Lost in a Pyramid or the Mummy's Curse by Louisa May Alcott. 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 Louise J. Bell. Lost in a Pyramid or the Mummy's Curse by Louisa May Alcott. 1. And what are these, Paul? Asked Evelyn, opening a tarnished gold box and examining its contents curiously. Seeds of some unknown Egyptian plant, replied Forsythe, with a sudden shadow on his dark face as he looked down at the three scarlet grains lying in the white hand lifted to him. Where did you get them? asked the girl. That is a weird story which will only haunt you if I tell it, said Forsythe, with an absent expression that strongly excited the girl's curiosity. Please tell it, I like weird tales, and they never trouble me. I'll do tell it, your stories are always so interesting, she cried, looking up with such a pretty blending of entreaty and command in her charming face that refusal was impossible. I'm sorry for it, and so shall I perhaps.  Tell on, I am not afraid of these pretty atoms, she answered, with an imperious nod. To hear is to obey. Let me read the facts, and then I will begin. Returned Forsythe, pacing to and fro with the far off look of one who turns the pages of the past. Evelyn watched him a moment, and then returned to her work, or play rather, for the task seemed well suited to the vivacious little creature, half-child, half-woman. While in Egypt commenced Forsythe slowly, I went one day with my guide and Professor Niles to explore the kiosks. Niles had a mania for antiquities of all sorts, and forgot time, danger, and fatigue in the ardour of his pursuit. We rummaged up and down the narrow passages, half choked with dust and close air, reading inscriptions on the walls, stumbling over shattered mummy cases, or coming face to face with some shriveled specimen perched like a hobgoblin on the little shelves where the dead used to be stowed away for ages. I was desperately tired after a few hours of it, and begged the Professor to return. But he was bent on exploring certain places, and would not desist. We had but one guide, so I was forced to stay. But Jumal, my man, seeing how weary I was, proposed to us to rest in one of the larger passages while he went to procure another guide for Niles. We consented, and, assuring us that we were perfectly safe if we did not quit the spot, Jumal left us, promising to return speedily. The Professor sat down to take notes of his researches, and, stretching myself on the soft sand, I fell asleep. I was roused by that indescribable thrill which instinctively warns us of danger, and springing up I found myself alone. One torch burned faintly, where Jumal had struck it, but Niles and the other light were gone. A dreadful sense of loneliness oppressed me for a moment. Then I collected myself and looked well about me. A bit of paper was pinned to my hat, which lay near me, and on it, in the Professor's writing, were these words. I've gone back a little to refresh my memory on certain points. Don't follow me till Jumal comes. I can find my way back to you, for I have a clue. Sleep well, and dream gloriously of the pharaohs. N-N. I laughed at first over the old enthusiast, then felt anxious, then restless, and finally resolved to follow him, for I discovered a strong cord fastened to a fallen stone, and knew that this was the clue he spoke of. Leaving a line for Jumal, I took my torch and retraced my steps, following the cord along the winding ways. I often shouted, but received no reply, and pressed on, hoping at each turn to see the old man pouring over some musty relic of antiquity. Suddenly the cord ended, and, lowering my torch, I saw that the footsteps had gone on. Rash fellow, he'll lose himself to a certainty, I thought, really alarmed now. As I paused, a faint call reached me, and I answered it. Waited, shouted again, and a still fainter echo replied. Niles was evidently going on, misled by the reverberations of the low passages. No time was to be lost, and, forgetting myself, I stuck my torch in the deep sand to guide me back to the clue, and ran down the straight path before me, whooping like a madman as I went. I did not mean to lose sight of the light, but in my eagerness to find Niles, I turned from the main passage, and, guided by his voice, hastened on. His torch soon gladdened my eyes, and the clutch of his trembling hands told me what agony he had suffered.  Come, we're not far from the clue. I can soon reach it, and then we are safe. But as I spoke, a chill passed over me, for a perfect labyrinth of narrow paths lay before us. Trying to guide myself by such landmarks as I had observed in my hasty passage, I followed the tracks in the sand till I fancied we must be near my light. No glimmer appeared, however, and, kneeling down to examine the footprints nearer, I discovered to my dismay that I had been following the wrong ones, for among those marked by a deep boot-heel were prints of bare feet. We had had no guide there, and Jamal wore sandals. Rising, I confronted Niles with the one despairing word, Lost, as I pointed from the treacherous sand to the fast waning light. I thought the old man would be overwhelmed, but, to my surprise, he grew quite calm and steady, thought a moment, and then went on, saying quietly, Other men have passed here before us. Let us follow their steps, for, if I do not greatly err, they lead toward great passages where one's way is easily found. On we went, bravely, till a misstep threw the professor violently to the ground with a broken leg and nearly extinguished the torch. It was a horrible predicament, and I gave up all hope as I sat beside the poor fellow who lay exhausted with fatigue, remorse, and pain, for I would not leave him. Paul, he said suddenly, if you will not go on, there is one more effort we can make. I remember hearing that a party lost, as we are, saved themselves by building a fire. The smoke penetrated further than sound or light, and the guide's quick wit understood the unusual mist. He followed it and rescued the party. Make a fire, and trust to Jamal. A fire without wood? I began, but he pointed to a shelf behind me, which had escaped me in the gloom, and on it I saw a slender mummy case. I understood him, for these dry cases which lie about in hundreds are freely used as firewood. Reaching up, I pulled it down, believing it to be empty. But as it fell, it burst open and out rolled a mummy. Accustomed as I was to such sights, it startled me a little, for danger had unstrung my nerves. Laying the little brown chrysalis aside, I smashed the case, lit the pile with my torch, and soon a light cloud of smoke drifted down the three passages which diverged from the cell-like place where we had paused. While busyed with the fire, Niles, forgetful of pain and peril, had dragged the mummy nearer, and was examining it with the interest of a man whose ruling passion was strong, even in death. Come and help me unroll this. I have always longed to be the first to see and secure the curious treasures put away among the folds of these uncanny winding sheets. This is a woman, and we may find something rare and precious here, he said, beginning to unfold the outer coverings from which a strange aromatic odor came. Reluctantly I obeyed, for to me there was something sacred in the bones of this unknown woman. But to beguile the time and amuse the poor fellow, I lent a hand, wondering as I worked if this dark, ugly thing had ever been a lovely, soft-eyed Egyptian girl. From the fibrous folds of the wrappings dropped precious gums and spices which half intoxicated us with their potent breath, antique coins, and a curious jewel or two which Niles eagerly examined. All the bandages but one were cut off at last, and a small head laid bare, round which still hung great plates of what had once been luxuriant hair. The shriveled hands were folded on the breast, and clasped in them lay that gold box. Ah! cried Evelyn, dropping it from her rosy palm with a shudder. Nay, don't reject the poor little mummy's treasure. I never have quite forgiven myself for stealing it, or for burning her, said Forsythe, painting rapidly, as if the recollection of that experience lent energy to his hand. Burning her? Oh, Paul, what do you mean?  I'll tell you, while busied with Madame la Momie, our fire had burned low, for the dry case went like tinder. A faint, far-off sound made our heart sleep, and Niles cried out, Pile on the wood! Jamal is tracking us. Don't let the smoke fail now, or we are lost. There is no more wood.  Niles did the same, but the light fabrics were quickly consumed and made no smoke. Burn that! commanded the Professor, pointing to the Mummy. I hesitated a moment. Again came the faint echo of a horn. Life was dear to me. A few dry bones might save us, and I obeyed him in silence. A dull blaze sprung up, and a heavy smoke rose from the burning Mummy, rolling in volumes through the low passages and threatening to suffocate us with its fragrant mist. My brain grew dizzy. The light danced before my eyes. Strange phantoms seemed to people the air, and in the act of asking Niles why he gasped and looked so pale, I lost consciousness. Evelyn drew a long breath and put away the scented toys from her lap as if their odor oppressed her.  