The Inn of the Two Witches - A Find

by Joseph Conrad

This tale, episode, experience--call it how you will--was relatedin the fifties of the last century by a man who, by his ownconfession, was sixty years old at the time. Sixty is not a badage--unless in perspective, when no doubt it is contemplated by themajority of us with mixed feelings. It is a calm age; the game ispractically over by then; and standing aside one begins to rememberwith a certain vividness what a fine fellow one used to be. I haveobserved that, by an amiable attention of Providence, most peopleat sixty begin to take a romantic view of themselves. Their veryfailures exhale a charm of peculiar potency. And indeed the hopesof the future are a fine company to live with, exquisite forms,fascinating if you like, but--so to speak--naked, stripped for arun. The robes of glamour are luckily the property of theimmovable past which, without them, would sit, a shivery sort ofthing, under the gathering shadows.I suppose it was the romanticism of growing age which set our manto relate his experience for his own satisfaction or for the wonderof his posterity. It could not have been for his glory, becausethe experience was simply that of an abominable fright--terror hecalls it. You would have guessed that the relation alluded to inthe very first lines was in writing.This writing constitutes the Find declared in the sub-title. Thetitle itself is my own contrivance, (can't call it invention), andhas the merit of veracity. We will be concerned with an inn here.As to the witches that's merely a conventional expression, and wemust take our man's word for it that it fits the case.The Find was made in a box of books bought in London, in a streetwhich no longer exists, from a second-hand bookseller in the laststage of decay. As to the books themselves they were at leasttwentieth-hand, and on inspection turned out not worth the verysmall sum of money I disbursed. It might have been somepremonition of that fact which made me say: "But I must have thebox too." The decayed bookseller assented by the careless, tragicgesture of a man already doomed to extinction.A litter of loose pages at the bottom of the box excited mycuriosity but faintly. The close, neat, regular handwriting wasnot attractive at first sight. But in one place the statement thatin A.D. 1813 the writer was twenty-two years old caught my eye.Two and twenty is an interesting age in which one is easilyreckless and easily frightened; the faculty of reflection beingweak and the power of imagination strong.In another place the phrase: "At night we stood in again,"arrested my languid attention, because it was a sea phrase. "Let'ssee what it is all about," I thought, without excitement.Oh! but it was a dull-faced MS., each line resembling every otherline in their close-set and regular order. It was like the droneof a monotonous voice. A treatise on sugar-refining (the dreariestsubject I can think of) could have been given a more livelyappearance. "In A.D. 1813, I was twenty-two years old," he beginsearnestly and goes on with every appearance of calm, horribleindustry. Don't imagine, however, that there is anything archaicin my find. Diabolic ingenuity in invention though as old as theworld is by no means a lost art. Look at the telephones forshattering the little peace of mind given to us in this world, orat the machine guns for letting with dispatch life out of ourbodies. Now-a-days any blear-eyed old witch if only strong enoughto turn an insignificant little handle could lay low a hundredyoung men of twenty in the twinkling of an eye.If this isn't progress! . . . Why immense! We have moved on, andso you must expect to meet here a certain naiveness of contrivanceand simplicity of aim appertaining to the remote epoch. And ofcourse no motoring tourist can hope to find such an inn anywhere,now. This one, the one of the title, was situated in Spain. Thatmuch I discovered only from internal evidence, because a good manypages of that relation were missing--perhaps not a great misfortuneafter all. The writer seemed to have entered into a most elaboratedetail of the why and wherefore of his presence on that coast--presumably the north coast of Spain. His experience has nothing todo with the sea, though. As far as I can make it out, he was anofficer on board a sloop-of-war. There's nothing strange in that.At all stages of the long Peninsular campaign many of our men-of-war of the smaller kind were cruising off the north coast of Spain--as risky and disagreeable a station as can be well imagined.It looks as though that ship of his had had some special service toperform. A careful explanation of all the circumstances was to beexpected