The Supernatural Omnibus Part 41

"The axe descended; but it pa.s.sed through the form of the hunter, and my father lost his balance, and tell heavily on the floor.

"'Mortal!' said the hunter, striding over my father's body, 'we have power over those only who have committed murder. You have been guilty of a double murder: you shall pay the penalty attached to your marriage vow. Two of your children are gone, the third is yet to follow---and follow them he will, for your oath is registered. Go---it were kindness to kill thee---your punishment is, that you live!'

"With these words the spirit disappeared. My father rose from the floor, embraced me tenderly, and knelt down in prayer.

"The next morning he quitted the cottage for ever. He took me with him, and bent his steps to Holland, where we safely arrived. He had some little money with him; but he had not been many days in Amsterdam before he was seized with a brain fever, and died raving mad. I was put into the asylum, and afterwards was sent to sea before the mast. You now know all my history. The question is, whether I am to pay the penalty of my father's oath? I am myself perfectly convinced that, in some way or another, I shall."

On the twenty-second day the high land of the south of Sumatra was in view: as there were no vessels in sight, they resolved to keep their course through the Straits, and run for Pulo Penang, which they expected, as their vessel lay so close to the wind, to reach in seven or eight days. By constant exposure Philip and Krantz were now so bronzed that with their long beards and Mussulman dresses, they might easily have pa.s.sed off for natives. They had steered the whole of the days exposed to a burning sun; they had lain down and slept in the dew of the night; but their health had not suffered. But for several days, since he had confided the history of his family to Philip, Krantz had become silent and melancholy: his usual flow of spirits had vanished and Philip had often questioned him as to the cause. As they entered the Straits, Philip talked of what they should do upon their arrival at Goa; when Krantz gravely replied, "For some days, Philip, I have had a presentiment that I shall never see that city."

"You are out of health, Krantz," replied Philip.

"No, I am in sound health, body and mind. I have endeavoured to shake off the presentiment, but in vain; there is a warning voice that continually tells me that I shall not be long with you. Philip, will you oblige me by making me content on one point? I have gold about my person which may be useful to you; oblige me by taking it, and securing it on your own."

"What nonsense, Krantz."

"It is no nonsense, Philip. Have you not had your warnings? Why should I not have mine? You know that I have little fear in my composition, and that I care not about death; but I feel the presentiment which I speak of more strongly every hour. It is some kind spirit who would warn me to prepare for another world. Be it so. I have lived long enough in this world to leave it without regret; although to part with you and Amine, the only two now dear to me, is painful, I acknowledge."

"May not this arise from over-exertion and fatigue, Krantz? Consider how much excitement you have laboured under within these last four months. Is not that enough to create a corresponding depression? Depend upon it, my dear friend, such is the fact."

"I wish it were; but I feel otherwise, and there is a feeling of gladness connected with the idea that I am to leave this world, arising from another presentiment, which equally occupies my mind."

"I hardly can tell you---but Amine and you are connected with it. In my dreams I have seen you meet again; but it has appeared to me as if a portion of your trial was purposely shut from my sight in dark clouds; and I have asked, 'May not I see what is there concealed?'---and an invisible has answered, 'No! 'twould make you wretched. Before these trials take place, you will be summoned away:' and then I have thanked Heaven, and felt resigned."

"These are the imaginings of a disturbed brain, Krantz; that I am destined to suffering may be true; but why Amine should suffer, or why you, young, in full health and vigour should not pa.s.s your days in peace, and live to a good old age, there is no cause for believing. You will be better tomorrow."

"Perhaps so," replied Krantz; "but still you must yield to my whim, and take the gold. If I am wrong, and we do arrive safe, you know, Philip, you can let me have it back," observed Krantz, with a faint smile---"but you forget, our water is nearly out, and we must look out for a rill on the coast to obtain a fresh supply."

"I was thinking of that when you commenced this unwelcome topic. We had better look out for the water before dark, and as soon as we have replenished our jars, we will make sail again."