That's all. J'mall found us and got us out, and we both forced swore pyramids for the rest of our days. But the box! How came you to keep it? Ask Evelyn, eyeing at a scance as it lay gleaming in a streak of sunshine. Oh! I brought it away as a souvenir, and Niles kept the other trinkets. But you said harm was foretold to the possessor of those scarlet seeds, persisted the girl, whose fancy was excited by the tale, and who fancy'd all was not told. Among his spoils Niles found a bit of parchment, which he deciphered, and this inscription said that the Mummy we had so unglotly burned was that of a famous sorceress, who bequeathed her curse to whoever should disturb her rest. Of course I don't believe that curse has anything to do with it, but it's a fact that Niles never prospered from that day. He says it's because he has never recovered from the fall and fright, and I dare say it is so, but I sometimes wonder if I am to share the curse, for I have a vein of superstition in me, and that poor little Mummy haunts my dreams still. Along silence followed these words, Paul painted mechanically, and Evelyn lay regarding him with a thoughtful face. But gloomy fancies were as foreign to her nature as shadows are to noonday, and presently she laughed a cheery laugh, saying as she took up the box again, why don't you plant them and see what wondrous flower they will bear? I doubt if they would bear anything after lying in a Mummy's hand for centuries, replied Forsythe gravely. Let me plant them and try. You know wheat has sprouted and grown that was taken from a Mummy's coffin. Why should not these pretty seeds? I should so like to watch them grow, may I, Paul? No, I'd rather leave that experiment untried. I have a queer feeling about the matter, and don't want to meddle myself, or let anyone I love meddle with these seeds. They may be some horrible poison, or possess some evil power, for the sorceress evidently valued them since she clutched them fast, even in her tomb. Now you are foolishly superstitious and I laugh at you. Be generous, give me one seed just to learn if it will grow. See, I'll pay for it.  But Forsythe would not yield. He smiled and returned the embrace with lover-like warmth, then flung the seeds into the fire, and gave her back the golden box, saying tenderly, My darling, I'll fill it with diamonds or bonbons if you please, but I will not let you play with that witch's spells. You've enough of your own, so forget the pretty seeds, and see what a light of the harem I've made of you. Evelyn frowned and smiled, and presently the lovers were out in the spring sunshine, reveling in their own happy hopes, untroubled by one foreboding fear. Two. I have a little surprise for you, love, said Forsythe as he greeted his cousin three months later on the morning of his wedding day. And I have one for you, she answered, smiling faintly. How pale you are and how thin you grow!  I am so tired, she said, and leaned her head wearily on her lover's breast. Neither sleep, food nor air gives me strength, and a curious mist seems to cloud my mind at times. Mama says it is the heat, but I shiver even in the sun, while at night I burn with fever. Paul, dear, I'm glad you are going to take me away to lead a quiet, happy life with you, but I'm afraid it will be a very short one.  Have you no curiosity to learn my surprise? He asked to change her thoughts. The vacant look stealing over the girl's face gave place to one of interest, but as she listened it seemed to require an effort to fix her mind on her lover's words. You remember the day we rummaged in the old cabinet? Yes, and a smile touched her lips for a moment. And how you wanted to plant those queer red seeds I stole from the mummy? I remember, and her eyes kindled with sudden fire. Well, I tossed them into the fire as I thought and gave you the box, but when I went back to cover up my picture and found one of those seeds on the rug, a sudden fancy to gratify your whim led me to send it to Niles and ask him to plant and report on its progress. Today I hear from him for the first time, and he reports that the seed has grown marvelously, has budded, and that he intends to take the first flower, if it blooms in time, to a meeting of famous scientific men, after which he will send me its true name and the plant itself. From his description it must be very curious, and I'm impatient to see it. You need not wait. I can show you the flower in its bloom, and Evelyn beckoned with the meshante smile so long a stranger to her lips. Much amazed, Forsythe followed her to her own little boudoir, and there, standing in the sunshine, was the unknown plant, almost rank in their luxuriance with the vivid green leaves on the slender purple stems, and rising from the midst, one ghostly white flower, shaped like the head of a hooded snake, with scarlet stamens like forked tongues, and on the petals glittered spots like dew. A strange uncanny flower! Has it any odor? Asked Forsythe, bending to examine it, and forgetting in his interest to ask how it came there. None, and that disappoints me I am so fond of perfumes, answered the girl, caressing the green leaves which trembled at her touch, while the purple stems deepened their tint. Now tell me about it, said Forsythe, after standing silent for several minutes. I had been before you and secured one of the seeds, for two fell on the rug. I planted it under a glass in the richest soil I could find, watered it faithfully, and was amazed at the rapidity with which it grew when once it appeared above the earth. I told no one, for I meant to surprise you with it, but this bud has been so long in blooming I have had to wait. It is a good omen that it blossoms today, and as it is nearly white, I mean to wear it, for I've learned to love it, having been my pet for so long. I would not wear it, for in spite of its innocent color it is an evil-looking plant, with its adder's tongue and unnatural dew. Wait till Niles tells us what it is, then pet it if it is harmless. Perhaps my sorceress cherished it for some symbolic beauty.  It was very sly of you to turn the tables on me in this way, but I forgive you, since in a few hours I shall chain this mysterious hand forever. How cold it is! Come out into the garden and get some warmth and color for tonight, my love. But when night came, no one could reproach the girl with her pallor, for she glowed like a pomegranate flower, her eyes were full of fire, her lips scarlet, and all her old vivacity seemed to have returned. A more brilliant bride never blushed under a misty veil, and when her lover saw her, he was absolutely startled by the almost unearthly beauty which transformed the pale, languid creature of the morning into this radiant woman. They were married, and if love, many blessings, and all good gifts lavishly showered upon them could make them happy, then this young pair were truly blessed. But even in the rapture of the moment that made her his, Forsythe observed how icy cold was the little hand he held, how feverish the deep color on the soft cheek he kissed, and what a strange fire burned in the tender eyes that looked so wistfully at him. Blythe and beautiful as a spirit, the smiling bride played her part in all the festivities of that long evening, and when at last light, life, and color began to fade, the loving eyes that watched her thought it but the natural weariness of the hour. As the last guest departed, Forsythe was met by a servant who gave him a letter marked Haste. Tearing it open, he read these lines from a friend of the professors. Dear sir, poor Niles died suddenly two days ago while at the scientific club, and his last words were, tell Paul Forsythe to beware of the mummy's curse, for this fatal flower has killed me. The circumstances of his death were so peculiar that I add them as a sequel to this message. For several months, as he told us, he had been watching an unknown plant, and that evening he brought us the flower to examine. Other matters of interest absorbed us till a late hour and the plant was forgotten. The professor wore it in his buttonhole, a strange white serpent-headed blossom with pale glittering spots which slowly changed to a glittering scarlet till the leaves looked as if sprinkled with blood. It was observed that, instead of the pallor and feebleness which had recently come over him, that the professor was unusually animated and seemed in an almost unnatural state of high spirits. Near the close of the meeting, in the midst of a lively discussion, he suddenly dropped as if smitten with apoplexy. He was conveyed home insensible, and after one lucid interval in which he gave me the message I've recorded above, he died in great agony, raving of mummies, pyramids, serpents, and some fatal curse which had fallen upon him. After his death, livid scarlet spots like those on the flower appeared upon his skin, and he shriveled like a withered leaf. In my desire, the mysterious plant was examined and pronounced by the best authority, one of the most deadly poisons known to the Egyptian sorceresses. The plant slowly absorbs the vitality of whoever cultivates it, and the blossom, worn for two or three hours, produces either madness or death. Down dropped the paper from Forsyth's hand. He read no further, but hurried back into the room where he had left his young wife. As