from our man, only, as I've said, some of his pages (goodtough paper too) were missing: gone in covers for jampots or inwadding for the fowling-pieces of his irreverent posterity. But itis to be seen clearly that communication with the shore and eventhe sending of messengers inland was part of her service, either toobtain intelligence from or to transmit orders or advice topatriotic Spaniards, guerilleros or secret juntas of the province.Something of the sort. All this can be only inferred from thepreserved scraps of his conscientious writing.Next we come upon the panegyric of a very fine sailor, a member ofthe ship's company, having the rating of the captain's coxswain.He was known on board as Cuba Tom; not because he was Cubanhowever; he was indeed the best type of a genuine British tar ofthat time, and a man-of-war's man for years. He came by the nameon account of some wonderful adventures he had in that island inhis young days, adventures which were the favourite subject of theyarns he was in the habit of spinning to his shipmates of anevening on the forecastle head. He was intelligent, very strong,and of proved courage. Incidentally we are told, so exact is ournarrator, that Tom had the finest pigtail for thickness and lengthof any man in the Navy. This appendage, much cared for andsheathed tightly in a porpoise skin, hung half way down his broadback to the great admiration of all beholders and to the great envyof some.Our young officer dwells on the manly qualities of Cuba Tom withsomething like affection. This sort of relation between officerand man was not then very rare. A youngster on joining the servicewas put under the charge of a trustworthy seaman, who slung hisfirst hammock for him and often later on became a sort of humblefriend to the junior officer. The narrator on joining the sloophad found this man on board after some years of separation. Thereis something touching in the warm pleasure he remembers and recordsat this meeting with the professional mentor of his boyhood.We discover then that, no Spaniard being forthcoming for theservice, this worthy seaman with the unique pigtail and a very highcharacter for courage and steadiness had been selected as messengerfor one of these missions inland which have been mentioned. Hispreparations were not elaborate. One gloomy autumn morning thesloop ran close to a shallow cove where a landing could be made onthat iron-bound shore. A boat was lowered, and pulled in with TomCorbin (Cuba Tom) perched in the bow, and our young man (Mr. EdgarByrne was his name on this earth which knows him no more) sittingin the stern sheets.A few inhabitants of a hamlet, whose grey stone houses could beseen a hundred yards or so up a deep ravine, had come down to theshore and watched the approach of the boat. The two Englishmenleaped ashore. Either from dullness or astonishment the peasantsgave no greeting, and only fell back in silence.Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom Corbin started fairly onhis way. He looked round at the heavy surprised faces."There isn't much to get out of them," he said. "Let us walk up tothe village. There will be a wine shop for sure where we may findsomebody more promising to talk to and get some information from.""Aye, aye, sir," said Tom falling into step behind his officer. "Abit of palaver as to courses and distances can do no harm; Icrossed the broadest part of Cuba by the help of my tongue tho'knowing far less Spanish than I do now. As they say themselves itwas 'four words and no more' with me, that time when I got leftbehind on shore by the Blanche, frigate."He made light of what was before him, which was but a day's journeyinto the mountains. It is true that there was a full day's journeybefore striking the mountain path, but that was nothing for a manwho had crossed the island of Cuba on his two legs, and with nomore than four words of the language to begin with.The officer and the man were walking now on a thick sodden bed ofdead leaves, which the peasants thereabouts accumulate in thestreets of their villages to rot during the winter for fieldmanure. Turning his head Mr. Byrne perceived that the whole malepopulation of the hamlet was following them on the noiselessspringy carpet. Women stared from the doors of the houses and thechildren had apparently gone into hiding. The village knew theship by sight, afar off, but no stranger had landed on that spotperhaps for a hundred years or more. The cocked hat of Mr. Byrne,the bushy whiskers and the enormous pigtail of the sailor, filledthem with mute wonder. They pressed behind the two Englishmenstaring like those islanders discovered by Captain Cook in theSouth Seas.It was then that