At the time that this conversation took place, they were on the eastern side of the strait, about forty miles to the northward. The interior of the coast was rocky and mountainous; but it slowly descended to low land of alternate forest and jungles, which continued to the beach: the country appeared to be uninhabited. Keeping close in to the sh.o.r.e, they discovered, after two hours' run, a fresh stream which burst in a cascade from the mountains, and swept its devious course through the jungle, until it poured its tribute into the waters of the strait.

They ran close in to the mouth of the stream, lowered the sails, and pulled the peroqua against the current, until they had advanced far enough to a.s.sure them that the water was quite fresh. The jars were soon filled, and they were again thinking of pushing off; when, enticed by the beauty of the spot, the coolness of the fresh water, and wearied with their long confinement on board of the peroqua, they proposed to bathe---a luxury hardly to be appreciated by those who have not been in a similar situation. They threw off their Mussulman dresses, and plunged into the stream, where they remained fur some time. Krantz was the first to get out: he complained of feeling chilled, and he walked on to the banks where their clothes had been laid. Philip also approached nearer to the beach, intending to follow him.

"And now, Philip," said Krantz, "this will be a good opportunity for me to give you the money. I will open my sash and pour it out, and you can put it into your own before you put it on."

Philip was standing in the water, which was about level with his waist.

"Well, Krantz," said he, "I suppose if it must be so, it must---but it appears to me an idea so ridiculous---however, you shall have your own way."

Philip quitted the run, and sat down by Krantz, who was already busy in shaking the doubloons out of the folds of his sash---at last he said-- "I believe, Philip, you have got them all now?---I feel satisfied."

"What danger there can be to you, which I am not equally exposed to, I cannot conceive," replied Philip; "however--"

Hardly had he said these words, when there was a tremendous roar---a rush like a mighty wind through the air---a blow which threw him on his back---a loud cry---and a contention. Philip recovered himself, and perceived the naked form of Krantz carried off with the speed of an arrow by an enormous tiger through the jungle. He watched with distended eyeb.a.l.l.s; in a few seconds the animal and Krantz had disappeared!

"G.o.d of Heaven! would that thou hadst spared me this," cried Philip, throwing himself down in agony on his face. "Oh! Krantz, my friend---my brother---too sure was your presentiment. Merciful G.o.d! have pity---but thy will be done;" and Philip burst into a flood of tears.

For more than an hour did he remain fixed upon the spot, careless and indifferent to the danger by which he was surrounded. At last, somewhat recovered, he rose, dressed himself, and then again sat down---his eyes fixed upon the clothes of Krantz, and the gold which still lay on the sand.

"He would give me that gold. He foretold his doom. Yes! yes! it was his destiny, and it has been fulfilled. His bones will bleach in the wilderness, and the spirit-hunter and his wolfish daughter are avenged."

The shades of evening now set in, and the low growling of the beasts of the forest recalled Philip to a sense of his own danger. He thought of Amine; and hastily making the clothes of Krantz and the doubloons into a package, he stepped into the peroqua, with difficulty shoved it off, and with a melancholy heart, and in silence, hoisted the sail, and pursued his course.

"Yes, Amine," thought Philip, as he watched the stars twinkling and coruscating; "yes, you are right, when you a.s.sert that the destinies of men are foreknown, and may by some be read. My destiny is, alas! that I should be severed from all I value upon earth, and die friendless and alone. Then welcome death, if such is to be the case; welcome---a thousand welcomes! what a relief wilt thou be to me! what joy to find myself summoned to where the weary are at rest! I have my task to fulfil. G.o.d grant that it may soon be accomplished, and let not my life be embittered by any more trials such as this."

Again did Philip weep, for Krantz had been his long-tried, valued friend, his partner in all his dangers and privations, from the period that they had met when the Dutch fleet attempted the pa.s.sage round Cape Horn.