if worn out with fatigue, she had thrown herself upon a couch, and lay there motionless, her face half hidden by the light folds of the veil which had blown over it. Evelyn, my dearest, wake up and answer me. Did you wear that strange flower today? whispered Forsyth, putting the misty screen away. There was no need for her to answer, for there, gleaming spectrally on her bosom, was the evil blossom. Its white petals spotted now with flecks of scarlet, vivid as drops of newly spilt blood. But the unhappy bridegroom scarcely saw it, for the face above it appalled him by its utter vacancy. Drawn and pallid, as if with some wasting malady, the young face so lovely an hour ago, lay before him aged and blighted by the baleful influence of the plant which had drunk up her life. No recognition in the eyes, no word upon the lips, no motion of the hand, only the faint breath, the fluttering pulse, and wide-opened eyes, betrayed that she was alive. Alas for the young wife, the superstitious fear at which she had smiled had proved true, the curse that had bided its time for ages was fulfilled at last, and her own hand wrecked her happiness forever. Death in life was her doom, and for years Forsythe secluded himself to tend with pathetic devotion the pale ghost, who never, by word or look, could thank him for the love that outlived even such a fate as this. End of Lost in a Pyramid or The Mummy's Curse Recording by Louise J. Bell Memory by H.P. Lovecraft This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Memory by H.P. Lovecraft In the valley of Nis, the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great upris tree. And within the depths of the valley, where the light reaches not, move forms not meant to be beheld. Rank is the urbage on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amid stones of ruined palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in trees that grow gigantic and crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly things without a name. Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve nobly. For beneath them the gray toad makes his habitation. At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the demon of the valley knows not why its waters are red, nor wither they are bound. The genie that haunts the moonbeam spake to the demon of the valley, saying, I am old, and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone. And the demon replied, I am memory, and am wise in law of the past. But I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly. It was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called man. So the genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the demon looked intently at a little ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard. End of Memory The Metzotint by M. R. James. 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 Louise J. Bell. The Metzotint by M. R. James. Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of an adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of Deniston during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at Cambridge. He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to England, but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his friends and, among others, to the gentleman who at that time presided over an art museum at another university. It was to be expected that the story should make a considerable impression on the mind of a man whose vocation lay in lines similar to Deniston's, and that he should be eager to catch at any explanation of the matter which tended to make it seem improbable that he should ever be called upon to deal with so agitating an emergency. It was indeed somewhat consoling to him to reflect that he was not expected to acquire ancient manuscripts for his institution. That was the business of the Shelburnean Library. The authorities of that might, if they pleased, ransack obscure corners of the continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged at the moment to refine his attention to enlarging the already unsurpassed collection of English topographical drawings and engravings possessed by his museum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so homely and familiar as this may have its dark corners, and, to one of these, Mr. Williams was unexpectedly introduced. Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition of topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealer whose aid is indispensable to their researches. Mr. J. W. Britnell publishes at short intervals very admirable catalogues of a large and constantly changing stock of engravings, plans and old sketches of mansions, churches and towns in England and Wales. These catalogues were, of course, the ABC of his subject to Mr. Williams. But, as his museum already contained an enormous accumulation of topographical pictures, he was a regular rather than a copious buyer, and he rather looked to Mr. Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of his collection than to supply him with rarities. Now, in February of last year, there appeared upon Mr. Williams' desk at the museum a catalog from Mr. Britnell's Emporium, and accompanying it was a typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter ran as follows. We beg to call your attention to number 978 in our accompanying catalog, which we shall be glad to send on approval. Yours faithfully, P. J. W. Britnell. To turn to number 978 in the accompanying catalog was with Mr. Williams, as he observed to himself, the work of a moment, and in the place indicated he found the following entry. 978. Unknown. Interesting mezzo-tint. View of a manor house. Early part of the century. 15 by 10 inches. Black frame. Two guineas. It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However, as Mr. Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to set store by it, Mr. Williams wrote a postcard asking for the article to be sent on approval, along with some other engravings and sketches, which appeared in the same catalog. And so he passed without much excitement of anticipation to the ordinary labourers of the day. A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it, and that of Mr. Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase goes, no exception to the rule. It was delivered at the museum by the afternoon post of Saturday, after Mr. Williams had left his work, and it was accordingly brought round to his rooms in college by the attendant in order that he might not have to wait over Sunday before looking through it and returning such of the contents as he did not propose to keep. And here he found it when he came into tea with a friend. The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large, black-framed mezzotint of which I have already quoted the short description given in Mr. Britnell's catalogue. Some more details of it will have to be given, though I cannot hope to put before you the look of the picture as clearly as it is present to my own eye. Very nearly the exact duplicate of it may be seen in a good many old in-parlers or in the passages of undisturbed country mansions at the present moment. It was a rather indifferent mezzotint, and an indifferent mezzotint is perhaps the worst form of engraving known. It presented a full-face view of a not very large manor house of the last century with three rows of plain-sashed windows with rusticated masonry about them, a parapet with balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico in the center. On either side were trees and in front considerable expanse of lawn. The legend AWF Sculpset was engraved on the narrow margin and there was no further inscription. The whole thing gave the impression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the world Mr. Britnell could mean by affixing the price of two guineas to such an object was more than Mr. Williams could imagine. He turned it over with a good deal of contempt. Upon the back was a paper label, the left-hand half of which had been torn off, all that remained with the ends of two lines of writing. The first had the letters N-Glee-Hall, the second N-Sex. It would perhaps be just worthwhile to identify the place represented which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer, and then he would send it back to Mr. Britnell with some remarks reflecting upon the judgment of that gentleman. He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and supplied the friend with whom he had been playing golf, for I believe the authorities of the university I write of indulge in that pursuit by way of relaxation, and tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussion which golfing persons can imagine for themselves, but which the conscientious writer has no right to inflict upon any non-golfing persons. The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have been better, and that in certain emergencies neither player had experienced that amount of luck which a human being has a right to expect. It was now that the friend, let us call him Professor Binks, took up the framed engraving and said, What's this place, Williams? Just what I'm going to try to find out, said Williams, going to the shelf for a gazetteer. Look at the back. Somethingly Hall, either in Sussex or Essex. Half the name's gone, you