Byrne had his first glimpse of the little cloakedman in a yellow hat. Faded and dingy as it was, this covering forhis head made him noticeable.The entrance to the wine shop was like a rough hole in a wall offlints. The owner was the only person who was not in the street,for he came out from the darkness at the back where the inflatedforms of wine skins hung on nails could be vaguely distinguished.He was a tall, one-eyed Asturian with scrubby, hollow cheeks; agrave expression of countenance contrasted enigmatically with theroaming restlessness of his solitary eye. On learning that thematter in hand was the sending on his way of that English marinertoward a certain Gonzales in the mountains, he closed his good eyefor a moment as if in meditation. Then opened it, very livelyagain."Possibly, possibly. It could be done."A friendly murmur arose in the group in the doorway at the name ofGonzales, the local leader against the French. Inquiring as to thesafety of the road Byrne was glad to learn that no troops of thatnation had been seen in the neighbourhood for months. Not thesmallest little detachment of these impious polizones. Whilegiving these answers the owner of the wine-shop busied himself indrawing into an earthenware jug some wine which he set before theheretic English, pocketing with grave abstraction the small pieceof money the officer threw upon the table in recognition of theunwritten law that none may enter a wine-shop without buying drink.His eye was in constant motion as if it were trying to do the workof the two; but when Byrne made inquiries as to the possibility ofhiring a mule, it became immovably fixed in the direction of thedoor which was closely besieged by the curious. In front of them,just within the threshold, the little man in the large cloak andyellow hat had taken his stand. He was a diminutive person, a merehomunculus, Byrne describes him, in a ridiculously mysterious, yetassertive attitude, a corner of his cloak thrown cavalierly overhis left shoulder, muffling his chin and mouth; while the broad-brimmed yellow hat hung on a corner of his square little head. Hestood there taking snuff, repeatedly."A mule," repeated the wine-seller, his eyes fixed on that quaintand snuffy figure. . . "No, senor officer! Decidedly no mule is tobe got in this poor place."The coxswain, who stood by with the true sailor's air of unconcernin strange surroundings, struck in quietly -"If your honour will believe me Shank's pony's the best for thisjob. I would have to leave the beast somewhere, anyhow, since thecaptain has told me that half my way will be along paths fit onlyfor goats."The diminutive man made a step forward, and speaking through thefolds of the cloak which seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention -"Si, senor. They are too honest in this village to have a singlemule amongst them for your worship's service. To that I can beartestimony. In these times it's only rogues or very clever men whocan manage to have mules or any other four-footed beasts and thewherewithal to keep them. But what this valiant mariner wants is aguide; and here, senor, behold my brother-in-law, Bernardino, wine-seller, and alcade of this most Christian and hospitable village,who will find you one."This, Mr. Byrne says in his relation, was the only thing to do. Ayouth in a ragged coat and goat-skin breeches was produced aftersome more talk. The English officer stood treat to the wholevillage, and while the peasants drank he and Cuba Tom took theirdeparture accompanied by the guide. The diminutive man in thecloak had disappeared.Byrne went along with the coxswain out of the village. He wantedto see him fairly on his way; and he would have gone a greaterdistance, if the seaman had not suggested respectfully theadvisability of return so as not to keep the ship a moment longerthan necessary so close in with the shore on such an unpromisinglooking morning. A wild gloomy sky hung over their heads when theytook leave of each other, and their surroundings of rank bushes andstony fields were dreary."In four days' time," were Byrne's last words, "the ship will standin and send a boat on shore if the weather permits. If not you'llhave to make it out on shore the best you can till we come along totake you off.""Right you are, sir," answered Tom, and strode on. Byrne watchedhim step out on a narrow path. In a thick pea-jacket with a pairof pistols in his belt, a cutlass by his side, and a stout cudgelin his hand, he looked a sturdy figure and well able to take careof himself. He turned round for a moment to wave his hand, givingto Byrne one more view of his honest bronzed face with bushywhiskers. The lad in goatskin breeches