe too pious, a common enough story, to profit by it and bid the old woman be gone. There followed a few short years during which the mother regained her power over her son and tormented in a thousand ways the young wife who finally fled in despair, never to return. The cottage remained the same. With its cool meadows and dark belt of forest, but the light of love was gone out and an undying hatred kindled. That terrible morning when he found himself deserted, the elf water was in flood, convulsed in its deep bed and howling in the hollow caverns that it had torn itself into the mountain side. He climbed up to a certain little knoll. There where the earth slopes away in a steep ledge above the thundering cataract and where he had often sat with her who was now departed. The current below this point was so fast that it might well have carried away the strongest man. Had she perished in the water? Surely not. It was his friend. It restored to him all that he ever lost. He looked down the stream. There was sunshine and peace in the valley below. But here, all was grey desolation and loneliness. The torn clouds stuck among the pines and ever and anon a ghost-like pill that he had never lost. And ever and anon a ghost-like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths and drenched the meadows with its dew. Sometimes one remained upright swaying in the wind like a shrouded human form. She cannot be dead, he thought. She will return. In the course of time, disquieting rumours of her, the absent one, had reached the valley. The folks said that she well deserved all that she may have suffered since she deserted a good husband for no cause. But the man cared nothing for evil reports. He knew the truth and how that it was all his mother's work. He thought of the picture as he had seen it and each time he looked upon his mother's face and hundred times daily, he was reminded of that other one who had suffered through her. But the old woman always knew the direction of his thoughts and stared back at him fearlessly, though without unkindness. She knew her power over him and exerted it freely. Returning his look so steadfastly that he often felt the strength oozing out of his bones as after a long illness. Often they sat thus in that dark room confronting one another. They stared for long, long hours striving for the mastery and never a word was spoken. He longed for her to yield to confess with her eyes at least. But she never admitted any fault and there was nothing to be read out of her eyes. They were pale blue, cold, and lively as the ripples of a mountain river and fringed with bristly white lashes. Her long curls drooped over them for her oval forehead was overhung down to the nose with thick locks white as driven snow and stiff hairs curled over her lips and out of her nostrils. She had a strange, deep voice gruff as a cracked bell and a complexion clearer than a child's. Under its transparent skin could be seen the veins wandering about like little red rivers and even in her old age she was taller than her son. Likely enough she had been comely in her youth but now she was grown monstrous. She used to say, Look you, what could you do without me? I must care for you like a little child. Do not I work for you? Make your food and clothing? It was true enough like everything that she said. He had grown idle and listless in latter years but he thought how different it might have been how happy I was and how little would have contented me. Then he would sigh to himself grief laden and the customary look of reproach which she was awaiting did not come for he left the room silently with bowed head and as often as he returned he found her sitting upright on her bench beside the stove with her long fingers working at her wall ever ready to take up the mute challenge. To the man thus peering into her glassy eyes they seemed to swell till they dominated his whole being he clenched his fists and looked away sometimes after such a struggle a strange feeling of rage and power entered into him it made his whole body tremble he thought it was an evil spirit tempting him it used to whisper in his ear but he could not understand the words and as the years went on they spoke less with one another silence and hatred lay heavy upon that home the man's black curly hair was already streaked with gray as for the woman she grew old old but she never changed three will she live forever? he wondered I, we are a long-lived race she said aloud for even when he was yet a child she always guessed his thoughts as correctly as if he had spoken them aloud I am old I have lost count of the time but I shall live yet many years and work for you be thankful we are a strong race our blood is good we live long too long he thought and would have said it aloud but the impious words stuck in his throat and choked him the old woman meanwhile fixed her eyes upon him knowing his thoughts surely she said trying to sweeten the gruff tones of her voice into persuasive pleading surely you would not drive your mother out in her old age to die by the roadside surely not he replied moved by a return of his natural piety but how different it might have been as he stepped out of the doorway he found lying upon the threshold a log of wood with some blood stains upon it and a bunch of gaudy feathers he recognized the feathers they were those of a J doubtless the old familiar bird that visited the cottage at times his mother must have killed it after waiting for her opportunity all these many years she hated it on account of its history for it was the young woman the absent one who had caught and tamed it during her short life at the Elf Meadow the man though generally callous to the sufferings of the wild things of nature was strangely affected in his present exasperation by the sight of these poor remains his mother had chosen an evil moment he carried in the feathers for her eyes look I see why have you killed it because