see. You don't happen to know it, I suppose. It's from that man Britnell, I suppose, isn't it? Said Binks. Is it for the museum? Well, I think I should buy it if the price was five shillings, said Williams, but for some unearthly reason he wants two guineas for it. I can't conceive why it's a wretched engraving and there aren't even any figures to give it life. It's not worth two guineas, I should think, said Binks, but I don't think it's so badly done. The moonlight seems rather good to me, and I should have thought there were figures, or at least a figure, just on the edge, in front. Let's look, said Williams. Well, it's true the light is rather cleverly given. Where's your figure? Oh, yes, just the head, in the very front of the picture. And indeed there was, hardly more than a black blot on the extreme edge of the engraving. The head of a man or woman, a good deal muffled up, the back turned to the spectator and looking towards the house. Williams had not noticed it before. Still, he said, though it's a cleverer thing than I thought, I can't spend two guineas of museum money on a picture of a place I don't know. Professor Binks had his work to do and soon went. And, very nearly up to hall time, Williams was engaged in a vain attempt to identify the subject of his picture. If the vowel before the oon had only been left, it would have been easy enough, he thought. But as it is, the name may be anything from guesstingly to langley. And there are many more names ending like this than I thought, and this rotten book has no index of terminations. Hall in Mr. Williams' college was at seven. It need not be dwelt upon, the less so as he met their colleagues who had been playing golf during the afternoon. And words with which we have no concern were freely bandied across the table. Merely golfing words, I would hasten to explain. I suppose an hour or more to have been spent in what is called common room after dinner. Later in the evening, some few retired to Williams' rooms, and I have little doubt that wist was played and tobacco smoked. During a lull in these operations, Williams picked up the mezzatint from the table without looking at it and handed it to a person mildly interested in art, telling him where it had come from and the other particulars which we already know. The gentleman took it carelessly, looked at it, then said in a tone of some interest, It's really a very good piece of work, Williams. It has quite a feeling of the romantic period. The light is admirably managed, it seems to me, and the figure, though it's rather too grotesque, is somehow very impressive. Yes, isn't it? said Williams, who was just then busy giving whiskey and soda to others of the company and was unable to come across the room to look at the view again. It was by this time rather late in the evening, and the visitors were on the move. After they went, Williams was obliged to write a letter or two and clear up some odd bits of work. At last, sometime past midnight, he was disposed to turn in, and he put out his lamp after lighting his bedroom candle. The picture lay face upwards on the table where the last man who looked at it had put it, and it caught his eye as he turned the lamp down. What he saw made him very nearly drop the candle on the floor, and he declares now that if he had been left in the dark at that moment, he would have had a fit. But as that did not happen, he was able to put down the light on the table and take a good look at the picture. It was indubitable, rankly impossible no doubt, but absolutely certain. In the middle of the lawn, in front of the unknown house, there was a figure where no figure had been at five o'clock that afternoon. It was crawling on all fours towards the house, and it was muffled in a strange black garment with a white cross on the back. I do not know what is the ideal course to pursue in a situation of this kind. I can only tell you what Mr. Williams did. He took the picture by one corner and carried it across the passage to a second set of rooms which he possessed. There, he locked it up in a drawer, sported the doors of both sets of rooms, and retired to bed. But first he wrote out and signed an account of the extraordinary change which the picture had undergone since it had come into his possession. Sleep visited him rather late. But it was consoling to reflect that the behavior of the picture did not depend upon his own unsupported testimony. Evidently the man who had looked at it the night before had seen something of the same kind as he had. Otherwise he might have been tempted to think that something gravely wrong was happening, either to his eyes or his mind. This possibility being fortunately precluded, two matters awaited him on the morrow. He must take stock of the picture very carefully and call in a witness for the purpose. And he must make a determined effort to ascertain what house it was that was represented. He would therefore ask his neighbor, Nisbet, to breakfast with him, and he would subsequently spend a morning over the gazetteer. Nisbet was disengaged and arrived about 9.30. His host was not quite dressed, I am sorry to say, even at this late hour.  But those who are familiar with university life can picture for themselves the wide and delightful range of subjects over which the conversation of two fellows of Canterbury College is likely to extend during a Sunday morning breakfast. Hardly a topic was left unchallenged, from golf to lawn tennis. Yet I am bound to say that Williams was rather distraught for his interest naturally centered in that very strange picture which was now reposing face downwards in the drawer in the room opposite. The morning pipe was at last lighted and the moment had arrived for which he looked. With very considerable, almost tremulous excitement, he ran across, unlocked the drawer and, extracting the picture, still face downwards, ran back and put it into Nisbet's hands. Now, he said, Nisbet, I want you to tell me exactly what you see in that picture. Describe it if you don't mind, rather minutely. I'll tell you why afterwards. Well, said Nisbet, I have here a view of a country house, English I presume, by moonlight. Moonlight? You're sure of that? Certainly. The moon appears to be on the way, if you wish for details. And there are clouds in the sky. All right, go on. I'll swear, added Williams in and aside, there was no moon when I saw it first. Well, there's not much more to be said, Nisbet continued. The house has one, two, three rows of windows, five in each row, except at the bottom, where there's a porch instead of the middle one. And, but what about figures, said Williams, with marked interest? There aren't any, said Nisbet. But what, no figure on the grass in front? Not a thing. You'll swear to that? Certainly I will, but there's just one other thing. What? Why, one of the windows on the ground floor, left of the door, is open. Is it really? My goodness, he must have got in, said Williams, with great excitement. And he hurried to the back of the sofa, on which Nisbet was sitting, and, catching the picture from him, verified the matter for himself. It was quite true, there was no figure, and there was the open window. Williams, after a moment of speechless surprise, went to the writing table and scribbled for a short time. Then he brought two papers to Nisbet, and asked him first to sign one. It was his own description of the picture, which you have just heard. And then, to read the other, which was Williams's statement, written the night before. What can it all mean, said Nisbet? Exactly, said Williams. Well, one thing I must do, or three things, now I think of it. I must find out from Garwood, this was his last night's visitor, what he saw, and then I must get the thing photographed before it goes further, and then I must find out what the place is. I can do the photographing myself, said Nisbet, and I will. But, you know, it looks very much as if we were assisting at the working out of a tragedy somewhere. The question is, has it happened already, or is it going to come off? You must find out what the place is. Yes, he said, looking at the picture again. I expect you're right, he has got in. And if I don't mistake, there'll be the devil to pay in one of the rooms upstairs. I'll tell you what, said Williams. I'll take the picture across to Old Green. This was the senior fellow of the college who had been bursar for many years. It's quite likely he'll know it. We have property in Essex and Sussex, and he must have been over the two counties a lot in his time. Quite likely he will, said Nisbet. But just let me take my photograph first. But, look here, I rather think Green isn't up to-day. He wasn't in Hall last night, and I think I heard him say he was going down for the Sunday. That's true too, said Williams. I know he's gone to Brighton. Well, if you'll photograph it now, I'll go across to Garwood and get his statement, and you keep an eye on it while I'm gone. I'm beginning to think two guineas is not a very exorbitant price for it now. In a short time he had returned and brought Mr. Garwood with him. Garwood's statement was to the effect that the figure, when he had seen it, was clear of the edge of the picture, but had not got far across the lawn. He remembered a white mark on