After seven days of painful watching and brooding over bitter thoughts, Philip arrived at Pulo Penang, where he found a vessel about to sail for the city to which he was destined. He ran his peroqua alongside of her, and found that she was a brig under the Portuguese flag, having, however, but two Portuguese on board, the rest of the crew being natives. Representing himself as am Englishman in the Portuguese service, who had been wrecked, and offering to pay for his pa.s.sage, he was willingly received, and in a few days the vessel sailed.

Their voyage was prosperous; in six weeks they anch.o.r.ed in the roads of Goa; the next day they went up the river. The Portuguese captain informed Philip where he might obtain lodging; and pa.s.sing him off as one of his crew, there was no difficulty raised as to his landing. Having located himself at his new lodging, Philip commenced some inquiries of his host relative to Amine, designating her merely as a young woman who had arrived there in a vessel some weeks before, but he could obtain no information concerning her. "Signor," said the host, "to-morrow is the grand auto-da-fe; we can do nothing until that is over; afterwards, I will put you in the way to find out what you wish. In the mean time, you can walk about the town; to-morrow I will take you to where you can behold the grand procession, and then we will try what we can do to a.s.sist you in your search."

Philip went out, procured a suit of clothes, removed his beard, and then walked about the town, looking up at every window to see if he could perceive Amine. At a corner of one of the streets, he thought he recognised Father Mathias, and ran up to him; but the monk had drawn his cowl over his head, and when addressed by that name, made no reply.

"I was deceived," thought Philip; "but I really thought it was him." And Philip was right; it was Father Mathias, who thus screened himself from Philip's recognition.

Tired, at last he returned to his hotel, just before it was dark. The company there were numerous; everybody for miles distant had come to Goa to witness the auto-da-fe,---and everybody was discussing the ceremony.

"I will see this grand procession," said Philip to himself, as he threw himself on his bed. "It will drive thought from me for a time; and G.o.d knows how painful my thoughts have now become. Amine, dear Amine, may angels guard thee!"

Roger Pater: A Porta Inferi

from MYSTIC VOICES Burns, Oates and Washbourne, 1923 ***

Professor Aufrecht returned to London next day and I went with him as far as the junction, where I had some shopping to do, so I saw nothing of the squire and the old Dominican Father until the evening. After dinner we were talking in the library when Avison came in and removed the coffee cups.

'I'm always a little afraid of Avison,' remarked Father Bertrand confidently, as the butler disappeared with his tray, 'he makes me feel as if I must be on my best behaviour, like a schoolboy when the Headmaster is present.'

'I know what you mean,' answered the squire, 'I used to feel much the same with old Wilson, Avison's predecessor. But then, you see, Wilson once caught me in the pantry, eating the dessert, when I was supposed to be safely in bed in the nursery; and even after I became a priest and his master I felt that he half suspected I should be up to the same trick again, if he wasn't on his guard ! Now with Avison it is different; you see, he has only been here about thirty years, whereas Wilson was butler before I was born.'

'Is it really thirty years since Wilson died?' asked Father Bertrand - 'but yes, I suppose it must be. He was a splendid old man. I always used to think of him as a retainer, "servant" was much too undignified a term for him. On my first visit here I remember feeling that he was taking stock of me, and that, if I didn't pa.s.s muster, he would not allow you to ask me down again. Was it all my imagination, Philip, or did he exercise a veto on your visiting list?'

'Oh no,' laughed the squire, 'Wilson would never have taken such a liberty, but I must admit he contrived to let me know what he thought of my friends. Don't be afraid, Bertrand, you pa.s.sed with honours on the very first occasion. "Quite a gentle man, sir, the young Dominican Father," was his verdict. Dear old Wilson, I can hear him say it now.'

'Doesn't Thackeray say somewhere that to win the approval of a butler is the highest test of good breeding?' I asked.