it was thievish and because I disliked it she added truthfully she was never so sure of her ascendancy over him but he was enraged at the hard words he thought of the absent one it was as if a link between himself and her had been cruelly severed he said fiercely you killed it even as you killed her this cannot endure all this is foolish talk will you never be reasonable even as you killed her he repeated hoarsely there was a tingling in his ears and the veins in his forehead suddenly swelled then the evil spirit came it had come often of late and spoke to him he understood what it said it said now you killed her this cannot endure one of us too shall die even as you killed her ah do you understand do you confess you killed her ah and I will kill you and for the first time in his life he seized her in a grip of steel and shook her till the white curls danced over her face a rain of fiery sparks was falling before his eyes and he shook on his cheeks how light she was she reeled under his arm and he would assuredly have shaken the last breath out of her old body but that something in the touch of her cold dry skin brought him abruptly to his senses again let me go she growled as boldly as she could gasping with rage and breathlessness would you raise your hand against your mother you are no man but he was inwardly glad for the spell he thought was broken he used to fear her but now he had seen her weakness she is only a woman only a weak woman nevertheless his energy soon melted away and like after his marriage he lacked courage to bid her be gone he had felt his strength but he feared to use it and the woman had felt her weakness but she sought to hide it she would show no signs of defeat yet whenever she spoke to him she was sensible of a strange twitching in her jaw and a new tone in her voice the sound of fear which she tried to conceal but could not therefore she wisely ceased to speak altogether and the man likewise preferred silence since he foresaw that he could no longer reckon upon his self-control in the event of a dispute he had no choice neither trusting themselves to speak to the other many days and many months would pass without a word being said although they looked at one another from time to time in a way that left little to be misinterpreted in his dumb contests with those relentless eyes the man was worsted the old woman without a word gradually cowed him into submission and re-established her empire and the man now only clung with luxurious self-torture to the bittersweet remembrance of other days the absent one at that distance of time had become invested with a sacred and well-nigh supernatural character he would not believe in her death she will return to me his superstitious mind would have deemed it little of a miracle to have encountered her in saintly guise during his wanderings in the forest or on the banks of the stream where they had often lingered together she was no longer a human creature but a shadowy being crowned with a halo of immortality as for the old woman she lived on for many years will she live forever I, she was clearly fated to live forever and he no longer cherished any hope he would repeat this cannot endure one of us two must die but it endured you are no man it was true enough like everything that she said you are no man he laughed at his own weakness a bitter laugh would he kill her he shuttered at the idea besides he dared not once indeed after an unhappy day of sleepless torments the evil spirit came again and spoke to him in the same manner as before and he crept up to where she slept hardly knowing what he was about to do it was midnight she lay with folded palms half reclining in her accustomed attitude on the bench beside the stove she breathed softly but her eyes were not shut they were open and glowed like lamps in the dark the man stepped back awe stricken I see you she said calmly without moving so much as a finger hated words that haunted him ever afterwards she was satisfied with her triumph she said nothing but the man's last spark of courage was crushed out of him thence forth he walked with downcast head and averted look never again would he raise his hand or even his voice against her at times to escape from his care he descended into the valley and drank fiercely but more often he began to cry loudly forests loudly praying for forgiveness for guidance and for release from those awful eyes that vampire like sucked out the strength of his body his soul was humbled to the dust the trees, the rocks and the wild waters were witnesses of his heartfelt supplications and in the end his prayer was heard for for the old woman grew blind the blue fire faded out of her eyes they became milky as it were two white opals though the flames still burned dimly within for a long time she hid it from her son but he found out in the end and thanked the great being who had heard his prayer you wax blind mother your eyes are filmy nay you mistake I see well she answered looking boldly towards him for she knew that he was watching her steadfastly she struggled on with an iron will whenever his glance fell upon her she must have felt it for she at once stared back into his face and so steadily that he often wondered whether he was indeed not mistaken but her task became harder every day and she began to fear mightily for although her old body was as healthy and tough as an oak she foresaw that with the darkening of her sight her power over him would wane the film grows upon you mother I think not I see my wool she croaked back but slowly the crystal of her eye clouded to dull horn again he insisted you see me less plainly than before strangling as best he could the joy that quivered in his voice I see you well enough but she saw him not at all she was stone blind and when she spoke with her son there resounded a horrible note of triumph and menace in his voice she thought he will kill me if he discovers the truth for thus