the back of its drapery, but could not have been sure it was a cross. A document to this effect was then drawn up and signed, and Nisbet proceeded to photograph the picture. Now what do you mean to do, he said? Are you going to sit and watch it all day? Well no, I think not, said Williams. I rather imagine we're meant to see the whole thing. You see, between the time I saw it last night and this morning, there was time for lots of things to happen, but the creature only got into the house. It could easily have got through its business in the time and gone to its own place again. But the fact of the window being open, I think, must mean that it's in there now. So I feel quite easy about leaving it. And besides, I have a kind of idea that it wouldn't change much, if at all, in the daytime. We might go out for a walk this afternoon and come into tea or whenever it gets dark. I shall leave it out on the table here and sport the door. My skip can get in, but no one else. The three agreed that this would be a good plan. And further, that if they spent the afternoon together, they would be less likely to talk about the business to other people. For any rumor of such a transaction as was going on would bring the whole of the phasmatological society about their ears. We may give them a respite until five o'clock. At or near that hour, the three were entering Williams' staircase. They were at first slightly annoyed to see that the door of his rooms was unsported. But in a moment it was remembered that on Sunday the skips came for orders an hour or so earlier than on weekdays. However, a surprise was awaiting them. The first thing they saw was the picture leaning up against a pile of books on the table, as it had been left. And the next thing was Williams' skip, seated on a chair opposite, gazing at it with undisguised horror. How was this? Mr. Filcher, the name is not my own invention, was a servant of considerable standing, and set the standard of etiquette to all his own college and to several neighbouring ones. And nothing could be more alien to his practice than to be found sitting on his master's chair or appearing to take any particular notice of his master's furniture or pictures. Indeed, he seemed to feel this himself. He started violently when the three men came into the room and got up with a marked effort. Then he said, I ask your pardon, sir, for taking such a freedom as to set down. Not at all, Robert, interposed Mr. Williams. I was meaning to ask you some time what you thought of that picture. Well, sir, of course I don't set up my opinion again yours, but it ain't the picture I should hang where my little girl could see it, sir. Wouldn't you, Robert? Why not? No, sir, why the poor child? I recollect once she's seen a door or a Bible with pictures not half what that is, and we had to set up with her three or four nights afterwards, if you'll believe me. And if she was to catch a sight of this skeleton here or whatever it is, carrying off the poor baby, she would be in a taking. You know how it is with children, how nervous they get with a little thing and all. But what I should say, it don't seem a right picture to be laying about, sir. Not where anyone that's liable to be startled could come on it. Should you be wanting anything this evening, sir? Thank you, sir. With these words the excellent man went to continue the round of his master's, and you may be sure the gentleman whom he left lost no time in gathering round the engraving. There was the house, as before, under the waning moon and the drifting clouds. The window that had been open was shut, and the figure was once more on the lawn, but not this time crawling cautiously on hands and knees. Now it was erect, and stepping swiftly with long strides towards the front of the picture. The moon was behind it, and the black drapery hung down over its face so that only hints of that could be seen. And what was visible made the spectators profoundly thankful that they could see no more than a white dome-like forehead and a few straggling hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly clasped over an object which could be dimly seen and identified as a child, whether dead or living it was not possible to say. The legs of the appearance alone could be plainly discerned, and they were horribly thin. From five to seven the three companions sat and watched the picture by turns, but it never changed. They agreed at last that it would be safe to leave it, and that they would return after haul and await further developments. When they assembled again at the earliest possible moment, the engraving was there, but the figure was gone, and the house was quiet under the moonbeams. There was nothing for it but to spend the evening over gazetteers and guidebooks. Williams was the lucky one at last, and perhaps he deserved it. At eleven-thirty p.m. he read from Murray's Guide to Essex the following lines. Sixteen and a half miles anningly. The church has been an interesting building of Norman date, but was extensively classicized in the last century. It contains the tombs of the family of Francis, whose mansion, anningly hall, a solid queen and house, stands immediately beyond the churchyard in a park of about eighty acres. The family is now extinct, the last heir having disappeared mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802. The father, Mr. Arthur Francis, was locally known as a talented amateur engraver in Mezzotint. After his son's disappearance, he lived in complete retirement at the hall and was found dead in his studio on the third anniversary of the disaster. Having just completed an engraving of the house, impressions of which are of considerable rarity. This looked like business, and indeed Mr. Green on his return at once identified the house as anningly hall. Is there any kind of explanation of the figure green? Was the question which Williams naturally asked? I don't know, I'm sure, Williams. What used to be said in the place when I first knew it, which was before I came up here, was just this. Old Francis was always very much down on these poaching fellows, and whenever he got a chance, he used to get a man whom he suspected of it turned off the estate. And by degrees he got rid of them all but one. Squires could do a lot of things then that they daren't think of now. Well, this man that was left was what you find pretty often in that country, the last remains of a very old family. I believe they were lords of the manor at one time. I recollect just the same thing in my own parish. What, like the man in Tess of the Derbervilles? Williams put in? Yes, I dare say. It's not a book I could ever read myself. But this fellow could show a row of tombs in the church there that belonged to his ancestors. And all that went to sour him a bit. But Francis, they said, could never get at him. He always kept just on the right side of the law. Until one night the keepers found him at it in a wood right at the end of the estate. I could show you the place now. It marches with some land that used to belong to an uncle of mine. And you can imagine there was a row, and this man Gaudi, that was the name to be sure, Gaudi. I thought I should get it. Gaudi.  Well, that was what Francis wanted. And grand juries, you know what they would have been then. And poor Gaudi was strung up in double quick time. And I've been shown the place he was buried in, on the north side of the church. You know the way in that part of the world. Anyone that's been hanged or made away with themselves, they bury them that side. And the idea was, that some friend of Gaudi's, not a relation because he had none, poor devil, he was the last of his line. Kind of Spae's ultimagentus. Must have planned to get hold of Francis' boy and put an end to his line, too. I don't know. It's rather an out of the way thing for an Essex poacher to think of. But you know, I should say now it looks more as if old Gaudi had managed the job himself. Oh, I hate to think of it. Have some whiskey, Williams. The facts were communicated by Williams to Deniston, and by him to a mixed company of which I was one, and the Sadducean Professor of Ophiology another. I'm sorry to say that the latter, when asked what he thought of it, only remarked, Oh, those Bridgeford people will say anything. A sentiment which met with the reception it deserved. I have only to add that the picture is now in the Ashlean Museum, that it has been treated with a view to discovering whether sympathetic ink has been used in it, but without effect. That Mr. Britnell knew nothing of it saved that he was sure it was uncommon, and that, though carefully watched, it has never been known to change again. End of The Metzotint Recording by Louise J. Bell. Sebastopol, California. Moonlit Road. By Ambrose Beers. 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 Louise J. Bell. The Moonlit Road. By Ambrose Beers. 