looking, Byrne says, like afaun or a young satyr leaping ahead, stopped to wait for him, andthen went off at a bound. Both disappeared.Byrne turned back. The hamlet was hidden in a fold of the ground,and the spot seemed the most lonely corner of the earth and as ifaccursed in its uninhabited desolate barrenness. Before he hadwalked many yards, there appeared very suddenly from behind a bushthe muffled up diminutive Spaniard. Naturally Byrne stopped short.The other made a mysterious gesture with a tiny hand peeping fromunder his cloak. His hat hung very much at the side of his head."Senor," he said without any preliminaries. "Caution! It is apositive fact that one-eyed Bernardino, my brother-in-law, has atthis moment a mule in his stable. And why he who is not clever hasa mule there? Because he is a rogue; a man without conscience.Because I had to give up the macho to him to secure for myself aroof to sleep under and a mouthful of olla to keep my soul in thisinsignificant body of mine. Yet, senor, it contains a heart manytimes bigger than the mean thing which beats in the breast of thatbrute connection of mine of which I am ashamed, though I opposedthat marriage with all my power. Well, the misguided womansuffered enough. She had her purgatory on this earth--God rest hersoul."Byrne says he was so astonished by the sudden appearance of thatsprite-like being, and by the sardonic bitterness of the speech,that he was unable to disentangle the significant fact from whatseemed but a piece of family history fired out at him without rhymeor reason. Not at first. He was confounded and at the same timehe was impressed by the rapid forcible delivery, quite differentfrom the frothy excited loquacity of an Italian. So he staredwhile the homunculus letting his cloak fall about him, aspired animmense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm."A mule," exclaimed Byrne seizing at last the real aspect of thediscourse. "You say he has got a mule? That's queer! Why did herefuse to let me have it?"The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with greatdignity."Quien sabe," he said coldly, with a shrug of his draped shoulders."He is a great politico in everything he does. But one thing yourworship may be certain of--that his intentions are always rascally.This husband of my defunta sister ought to have been married a longtime ago to the widow with the wooden legs." {1}"I see. But remember that; whatever your motives, your worshipcountenanced him in this lie."The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confrontedByrne without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks sooften at the bottom of Spanish dignity -"No doubt the senor officer would not lose an ounce of blood if Iwere stuck under the fifth rib," he retorted. "But what of thispoor sinner here?" Then changing his tone. "Senor, by thenecessities of the times I live here in exile, a Castilian and anold Christian, existing miserably in the midst of these bruteAsturians, and dependent on the worst of them all, who has lessconscience and scruples than a wolf. And being a man ofintelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can hardly containmy scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A caballero of partslike your worship might have guessed that there was a cat inthere.""What cat?" said Byrne uneasily. "Oh, I see. Somethingsuspicious. No, senor. I guessed nothing. My nation are not goodguessers at that sort of thing; and, therefore, I ask you plainlywhether that wine-seller has spoken the truth in otherparticulars?""There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about," said the littleman with a return to his indifferent manner."Or robbers--ladrones?""Ladrones en grande--no! Assuredly not," was the answer in a coldphilosophical tone. "What is there left for them to do after theFrench? And nobody travels in these times. But who can say!Opportunity makes the robber. Still that mariner of yours has afierce aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have no play.But there is a saying, too, that where honey is there will soon beflies."This oracular discourse exasperated Byrne. "In the name of God,"he cried, "tell me plainly if you think my man is reasonably safeon his journey."The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized theofficer's arm. The grip of his little hand was astonishing."Senor! Bernardino had taken notice of him. What more do youwant? And listen--men have disappeared on this road--on a certainportion of this road, when Bernardino kept a meson, an inn, and I,his brother-in-law, had coaches and mules for hire. Now there areno travellers, no coaches. The French have ruined me. Bernardinohas