'I don't remember that,' answered the squire, 'though I think he says that to look like a butler is the safest thing for a political leader, as it always suggests respectability. All the same, I came to trust Wilson's judgement, and it often stood me in good stead as a young man. But it is strange we should have got upon the subject tonight, for the only time I ever came near a quarrel with him was about his opinion of my friend the spiritualist, whose story I told you yesterday. The old butler took a strong dislike to him during his first visit here, and after he left we had quite a little scene. Wilson literally begged me not to make an intimate of him, and I remember getting annoyed with the old man and telling him sharply to mind his own business. He took th~ rebuke like a lamb and begged my pardon for venturing to speak in such a way to me. "But you can't tell, Mr Philip," he added, "what it means to me to see a man like that among your friends." '

'I meant to ask you what became of the spiritualist,' said Father Bertrand, 'but it slipped my memory. Was the incident you told us the only thing of the kind, or did you come across any other examples of his faculty ? '

'Well,' answered the squire, with a little hesitation, 'perhaps you'll laugh at me, but old Wilson's opinion impressed me more than I cared to admit to him, and not long afterwards some facts came to my knowledge which went a long way to confirm it. In consequence I let our intimacy cool, and soon afterwards the man left England altogether and I only met him once again, quite by accident, many years later.' He paused for a moment, and then continued. 'If you like I will tell you what happened on that occasion. The whole affair was over in a few hours, but while it lasted it was so startling that I have often thanked G.o.d since that I followed Wilson's advice and did not allow our former intimacy to develop.

'The incident I told you last night must have occurred about the year 1858, and the man pa.s.sed out of my life within a year or so after that. Still, I never saw the Cellini fountain without it bringing him back to my mind, and I often wondered idly what had happened to him. I never heard a word about him, however, and in time I came to think he must be dead.

'More than twenty years later I was supplying at a mission on the outskirts of a large manufacturing town in the North. The place was not more than two or three miles from the heart of the city, but it was practically in the country, and the only exceptional feature about my work was the fact that I had to visit a large lunatic asylum which stood within the parish. The building had originally been the mansion of a county family, but they had died out, and when the property came into the market it was bought by the Corporation, and the mansion itself had been added to and adapted to serve its new purpose. There were a few Catholics among the inmates, and I found that one of the doctors was a Catholic too, so we soon became very good friends. One afternoon, as I was leaving the asylum, he asked me to go and have tea in his rooms. These were in a wing of the original building, where I had never been before, and his windows looked out on an old formal garden.

'"Why," I exclaimed, "I thought I had seen all the grounds, but this part is quite new to me."

'"Yes, it would be," he replied. "You see, we have to keep the more serious cases separate from the others, and this part of the grounds is in their enclosure. If you like we will go round the old garden after tea; there probably won't be more than one or two patients in it, and it will be all right if I go with you."

'To tell the truth I was always a little uneasy when I went among the patients, even the harmless ones, but my glimpse of the garden made me long to see it all; so I accepted the offer, and when tea was over we walked down on to the terrace beneath. The place had been laid out with great skill in the eighteenth century, and the paved walks with their old stone parapets and vases made an exquisite setting to the beds of bright flowers, relieved here and there by yew trees, clipped into fantastic shapes. There was not a soul about, and I quite forgot my uneasiness until we pa.s.sed through an opening in a tall hedge at the bottom of the slope and came out on to a lawn beyond. At one end of this was a little pool, and my heart gave a great thump as I looked at it, for kneeling by the side, so that his profile was turned towards us, was a man whose face was perfectly familiar. It was my former friend the spiritualist, and, except that his shoulders were bent and his hair absolutely white, his appearance had scarcely changed in all the years, so that I recognized him in an instant. But it was not the surprise of meeting him thus unexpectedly which made me catch my breath and held me speechless. What sent the blood back to my heart, and then made it surge to the brain in a great wave of pity, was his occupation; for carefully, with earnest gaze and rapt attention, he knelt there building castles in the mud! The doctor must have noticed that I was upset, for he took my arm, as if to lead me back again, when I stopped him.

'"No, no, Doctor," I whispered, "I'm not frightened; it isn't that. But the man kneeling there, I used to know him well, I am certain of it.'