1. Statement of John Hetman Jr. I am the most unfortunate of men, rich, respected, fairly well educated, and of sound health, with many of the advantages usually valued by those having them and coveted by those who have them not. I sometimes think that I should be less unhappy if they had been denied me, for then, the contrast between my outer and my inner life would not be continually claiming a painful attention. In the stress of privation and the need of effort, I might sometimes forget the somber secret ever baffling the conjecture that it compels. I am the only child of my parents, John and Julia Hetman. The one was a well-to-do country gentleman, the other a beautiful and accomplished woman to whom he was passionately attached, with what I now know to have been a jealous and exacting devotion. The family home was a few miles outside Nashville, Tennessee, a large, irregularly built dwelling of no particular order of architecture, a little way off the road in a park of trees and shrubbery. At the time of which I write, I was 19 years old, a student at Yale. One day I received a telegram from my father of such urgency that in compliance with its unexplained demand I left at once for home. At the railway station in Nashville, a distant relative awaited me to apprise me of the reason for my recall. My mother had been barbarously murdered, why, and by whom, none could conjecture. My father had gone to Nashville, intending to return the next afternoon. Something prevented his accomplishing the business in hand, so he returned on the same night, arriving just before dawn. In his testimony before the coroner, he explained that having no latch key and not caring to disturb the sleeping servants, he had, with no clearly defined intention, gone round to the rear of the house. As he turned an angle of the building, he heard a sound as of a door gently closed and saw in the darkness, indistinctly, the figure of a man which instantly disappeared among the trees of the lawn. A hasty pursuit and brief search of the grounds, in the belief that the trespasser was someone secretly visiting a servant, proving fruitless, he entered at the unlocked door and mounted the stairs to my mother's chamber. Its door was open, and he, stepping into black darkness, fell headlong over some heavy object on the floor. I may spare myself the details.  Nothing had been taken from the house, the servants had heard no sound, and, accepting those terrible finger marks upon the dead woman's throat, Dear God, that I might forget them. No trace of the assassin was ever found. I gave up my studies and remained with my father, who naturally was greatly changed. Always of a silent, saturnine disposition, he now fell into so deep a dejection that nothing could hold his attention. Yet anything, a footfall, the sudden closing of a door, aroused in him a fitful interest, one might have called it an apprehension. At any small surprise of the senses, he would start visibly and sometimes turn pale, then relapse into a melancholy apathy deeper than before. I suppose he was what is called a nervous wreck. As for me, I was younger then than now, there is much in that. Youth is gilead, in which is balm for every wound. Ah, that I might again dwell in that enchanted land. Unacquainted with grief, I knew not how to appraise my bereavement. I could not rightly estimate the strength and terror of the stroke. One night, a few months after the dreadful event, my father and I walked home from the city. The full moon was only about three hours above the horizon, but the entire countryside had the solemn stillness of a summer midnight. Our footfalls and the ceaseless song of the cateedids were the only sounds aloof. Black shadows of bordering trees lay a thwart the road, which in the short reaches between, gleamed a ghostly white. As we approached the gate to our dwelling, whose front was in shadow and in which no light shone, my father suddenly stopped and clutched my arm, saying, hardly above his breath, God, God, what is that? I hear nothing, I replied. But see, see, he said, pointing along the road directly ahead. I said, nothing is there. Come, father, let us go in.  He had released my arm and was standing rigid and motionless in the center of the illuminated roadway, staring like one bereft of scents. His face in the moonlight showed a pallor and fixity, inexpressibly distressing. I pulled gently at his sleeve, but he had forgotten my existence. Presently he began to retire backward, step by step, never for an instant removing his eyes from what he saw, or thought he saw. I turned half round to follow, but stood irresolute. I do not recall any feeling of fear, unless a sudden chill was its physical manifestation. It seemed as if an icy wind had touched my face and enfolded my body from head to foot. I could feel the stir of it in my hair. At that moment my attention was drawn to a light that suddenly streamed from an upper window of the house. One of the servants, awakened by what mysterious premonition of evil who can say, and in obedience to an impulse that she was never able to name, had lit a lamp. When I turned to look for my father he was gone, and in all the years that have passed, no whisper of his fate has come across the borderland of conjecture from the realm of the unknown. Two. Statement of Kaspar Gratton. Today I am said to live. Tomorrow, here in this room, will lie a senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. And if anyone lift the cloth from the face of that unpleasant thing, it will be in gratification of a mere morbid curiosity. Some, doubtless, will go farther and inquire, who was he? In this writing I supply the only answer that I am able to make, Kaspar Gratton. Surely that should be enough. It has served my small need for more than twenty years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name. It prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity. Some, though, are known by numbers, which also seem inadequate distinctions. One day I was passing along a street of a city far from here, when I met two men similarly clad, one of whom, half pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, that chap looks like 767. Something in the number seemed familiar and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a side street and ran till I fell exhausted in a country lane. I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang of iron doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better than a number. In the register of the potter's field I shall soon have both. What wealth? Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life. The knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them distinct and sequent, like brilliant beads upon a thread. Others, remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black, witchfires glowing still and red in a great desolation. Standing upon the shore of eternity I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came.  They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Ah, the poet's prophecy of me. How admirable, how dreadfully admirable. Backward, beyond the beginning of this via Dolorosa, this epic of suffering with episodes of sin, I see nothing clearly. It comes out of a cloud. I know that it spans only twenty years, yet I am an old man. One does not remember one's birth, one has to be told. With me it was different. Life came to me full-handed and dowered me with all my faculties and powers. Of a previous existence I know no more than others, for all have stammering intimations that may be memories and may be dreams. I know only that my first consciousness was of maturity in body and mind, and my consciousness accepted without surprise or conjecture. I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad, foot sore, unutterably weary and hungry. Seeing a farmhouse, I approached and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired my name. I did not know, yet knew that all had names. In the forest I retired and, night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept. The next day I entered a large town which I shall not name, nor shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end. A life of wandering, always and everywhere, haunted by an over-mastering sense of crime in punishment of wrong, and of terror in punishment of crime. Let me see if I can reduce it to narrative. I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperous planter married to a woman whom I loved and suspected. We had, it sometimes seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise. He is, at all times, a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogether out of the picture. One luckless day it occurred to me to test my wife's fidelity in a vulgar, commonplace way, familiar to everyone who has acquaintance with the literature of fact and fiction. I went to the city, telling my wife that I should be absent until the following afternoon. But I returned before daybreak and went to the rear of the house, purposing to enter by a door with which I had secretly so tampered that it would seem to lock yet not actually fasten. As I approached it I heard it gently open and close and saw a man steal away into the darkness. With murder in my heart I sprang after him, but he had vanished without even the bad luck of identification. Crazed with jealousy and rage, blind and bestial with all the elemental passions of insulted manhood, I entered the house and sprang up the stairs to the door of my wife's chamber. It was closed, but, having tampered with its lock also, I easily entered and, despite the black darkness, soon stood by the side of her bed. My groping hands told me