retired here for reasons of his own after my sister died. Theywere three to torment the life out of her, he and Erminia andLucilla, two aunts of his--all affiliated to the devil. And now hehas robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed man. Demand themacho from him, with a pistol to his head, senor--it is not his, Itell you--and ride after your man who is so precious to you. Andthen you shall both be safe, for no two travellers have been everknown to disappear together in those days. As to the beast, I, itsowner, I confide it to your honour."They were staring hard at each other, and Byrne nearly burst into alaugh at the ingenuity and transparency of the little man's plot toregain possession of his mule. But he had no difficulty to keep astraight face because he felt deep within himself a strangeinclination to do that very extraordinary thing. He did not laugh,but his lip quivered; at which the diminutive Spaniard, detachinghis black glittering eyes from Byrne's face, turned his back on himbrusquely with a gesture and a fling of the cloak which somehowexpressed contempt, bitterness, and discouragement all at once. Heturned away and stood still, his hat aslant, muffled up to theears. But he was not offended to the point of refusing the silverduro which Byrne offered him with a non-committal speech as ifnothing extraordinary had passed between them."I must make haste on board now," said Byrne, then."Vaya usted con Dios," muttered the gnome. And this interviewended with a sarcastic low sweep of the hat which was replaced atthe same perilous angle as before.Directly the boat had been hoisted the ship's sails were filled onthe off-shore tack, and Byrne imparted the whole story to hiscaptain, who was but a very few years older than himself. Therewas some amused indignation at it--but while they laughed theylooked gravely at each other. A Spanish dwarf trying to beguile anofficer of his majesty's navy into stealing a mule for him--thatwas too funny, too ridiculous, too incredible. Those were theexclamations of the captain. He couldn't get over thegrotesqueness of it."Incredible. That's just it," murmured Byrne at last in asignificant tone.They exchanged a long stare. "It's as clear as daylight," affirmedthe captain impatiently, because in his heart he was not certain.And Tom the best seaman in the ship for one, the good-humouredlydeferential friend of his boyhood for the other, was becomingendowed with a compelling fascination, like a symbolic figure ofloyalty appealing to their feelings and their conscience, so thatthey could not detach their thoughts from his safety. Severaltimes they went up on deck, only to look at the coast, as if itcould tell them something of his fate. It stretched away,lengthening in the distance, mute, naked, and savage, veiled nowand then by the slanting cold shafts of rain. The westerly swellrolled its interminable angry lines of foam and big dark cloudsflew over the ship in a sinister procession."I wish to goodness you had done what your little friend in theyellow hat wanted you to do," said the commander of the sloop latein the afternoon with visible exasperation."Do you, sir?" answered Byrne, bitter with positive anguish. "Iwonder what you would have said afterwards? Why! I might havebeen kicked out of the service for looting a mule from a nation inalliance with His Majesty. Or I might have been battered to a pulpwith flails and pitch-forks--a pretty tale to get abroad about oneof your officers--while trying to steal a mule. Or chasedignominiously to the boat--for you would not have expected me toshoot down unoffending people for the sake of a mangy mule. . . Andyet," he added in a low voice, "I almost wish myself I had doneit."Before dark those two young men had worked themselves up into ahighly complex psychological state of scornful scepticism andalarmed credulity. It tormented them exceedingly; and the thoughtthat it would have to last for six days at least, and possibly beprolonged further for an indefinite time, was not to be borne. Theship was therefore put on the inshore tack at dark. All throughthe gusty dark night she went towards the land to look for her man,at times lying over in the heavy puffs, at others rolling idle inthe swell, nearly stationary, as if she too had a mind of her ownto swing perplexed between cool reason and warm impulse.Then just at daybreak a boat put off from her and went on tossed bythe seas towards the shallow cove where, with considerabledifficulty, an officer in a thick coat and a round hat managed toland on a strip of shingle."It was my wish," writes Mr. Byrne, "a wish of which my captainapproved, to land secretly if possible. I did not want to