'"Indeed," he whispered back, "he is the most curious case we have here - quite a mystery, in fact. I must get you to tell me what you know about him."

'"Yes, certainly," I answered, "but I want to speak to him. He may turn and recognize me at any moment, and I do not want him to think I have come to spy upon him."

'"You are right," he replied, "and if you can only gain his confidence it may be of great importance, for he is a case of lost ident.i.ty, and your old friendship may perhaps revive his memory, and reconnect him with the vanished past." With this he led me up to where the man was kneeling, but he never turned nor seemed to notice our presence, until the doctor addressed him in a loud voice.

'"Come now, Lushington," he said, "I've brought an old friend to see you. Look up and see if you don't recognize him." Very slowly, as if with an effort, the kneeling figure raised its head and turned towards us; but slow as the movement was, it barely gave me time to recover from my surprise, for the doctor had addressed him by a name that was utterly unlike the one he had formerly borne, and yet here he was answering to it, as if it were his own!

'"I wonder if you can recognize me after all these years?" I t asked him, when he had gazed at me in silence for some moments I without the smallest sign of recognition.

'"Recognize yer? No, I'm shot if I do," he said at length; and I got another surprise, for the words were spoken in a hard, vulgar voice, totally different from the quiet, refined speech of my former friend.

'"Think again, Lushington," said the doctor, "for this gentle man is quite right, he used to know you well many years ago." With a scowl the man turned upon him angrily: '"What the blazes do you know about it, you little body-s.n.a.t.c.her?" he snarled. "I'll trouble you to mind your own business. As if you knew anything about me and what I was 'many I years ago'. I wouldn't have spoken to you then, and wouldn't now, but that you've got me locked in this infernal prison of yours."

'"It must be fully twenty years since last you saw me," I said gently, for I wanted to calm him down if possible, "and I was a layman then, so my dress has changed as well as my appearance; but I hoped you might recollect my face."

'"I don't, anyhow," said he, though with less confidence thought, as if some faint glimmer of memory were returning; "but you says you're sure you know me, eh? d.i.c.k Lushington?"

'"Quite sure of it," I answered. "But I must admit one thing. When I knew you, twenty years ago, you were not called d.i.c.k Lushington, but ...' and I spoke the man's real name, which I had known him by. The effect was instantaneous and almost terrifying. No sooner had the words pa.s.sed my lips than he leaped to his feet, shaking with pa.s.sion. His face became livid with rage, he foamed at the mouth, and I thought he was going to have a fit.

'"Liar, liar, liar!" he shrieked in my face. "How dare you say it? It isn't true - by h.e.l.l, I swear it isn't! He's dead, the blackguard that you say I am - I won't soil my lips by repeating his filthy name - and now you'll be saying I killed him. You devil, why don't you say it? It's a lie, of course, but so's what you said before - lies, lies, lies everywhere!" and the madman dropped to his knees again and drove his fingers deep into the mud. I noticed now that there was a warder standing behind us, and saw the doctor make a sign to him.

'"Come away, Father," he whispered to me, "we must give him time to calm down. The warder will look after him, and he will recover more quickly if we go away;" and taking my arm again he led me back towards the mansion. When we had pa.s.sed through the hedge and were well out of earshot, the doctor began to speak again.

'"I'm afraid the experiment was not a great success, Father," he said. "I've never seen Lushington lose his self-control so suddenly, and the worst of it is that his heart is in a terrible state, so an outbreak like this is liable to prove fatal."

'"It certainly was a terrible thing to witness," I answered; "but I'm not so sure we weren't successful in one respect. You are an expert in these matters and I know nothing about them, but surely the fact is clear now that he still knows his real name although he wishes others to be kept in ignorance of it."

'"Certainly," answered the doctor; "but how does that help us, Father?"

'"First let me tell you what I can about his past life, in the days when I knew him," I answered, "and then you can say if my idea of his case is a possible one."