that, although disarranged, it was unoccupied. She is below, I thought, and terrified by my entrance has evaded me in the hall. With the purpose of seeking her I turned to leave the room, but took a wrong direction, the right one. My foot struck her, cowering in a corner of the room. Instantly my hands were at her throat, stifling a shriek. My knees were upon her struggling body, and there, in the darkness, without a word of accusation or reproach, I strangled her till she died. There ends the dream. I have related it in the past tense, but the present would be the fitter form, for again and again the somber tragedy re-enacts itself in my consciousness. Over and over I lay the plan, I suffer the confirmation, I redress the wrong. Then all is blank, and afterward the rains beat against the grimy window panes, or the snows fall upon my scant attire. The wheels rattle in the squalid streets where my life lies in poverty and mean employment. If there is ever sunshine I do not recall it. If there are birds they do not sing. There is another dream, another vision of the night. I stand among the shadows in a moonlit road. I am conscious of another presence, but whose I cannot rightly determine. In the shadow of a great dwelling I catch the gleam of white garments. Then the figure of a woman confronts me in the road. My murdered wife. There is death in the face, there are marks upon the throat. The eyes are fixed on mine with an infinite gravity which is not reproach, nor hate, nor menace, nor anything less terrible than recognition. Before this awful apparition I retire in terror, a terror that is upon me as I write. I can no longer rightly shape the words, see they... Now I am calm, but truly there was no more to tell. The incident ends where it began, in darkness and in doubt. Yes I am again in control of myself, the captain of my soul. But that is not respite. It is another stage and phase of expiation. My penance, constant in degree, is mutable in kind. One of its variants is tranquility. After all it is only a life sentence.  The culprit chooses the duration of his punishment. Today my term expires. To each and all the peace that was not mine. 3. Statement of the late Julia Hetman through the medium Bayrolls. I had retired early and fallen almost immediately into a dreamless sleep from which I awoke with that vague indefinable sense of peril, which is, I think, a common experience in that other earlier life. Of its unmeaning character, too, I was entirely persuaded, yet that did not vanish it. My husband was away from home, the servants slept in another part of the house. But these were familiar conditions, they had never before distressed me. Nevertheless, the strange terror grew so insupportable that, conquering my reluctance to move, I sat up and lit the lamp at my bedside. Contrary to my expectation, this gave me no relief. The light seemed rather an added danger, for I reflected that it would shine out under the door, disclosing my presence to whatever evil thing might lurk outside. You that are still in the flesh, subject to horrors of the imagination, think what a monstrous fear that must be which seeks, in darkness, security from malevolent existences of the night. That is to spring to close quarters with an unseen enemy, the strategy of despair. Extinguishing the lamp, I pulled the bed-clothing about my head and lay trembling and silent, unable to shriek, forgetful to pray. In this pitiable state I must have lain for what you call hours. With us there are no hours, there is no time. At last it came, a soft, irregular sound of footfalls on the stairs. They were slow, hesitant, uncertain, as of something that did not see its way. To my disordered reason, all the more terrifying for that, as the approach of some blind and mindless malevolence to which is no appeal. I even thought that I must have left the hall lamp burning, and the groping of this creature proved it a monster of the night. This was foolish and inconsistent with my previous dread of the light, but what would you have?  The dismal witness that it bears and the coward council that it whispers are unrelated. We know this well, we who have passed into the realm of terror, who skulk in eternal dusk among the scenes of our former lives, invisible even to ourselves and one another, yet hiding forlorn in lonely places, yearning for speech with our loved ones yet dumb, and as fearful of them as they of us. Sometimes the disability is removed, the law suspended. By the deathless power of love or hate we break the spell. We are seen by those whom we would warn, console or punish. What form we seem to them to bear we know not. We know only that we terrify even those whom we most wish to comfort and from whom we most crave tenderness and sympathy. Forgive, I pray you, this inconsequent digression by what was once a woman. You who consult us in this imperfect way, you do not understand. You ask foolish questions about things unknown and things forbidden. Much that we know and could impart in our speech is meaningless in yours. We must communicate with you through a stammering intelligence in that small fraction of our language that you yourselves can speak. You think that we are of another world. No, we have knowledge of no world but yours, though for us it holds no sunlight, no warmth, no music, no laughter, no song of birds, nor any companionship. Oh God, what a thing it is to be a ghost, cowering and shivering in an altered world, a prey to apprehension and despair. No, I did not die of fright. The thing turned and went away. I heard it go down the stairs hurriedly, I thought, as if itself in sudden fear. Then I rose to call for help. Hardly had my shaking hand found the doorknob when, merciful heaven, I heard it returning. Its footfalls as it remounted the stairs were rapid, heavy and loud. They shook the house. I fled to an angle of the wall and crouched upon the floor. I tried to pray, I tried to call the name of my dear husband. Then I heard the door thrown open. There was an interval of unconsciousness and when I revived I felt a strangling clutch upon my throat, felt my arms feebly beating against something that bore me backward, felt my tongue thrusting itself from between my teeth. And then I passed into this life. No, I have no knowledge of what it was. The sum of what we knew at death is the measure of what we know afterward of all that went before. Of this existence we know many things, but no new light falls upon any page of that. In memory is written all of it that we can read. Here are no new heights of truth overlooking the confused landscape of that dubitable domain. We still dwell in the valley of the shadow, lurk in its desolate places, peering from brambles and thickets at its mad malign inhabitants. How should we have new knowledge of that fading past? What I am about to relate happened on a night. We know when it is night, for then you retire to your houses and we can venture from our places of concealment to move unafraid about our old homes, to look in at the windows, even to enter and gaze upon your faces as you sleep. For weeks I had lingered near the dwelling where I had been so cruelly changed to what I am, as we do while any that we love or hate remain. Vainly I had sought some method of manifestation, some way to make my continued existence and my great love and poignant pity understood by my husband and son. Always if they slept they would wake, or if in my desperation I dared approach them when they were awake would turn toward me the terrible eyes of the living, frightening me by the glances that I sought from the purpose that I held. On this night I had searched for them without success and fearing to find them. They were nowhere in the house nor about the moonlit lawn. For although the sun is lost to us forever, the moon full-orbed or slender remains to us. Sometimes it shines by night, sometimes by day, but always it rises and sets as in that other life. I left the lawn and moved in the white light and silence along the road, aimless and sorrowing. Suddenly I heard the voice of my poor husband in exclamations of astonishment, with that of my son in reassurance and dissuasion. And there in the shadow of a group of trees they stood, near, so near. Their faces were toward me, the eyes of the elder man fixed upon mine. He saw me, at last, at last he saw me. In the consciousness of that my terror fled as a cruel dream. The death spell was broken, love had conquered law. Mad with exultation I shouted, I must have shouted, He sees, he sees, he will understand. Then, controlling myself, I moved forward, smiling and consciously beautiful, to offer myself to his arms, to comfort him with endearments, and with my son's hand in mine, to speak words that should restore the broken bonds between the living and the dead. Alas, alas, his face went white with fear, his eyes were as those of a hunted animal. He backed away from me as I advanced, and at last turned and fled into the wood, wither it is not given to me to know. To my poor boy, left doubly desolate, I have never been able to impart a sense of my presence. Soon he too must pass to the invisible, and be lost to me forever. End of The Moonlit Road by Ambrose Beers Recording by Louise J. Bell, Sebastopol, California My first experience