she interpreted his crooked peasant nature yet she still contrived to hide her fear even as he hid his joy casting about meanwhile for some new device to over all him at last she hit upon a cunning and bold deceit worthy of her fearless mind I am not blind I see you I see every hair on your head and I look into your eyes I pierce them through he turned aside from her fixed stare is it possible he wondered I see this film of which you speak is in your own eyes I can see into your very heart and read your evil thoughts and wishes are you not ashamed such words she often repeated and each time the man heard them it was as though a lash had struck him and he looked at her endeavouring to read the truth out of her calm face and his superstitious mind grew afraid I see you she repeated and she dissembled so well that he began to believe his blood curdled with fear was it possible he took to prowling stealthily as a lynx hoping to avoid her glance and by taking her unawares to satisfy himself of her blindness but she was too quick for him her pearly eyes always discovered his whereabouts and her words sunk into his heart I see you I see everything she growled with well simulated joy she had duped him but a nameless dread fell upon the man who went out of the door and passed through the forest and never returned for many weeks five one sunless morning in the early spring he staggered home from the village his gate was unsteady but there sat a steady purpose in his heart the old woman lay in her accustomed attitude on the broad bench beside the stove she never moved she slept she slept much in these latter days the man crept nearer craving to look into her face she slept on and her sharp ears never heard his approach for the elf water was in flood writhing and screeching in its narrow channel till the cottage trembled with the fury of the water as he bent down to look at her the door was burst open by a sudden gust of wind but she slept on he turned back to shut it and as he did so he looked out upon the landscape there was sunshine and peace in the valley below but here all was grey desolation and loneliness the torn clouds stuck among the pines and ever and then on a ghost-like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths and drenched the meadows with its dew it was on such a morning he remembered how long he had waited surely she, the absent one would come soon and he returned to look down upon the old woman the cause of all she slept on then the evil spirit drew near and spoke to him it said now and already his teeth were set to the work but at that moment she awoke of her own accord and opened her eyes they were like discs of polished lead and when she had done so and never so much as took notice of him he knew the truth she was blind blind as a stone he stepped back a pace breathing heavily with the weight of unexpected joy and then an immense wave of love and compassion swept over him submerging every other thought or feeling he pitied her misfortune and would feign have forgiven her all he would love her doubly he would humble himself in ministering to all the wants of her old age but the woman soon felt the human presence and in mingled fear and defiance shrieked aloud little dreaming what effect the words would have I see you I see everything hated words that turned his love to very madness for immediately it was as if a crimson flame leapt up before him burning away the remembrance of all that is or had been and he held her gently and said his words sounded like a lesson learned beforehand enough come be gone fool will you raise your hand against your mother leave me but he only drew her nearer to him then the truth flashed upon her and her voice broke from its troubled depths to a scream that drowned the howl of the wild waters out upon you monster you wish to kill me but I wish to live are you not satisfied with my blindness she thought by this confession to appease his wrath but it was too late and her words were lost perhaps he would have obeyed if he had heard for his piety was fervent but he saw and heard nothing there was a din in his ears as of crashing thunders and a mighty curtain of blood swayed heavily to and fro before his eyes he merely uttered that one word come it sounded dreamlike and distant as though another man not himself were speaking the woman undeceived as to his intent struck out bravely with her arms fighting like a mountain cat but he gathered energy from her resistance and picked her up as he would a child for though tall she was thin and light and carried her out of the cottage and across the damp meadow her white locks were driven by the wind about his face the elf water shouted for gladness he returned alone and sat still a while pondering painfully it cost an effort to collect his thoughts for he was still drunken and dazed with the shock of the last hour slowly reluctantly one by one the memories crept back building themselves up into the hideous fabric of his crime ah he remembered it all but a pallid fear shook him what if she had not died and if the elf water yielded her up again even as it yielded up what else god if she were still alive she was strong and active his teeth chattered and his eyes remained fixed upon the half open door for he dreaded every minute to see her return with dripping garments to the accustomed seat and then turning to confront him with that leaden stare as she never returned, he finally crept across the meadows to the water's edge, peering into the misty depths below. Then he looked down the stream. There was nothing in sight. Puffs of wet breath came up at times from the torrent and cooled his heated head, and then, suddenly, he saw or thought he saw a pale gray shape moving in the water far away. Soon it reached the shore and disengaged itself from among the boulders. It stood upright. How tall it was! Its garments were long and clinging, and it climbed slowly towards him, stumbling often