be seeneither by my aggrieved friend in the yellow hat, whose motives werenot clear, or by the one-eyed wine-seller, who may or may not havebeen affiliated to the devil, or indeed by any other dweller inthat primitive village. But unfortunately the cove was the onlypossible landing place for miles; and from the steepness of theravine I couldn't make a circuit to avoid the houses.""Fortunately," he goes on, "all the people were yet in their beds.It was barely daylight when I found myself walking on the thicklayer of sodden leaves filling the only street. No soul wasstirring abroad, no dog barked. The silence was profound, and Ihad concluded with some wonder that apparently no dogs were kept inthe hamlet, when I heard a low snarl, and from a noisome alleybetween two hovels emerged a vile cur with its tail between itslegs. He slunk off silently showing me his teeth as he ran beforeme, and he disappeared so suddenly that he might have been theunclean incarnation of the Evil One. There was, too, something soweird in the manner of its coming and vanishing, that my spirits,already by no means very high, became further depressed by therevolting sight of this creature as if by an unlucky presage."He got away from the coast unobserved, as far as he knew, thenstruggled manfully to the west against wind and rain, on a barrendark upland, under a sky of ashes. Far away the harsh and desolatemountains raising their scarped and denuded ridges seemed to waitfor him menacingly. The evening found him fairly near to them,but, in sailor language, uncertain of his position, hungry, wet,and tired out by a day of steady tramping over broken ground duringwhich he had seen very few people, and had been unable to obtainthe slightest intelligence of Tom Corbin's passage. "On! on! Imust push on," he had been saying to himself through the hours ofsolitary effort, spurred more by incertitude than by any definitefear or definite hope.The lowering daylight died out quickly, leaving him faced by abroken bridge. He descended into the ravine, forded a narrowstream by the last gleam of rapid water, and clambering out on theother side was met by the night which fen like a bandage over hiseyes. The wind sweeping in the darkness the broadside of thesierra worried his ears by a continuous roaring noise as of amaddened sea. He suspected that he had lost the road. Even indaylight, with its ruts and mud-holes and ledges of outcroppingstone, it was difficult to distinguish from the dreary waste of themoor interspersed with boulders and clumps of naked bushes. But,as he says, "he steered his course by the feel of the wind," hishat rammed low on his brow, his head down, stopping now and againfrom mere weariness of mind rather than of body--as if not hisstrength but his resolution were being overtaxed by the strain ofendeavour half suspected to be vain, and by the unrest of hisfeelings.In one of these pauses borne in the wind faintly as if from veryfar away he heard a sound of knocking, just knocking on wood. Henoticed that the wind had lulled suddenly.His heart started beating tumultuously because in himself hecarried the impression of the desert solitudes he had beentraversing for the last six hours--the oppressive sense of anuninhabited world. When he raised his head a gleam of light,illusory as it often happens in dense darkness, swam before hiseyes. While he peered, the sound of feeble knocking was repeated--and suddenly he felt rather than saw the existence of a massiveobstacle in his path. What was it? The spur of a hill? Or was ita house! Yes. It was a house right close, as though it had risenfrom the ground or had come gliding to meet him, dumb and pallid;from some dark recess of the night. It towered loftily. He hadcome up under its lee; another three steps and he could havetouched the wall with his hand. It was no doubt a posada and someother traveller was trying for admittance. He heard again thesound of cautious knocking.Next moment a broad band of light fell into the night through theopened door. Byrne stepped eagerly into it, whereupon the personoutside leaped with a stifled cry away into the night. Anexclamation of surprise was heard too, from within. Byrne,flinging himself against the half closed door, forced his way inagainst some considerable resistance.A miserable candle, a mere rushlight, burned at the end of a longdeal table. And in its light Byrne saw, staggering yet, the girlhe had driven from the door. She had a short black skirt, anorange shawl, a dark complexion--and the escaped single hairs fromthe mass, sombre and thick like a forest and held up by a comb,made a black mist about her low forehead. A shrill lamentable howlof: "Misericordia!" came