We had reached the house now, and when we were in the doctor's sitting-room again I told him all I knew. Put shortly it was this. When I first met Lushington - I will use that name, if you don't mind, as there is no reason for disclosing his ident.i.ty - he was a young man, well educated, with a comfortable private income of his own, and moving in good society in London, which was only natural, for he came of an excellent family. He was then beginning to dabble in spiritualism, and had been introduced to Home, the famous medium. For my part I tried to dissuade him from this, and always refused to attend any of their seances though he often urged me to, but he ignored my advice and became more and more absorbed in his pursuit, as he found that he himself possessed special gifts as a medium; in fact, Home often urged him to devote his whole life to "the Cause", as he liked to call it. I also told the doctor the story you heard last night - I mean what happened here, when I brought out the Cellini fountain for him to see - and how, later on, his reputation had become an undesirable one and he had left the country, since when I had heard and seen nothing of him until that afternoon; and then I asked to be told the circ.u.mstances which led to his incarceration in the asylum. The doctor hesitated for a little before he answered.

'"Well, Father," said he, "you know we are not allowed to let such facts be known outside the staff, but I think you may be considered as one of ourselves. Not that there's much to tell in any case, for, as I told you, Lushington is our enigma. He was brought here about five years ago by the solicitor of a well- known public man, the head of the family to which he belongs; but even the family lawyer could tell us very little. His residence abroad, which you mentioned just now, must have terminated quite ten years ago, for he had been living in Belfast for five years or so before he came here. For a long time before that he had had no personal dealings with his relatives, but they kept in touch with him through the family solicitors, who used to send him a cheque for his half-year's income every six months, which cheques he always acknowledged.

"The arrangement suited both sides, for Lushington wished to avoid his family, and I gathered that they returned the feeling, though I did not learn why; but what you say about his career as a medium no doubt supplies the explanation. However, shortly before he came here, instead of the customary formal note acknowledging their cheque, the solicitors received a long letter, full of foul language and abuse, with a deliberate accusation of dishonesty on their part, and a threat of legal proceedings for breach of trust and misappropriation of his money. The charge was manifestly absurd, but as the chief trustee was the public man I have mentioned, he could not run the risk of leaving such a charge unanswered, so one of the firm was sent over to Ireland to see Lushington and investigate the affair.

'"He arrived in Belfast to find that his man had been arrested the day before on a criminal charge, but on examination he was found to be hopelessly insane. The solicitor obtained full powers to act on behalf of the family, and he was brought here soon afterwards. But now comes the strange part of the affair. As you know, one element in his case is that of lost ident.i.ty. The man insists that he is d.i.c.k Lushington, and either refuses to admit that he ever bore his real name, or else, as today, maintains that the man who bore it is dead. What makes this feature of his case so odd is that, years ago, a man called d.i.c.k Lushington really lived in Belfast. He was a notorious bad lot, cunning and unscrupulous, an habitual criminal, in fact, who served numerous terms in gaol, and, when out of it, was leader of the worst gang of ruffians in the city. Finally he committed murder, and, failing to escape, took his own life to avoid being arrested and hanged. But the oddest part of it all is this, that the real d.i.c.k Lushington killed himself nearly thirty years ago, long before our patient ever went to Belfast - in fact, while he was still quite young and respectable; yet one of the senior police officials there, who saw the man before he came here, declares that his voice and manner, his tricks of speech and choice of oaths, are identical with those of the notorious criminal Lushington, whose name this poor wretch has adopted, but whom he never can have seen!"

'"Extraordinary," I said, "it sounds like a case of possession;" but as I was speaking a knock came at the door and a warder entered.

'"Beg pardon, sir," he said, addressing the doctor, "but I came to report about Lushington. After you and the other gentleman left the garden he calmed down, and I got him to come in quietly to his room. When he got there, he threw himself on the bed like one exhausted and began to cry, at the same time talking to himself in his other voice - you know what I mean, sir - like a gentleman. After a bit he called me up and said: '"'Tell him I want to see him.'