among the stones. Slowly it wound itself aloft. It seemed to be weak, for it paused at times to gather strength, or to bethink itself. Was it a spectre? Surely not. Surely it was his mother, escaped alive from the whirlpools of the elf water. The man raised his hand to his head where the moist perspiration had gathered. He was unnerved with fear. But the shape had reached the narrow path, and, after resting a while, suddenly stretched out its arms as though feeling the way, and seemed to drift straight towards him at a rapid pace. It had evidently made up its mind. It came nearer. He waited no longer. He was seized with a blind, unreasoning panic, and fled upwards past the cottage into the deepest shades of the dripping forest, and never so much as stopped to look behind him, for he felt that it was pressing upon his heels. And there, sheltered under a huge fur, he remained many hours terror-stricken. Evening closed in upon him. But at last he reasoned away his fear, and turned his steps homewards in a quieter frame of mind. And yet he could not rid himself of the notion that the horror was somewhere near at hand, lurking in the darkling shades. He would gladly have shouted to reassure himself, but he dreaded lest the sound of his voice might start it up before his very face. And as he silently walked on, his alarms grew a pace. Like a startled child he dared not turn his head, but walked faster and faster through the dark trees, till on the meadows his pace increased to a run, a horrible, breathless race. He entered his home and looked around him, fearful of some unspeakable calamity. The shape had arrived before him. It sat upright and stern on the accustomed bench. And its eyes, those awful eyes, stared at him with fixed determination across the darkened room. They seemed to say, One of us too shall die. He felt his hair raise itself under his thick fur cap. He would have fled, but his feet refused to move. And there began a strange throbbing in his head. He was constrained to stand still and gaze. Aye, it was his own corporeal mother. Her clothes were dripping, and a little pool of water had collected on the floor. She remained immovable as a rock, save for an occasional spasm of shivering. She had apparently not yet heard him. There was a line of human suffering about the mouth, as of one who would weep, but cannot. And the man saw a small stream of blood oozing from a wound on her head. It trickled slowly and stained her white locks with crimson drops. At that sight there fled across his disordered mind a shadow, a fleeting mockery of the former feeling of love and contrition. But the old woman made a slight movement. She must have become aware of the human presence. And she deliberately opened her mouth to speak, no doubt, the hated words. Her spirit was unbroken. Then the man, by a last effort of will, tottered forth, vanquished. His temples ached fiercely. Bureft of reason, he strayed into the gray twilight to the water's edge. And lo, not far away from a certain little knoll, there where the earth slopes away in a steep ledge above the thundering cataract, another frail white shape floated lovingly towards him. It came nearer, delicately, and enveloped him in its dewy shroud. At last, the spray fell in showers upon his burning head, but his arms sought the yielding form, and he fell, prone, into the void, meeting its chill caresses with a responsive kiss. End of section two. Recording by Louise J. Bell. Sebastopol, California. Section three of Unprofessional Tales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Unprofessional Tales by Norman Douglas. Section three. The Sentence. Midnight. The king sat on his throne of judgment in the high vaulted chamber, and all the captains of the army, the counselors, and judges of the land were gathered about him. Immense torches lit up the ruddy faces of the body garden, played upon their burnished armor that threw back confused gleams. Their lances cast long flickering shadows upon the walls. The recesses of the spacious hall were lost in darkness. Then, far away in the gloom, there resounded a clink of chains upon the stone floor. It came nearer, and presently they led up before the throne a certain young man of proud and defiant mean, heavily manacled. The nobles looked up to the king to read his purpose, for he was about to judge a high-born prince whose condemnation could be pronounced by, none save himself. Some of them hoped that, by reason of his former love to the prisoner, he would forgive the offense. Others, for that same reason, feared it. But in the king's countenance lay neither tenderness nor fierceness, but a great calm. He put his hand to the hilt of the blade that lay across his knee, and all the bystanders knew that he was about to speak. They stood ranged round him and held their breath, immovable as the figures in a picture. Only the shadows flitted, two in fro upon the painted wall, and the weapons glittered restlessly. Casting his eye upon the young man, he said, my ear is never deaf to complaints, but you have chosen another course and have sought to redress private grievances by a public calamity. And raising your hand this day against the kingly majesty, you have injured my people in these your equals. No pretext will serve to lessen your crime. The other men, the partners of your treason, will be judged in their place according to the law of the land. Know that the doom of death is prescribed for all who threaten the integrity of the realm in the person of its sovereign. He paused a while, and some of those that loved the criminal thought to see the king's brow cloud it for a moment with pain. Then he added, and from this doom your former services to the crown cannot save you, nor your rank nor your youth. Prepare therefore for death. He ceased, but all around stood hushed in deepest silence for many minutes as though he yet spake. Then they let him away. End of section three, the sentence.