in two voices from the further end of thelong room, where the fire-light of an open hearth played betweenheavy shadows. The girl recovering herself drew a hissing breaththrough her set teeth.It is unnecessary to report the long process of questions andanswers by which he soothed the fears of two old women who sat oneach side of the fire, on which stood a large earthenware pot.Byrne thought at once of two witches watching the brewing of somedeadly potion. But all the same, when one of them raising forwardpainfully her broken form lifted the cover of the pot, the escapingsteam had an appetising smell. The other did not budge, but sathunched up, her head trembling all the time.They were horrible. There was something grotesque in theirdecrepitude. Their toothless mouths, their hooked noses, themeagreness of the active one, and the hanging yellow cheeks of theother (the still one, whose head trembled) would have beenlaughable if the sight of their dreadful physical degradation hadnot been appalling to one's eyes, had not gripped one's heart withpoignant amazement at the unspeakable misery of age, at the awfulpersistency of life becoming at last an object of disgust anddread.To get over it Byrne began to talk, saying that he was anEnglishman, and that he was in search of a countryman who ought tohave passed this way. Directly he had spoken the recollection ofhis parting with Tom came up in his mind with amazing vividness:the silent villagers, the angry gnome, the one-eyed wine-seller,Bernardino. Why! These two unspeakable frights must be that man'saunts--affiliated to the devil.Whatever they had been once it was impossible to imagine what usesuch feeble creatures could be to the devil, now, in the world ofthe living. Which was Lucilla and which was Erminia? They werenow things without a name. A moment of suspended animationfollowed Byrne's words. The sorceress with the spoon ceasedstirring the mess in the iron pot, the very trembling of theother's head stopped for the space of breath. In thisinfinitesimal fraction of a second Byrne had the sense of beingreally on his quest, of having reached the turn of the path, almostwithin hail of Tom."They have seen him," he thought with conviction. Here was at lastsomebody who had seen him. He made sure they would deny allknowledge of the Ingles; but on the contrary they were eager totell him that he had eaten and slept the night in the house. Theyboth started talking together, describing his appearance andbehaviour. An excitement quite fierce in its feebleness possessedthem. The doubled-up sorceress flourished aloft her wooden spoon,the puffy monster got off her stool and screeched, stepping fromone foot to the other, while the trembling of her head wasaccelerated to positive vibration. Byrne was quite disconcerted bytheir excited behaviour. . . Yes! The big, fierce Ingles went awayin the morning, after eating a piece of bread and drinking somewine. And if the caballero wished to follow the same path nothingcould be easier--in the morning."You will give me somebody to show me the way?" said Byrne."Si, senor. A proper youth. The man the caballero saw going out.""But he was knocking at the door," protested Byrne. "He onlybolted when he saw me. He was coming in.""No! No!" the two horrid witches screamed out together. "Goingout. Going out!"After all it may have been true. The sound of knocking had beenfaint, elusive, reflected Byrne. Perhaps only the effect of hisfancy. He asked -"Who is that man?""Her novio." They screamed pointing to the girl. "He is gone hometo a village far away from here. But he will return in themorning. Her novio! And she is an orphan--the child of poorChristian people. She lives with us for the love of God, for thelove of God."The orphan crouching on the corner of the hearth had been lookingat Byrne. He thought that she was more like a child of Satan keptthere by these two weird harridans for the love of the Devil. Hereyes were a little oblique, her mouth rather thick, but admirablyformed; her dark face had a wild beauty, voluptuous and untamed.As to the character of her steadfast gaze attached upon him with asensuously savage attention, "to know what it was like," says Mr.Byrne, "you have only to observe a hungry cat watching a bird in acage or a mouse inside a trap."It was she who served him the food, of which he was glad; thoughwith those big slanting black eyes examining him at close range, asif he had something curious written on his face, she gave him anuncomfortable sensation. But anything was better than beingapproached by these blear-eyed nightmarish witches. Hisapprehensions somehow had been soothed; perhaps by the sensation ofwarmth after severe exposure