'"'Tell who?' says I.

'"'Why, Philip, of course,' says he - 'the gentleman who was in the garden just now.'

'"Well, sir, I didn't want to bother you with his nonsense, so I said I thought the gentleman was gone; but no, he wouldn't have it.

'"'Go and see,' says he, and, try as I would, I couldn't put him off it. At last I said I'd go and see, so here I am, sir."

'"And a good thing too," exclaimed the doctor impatiently.

'"I only hope we shall not be too late, and find the quiet mood has pa.s.sed. Come, Father, this is important. If Lushington is still in I this state, you may be able to do something with him."

'"By all means, let us go at once," I said, rising, and we hur- I ried off to the poor creature's cell, which the doctor and myself entered, leaving the warder outside, with instructions to come in at once if either of us called. The man was lying on his bed, apparently in a state of extreme exhaustion, but as we entered he turned his head to see who we were, and a great sigh escaped his lips.

"Oh, Philip, come to me," he murmured faintly, and I I hastened to the bedside and took both his hands in mine.

'"After all these years, to see you once again," he said, almost in a whisper. "Oh, Philip, if I had but taken your advice!" I pressed his fingers in my own, hardly daring to speak, and he lay silent, with eyes closed, for quite a minute. Then, all at once, his eyes opened, and he turned to me with a quick glance of terror.

'"Take me away with you, Philip," he cried, "quickly, before the other one comes back !" and he flung his arms round me I like a frightened child. Gently I laid him back upon the bed, supporting the poor feeble body in my arms, and tried to rea.s.sure him.

'"You're all safe now, old fellow," I whispered gently. "He won't come back while I am here, no chance of it."

'"Oh, do you think so?" he answered eagerly. "Then - why - then you must never leave me. My G.o.d! how I hate him, devil that he is; and oh, to think I let him in so willingly!"

'"We'll keep him out together, you and I, never fear of that," I a.s.sured him bravely, though, even as I spoke, I was wondering what in the world it all meant; and then I added foolishly, "Tell me, who is he?"

"Who is he?" he almost shrieked, his terror returning more intensely than before. "Who is he? Why, d.i.c.k Lushington, of course - the devil-man, who gets inside and uses me. He uses me, I tell you like a slave. My hands, my limbs, my brain, my will, he's got it all, all of me, at his mercy. The filthy, hateful devil that he is, and did it by pretending to be my friend."

'"Hush, hush, be calm," I said, "you will exhaust yourself. Be calm, he won't come back while I am here. You see, I am a priest now, did you know it? I promise you, you will be safe with me.

'"Thank G.o.d for that," he said more calmly, "but oh, Philip, don't forsake me. I shan't last long now, I shan't keep you long. You were my friend once, be my saviour now. Promise me you'll be with me at the end. Don't leave me here to die, alone with him."

'"I promise you faithfully that I will do everything in my power to help you," I answered solemnly; "but now you must rest yourself, and try to sleep," and I laid his head back on the pillow, taking his hand in mine again, while he closed his eyes.

'"I will do anything - anything you tell me," he whispered, "only forsake me not, or I am lost." Then he lay still, and in less than five minutes, to my amazement, the grip on my hand relaxed, his fingers fell back, and he was sleeping like a child. The doctor crept to the door and beckoned the warder in.

'"Stay here by the bedside," he ordered, "and if he wakes up, say to him at once, 'Father Philip is still here and will come if you require him.' If he says he does, pull the bell which communicates with my room." Then he touched my arm and led me away on tip-toe along the gallery.

'"Well," I said, at length, when we had reached the doctor's room, "I don't know what you think, but to my mind it seems a clear case of possession. I have heard of other similar cases among spiritualists."

'"It certainly does look like it," he admitted; "but I am more concerned as to the immediate treatment than I am to explain the origin of his malady. Do you realize, my dear Father, what you have taken upon yourself?"

'"You mean by promising to do all I can for him? ' I asked.