with The Great Logician by Jacques Foutrelle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. My first experience with The Great Logician by Jacques Foutrelle. It was once my good fortune to meet in person Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dusen, P. H. D., L. L. D., F. R. S., M. D., etc. The meeting came about through a singular happening, which was as mystifying as it was dangerous to me. He saved my life, in fact. And in process of hauling me back from eternity, the edge of that appalling mist which separates life and death, I had full opportunity of witnessing the workings of that marvelously keen, cold brain which has made him the most distinguished scientist and logician of his day. It was some time afterward, however, that Professor Von Dusen was identified in my mind with the thinking machine. I had dined at the Hotel Teutonic, taken a cigar from my pocket, lighted it, and started for a stroll across Boston Common. It was after eight o'clock on one of those clear, nippy evenings of winter. I was near the center of the Common on one of the many little bypasses which lead toward Beacon Hill, when I became conscious of an acute pain in my chest, a sudden fluttering of my heart in a constriction in my throat. The lights in the distance began to waver and grow dim, and perspiration broke out all over me from an inward, gnawing agony which grew more intense each moment. I felt myself reeling. My cigar dropped from my fingers and I clutched at a seat to study myself. There was no one near me. I tried to call, then everything grew dark, and I sank down on the ground. My last recollection was of a figure approaching me, the last words I heard were a petulant, irritable, dear me, then I was lost to consciousness. When I recovered consciousness, I lay on a couch in a strange room. My eyes wandered weakly about and lingered with a certain childish interest on half a dozen spots which reflected glitteringly the light of an electric bulb set high up on one side. These bright spots I came to realize after a moment were metal parts of various instruments of a laboratory. For a time I lay helpless, listless, with trembling pulse and eardrums thumping. Then I heard steps approaching and someone bent over and peered into my face. It was a man, but such a man as I had never seen before.   My impression then was that it was some sort of hallucination, the distorted vagary of a disordered brain, but gradually my vision cleared and the grip of slender fingers on my pulse made me realize the actuality of the apparition. How do you feel that thin lips had opened just enough to let out the question? The tone was curt and belligerent and the voice rasped unpleasantly. At the same time the squint eyes were focused on mine with a steady piercing glare that made me uneasy. I tried to answer, but my tongue refused to move. The gaze continued for an instant and the man, the thinking machine, turned away and prepared a particularly vile-smelling concoction which he poured into me. Then I was lost again.  An hour later I was setting up on the couch with unclouded brain and a heartbeat which was nearly normal. It was then I learned why Professor von Dusen, an imminent man of the sciences, had been dubbed the thinking machine. I understood firsthand how material muddles were so unfailingly dissipated by unadulterated infallible logic. Remember that I had gone into that room, an inanimate thing, inert, unconscious, mentally and physically dead to all practical intents beyond the point where I might have babbled any elucidating fact. And remember too, please, that I didn't know had not the faintest idea what had happened to me beyond the fact that I had fallen unconscious. The thinking machine didn't ask questions, yet he supplied all the missing details together with a host of personal, intimate things of which he could personally have had no knowledge.  He sat there, a strange grotesque little figure in the midst of his laboratory apparatus. Not for a moment did he display the slightest interest in me personally. It was all as if I had been written down on a slate to be wiped off when I was solved. Did this ever happen to you before? He asked abruptly. No, I replied. What was it? You were poisoned, he said. The poison was a deadly one, corrosive sublimate, or by chloride of mercury. The shock was very severe, but you will be all right and poisoned, I exclaimed aghast. Who poisoned me? Why? You poisoned yourself, he replied testily. It was your own carelessness. Nine out of ten persons handled poison as if it was candy. And you are like all the rest. But I couldn't have poisoned myself, I protested. Why, I have had no occasion to handle poisons, not for, I don't know how long. I do know, he said. It was nearly a year ago when you handled this, but corrosive sublimate is always dangerous. The tone irritated me. The impassive arrogance of the little man inflamed my reeling brain. And I am not sure that I did not shake my finger in his face. If I was poisoned, I declared with some heat. It was not my fault. Somebody gave it to me. Somebody tried to— You poisoned yourself, said the thinking machine again, impatiently.  How do you know I poisoned myself? How do you know I ever handled a poison? And how do you know it was a year ago, if I did? The thinking machine regarded me coldly, for an instant. And then those strange eyes of his wandered upward again. I know those things, he said. Just as I know your name, address, and profession from cards I found in your pockets. Just as I know you smoke, from half a dozen cigars on you. Just as I know that you are wearing those clothes for the first time this winter.  I know just as I know everything else, by the rules of inevitable logic. My head was whirling. I stared at him in blank astonishment. But how do you know those things, I insisted and bewilderment. The average person of today, replied the scientist, knows nothing, unless it is written down and thrust under his nose. I happened to be a physician. I saw you fall and went to you, my first thought being of heart trouble. Your pulse showed it was not that, and it was obviously not apoplexy. Now, there was no visible reason why you should have collapsed like that. There had been no shot. There was no wound. Therefore, poison. An examination confirmed this first hypothesis. Your symptoms showed that the poison was by chloride of mercury. I put you in a cab and brought you here. From the fact that you were not dead then, I knew that your system had absorbed only a minute quantity of poison. A quantity so small that it demonstrated instantly that there had been no suicidal intent and indicated to that no one else had administered it. If this was true, I knew. I didn't guess. I knew that the poisoning was accidental. How accidental? My first surmise, naturally, was that the poison had been absorbed through the mouth. I searched your pockets. The only thing I found that you would have put into your mouth were the cigars. Were they poisoned? A test showed they were. All of them. With intent to kill? No. Not enough poison was used. Was the poison a part of the gum used to bind the cigar? Possible, of course. But not probable. Then what? He lowered his eyes and squinted at me suddenly, aggressively.  Perhaps you carried corrosive sublimate in your pocket. I didn't find any, but perhaps you once carried it. I tore out the coat pocket in which I found the cigars and subjected it to the test. At some time there had been corrosive sublimate in the form of powder or crystals in the pocket. And in some manner, perhaps because of an imperfection in the package, a minute quantity was loose in your pocket. Here was an answer to every question and more. Here was how the cigars were poisoned and in combination with the tailor's tag inside your pocket a short history of your life. Briefly it was like this. Once you had corrosive sublimate in your pocket. For what purpose? A first thought to rid your home of insects. A second thought. If you were boarding, married or unmarried, the task of getting rid of the insects would have been left to the servant. And this would possibly have been the case if you had been living at home. So I assumed for the instant that you were keeping house. And if keeping house you were married. You bought the poison for use in your own house. Now, without an effort, naturally I had you married and keeping house. Then what? The tailor's tag with your name and the date your clothing was made. One year and three months ago it is winter clothing. If you had worn it since the poison was loose in your pocket, the thing that happened to you tonight would have happened to you before. But it never happened before. Therefore I assumed that you had the poison early last spring when insects began to be troublesome. And immediately after that you laid away the suit until this winter. I know you are wearing the suit for the first time this winter because again this thing has not happened before.  It's perfectly miraculous, I exclaimed. Logic, logic, logic snapped the irritable little scientist.  You ought to know the correlation of facts. You ought to know that two and two make four. Not sometimes, but all the time. End of My First Experience with A Great Logician by Jacques Foutrelle