and the ease of resting after theexertion of fighting the gale inch by inch all the way. He had nodoubt of Tom's safety. He was now sleeping in the mountain camphaving been met by Gonzales' men.Byrne rose, filled a tin goblet with wine out of a skin hanging onthe wall, and sat down again. The witch with the mummy face beganto talk to him, ramblingly of old times; she boasted of the inn'sfame in those better days. Great people in their own coachesstopped there. An archbishop slept once in the casa, a long, longtime ago.The witch with the puffy face seemed to be listening from herstool, motionless, except for the trembling of her head. The girl(Byrne was certain she was a casual gipsy admitted there for somereason or other) sat on the hearth stone in the glow of the embers.She hummed a tune to herself, rattling a pair of castanets slightlynow and then. At the mention of the archbishop she chuckledimpiously and turned her head to look at Byrne, so that the redglow of the fire flashed in her black eyes and on her white teethunder the dark cowl of the enormous overmantel. And he smiled ather.He rested now in the ease of security. His advent not having beenexpected there could be no plot against him in existence.Drowsiness stole upon his senses. He enjoyed it, but keeping ahold, so he thought at least, on his wits; but he must have beengone further than he thought because he was startled beyond measureby a fiendish uproar. He had never heard anything so pitilesslystrident in his life. The witches had started a fierce quarrelabout something or other. Whatever its origin they were now onlyabusing each other violently, without arguments; their senilescreams expressed nothing but wicked anger and ferocious dismay.The gipsy girl's black eyes flew from one to the other. Neverbefore had Byrne felt himself so removed from fellowship with humanbeings. Before he had really time to understand the subject of thequarrel, the girl jumped up rattling her castanets loudly. Asilence fell. She came up to the table and bending over, her eyesin his -"Senor," she said with decision, "You shall sleep in thearchbishop's room."Neither of the witches objected. The dried-up one bent double waspropped on a stick. The puffy faced one had now a crutch.Byrne got up, walked to the door, and turning the key in theenormous lock put it coolly in his pocket. This was clearly theonly entrance, and he did not mean to be taken unawares by whateverdanger there might have been lurking outside.When he turned from the door he saw the two witches "affiliated tothe Devil" and the Satanic girl looking at him in silence. Hewondered if Tom Corbin took the same precaution last might. Andthinking of him he had again that queer impression of his nearness.The world was perfectly dumb. And in this stillness he heard theblood beating in his ears with a confused rushing noise, in whichthere seemed to be a voice uttering the words: "Mr. Byrne, lookout, sir." Tom's voice. He shuddered; for the delusions of thesenses of hearing are the most vivid of all, and from their naturehave a compelling character.It seemed impossible that Tom should not be there. Again a slightchill as of stealthy draught penetrated through his very clothesand passed over all his body. He shook off the impression with aneffort.It was the girl who preceded him upstairs carrying an iron lampfrom the naked flame of which ascended a thin thread of smoke. Hersoiled white stockings were full of holes.With the same quiet resolution with which he had locked the doorbelow, Byrne threw open one after another the doors in thecorridor. All the rooms were empty except for some nondescriptlumber in one or two. And the girl seeing what he would be atstopped every time, raising the smoky light in each doorwaypatiently. Meantime she observed him with sustained attention.The last door of all she threw open herself."You sleep here, senor," she murmured in a voice light like achild's breath, offering him the lamp."Buenos noches, senorita," he said politely, taking it from her.She didn't return the wish audibly, though her lips did move alittle, while her gaze black like a starless night never for amoment wavered before him. He stepped in, and as he turned toclose the door she was still there motionless and disturbing, withher voluptuous mouth and slanting eyes, with the expression ofexpectant sensual ferocity of a baffled cat. He hesitated for amoment, and in the dumb house he heard again the blood pulsatingponderously in his ears, while once more the illusion of Tom'svoice speaking earnestly somewhere near by was speciallyterrifying, because this time he could not make out the words.He slammed the door in the girl's face at last, leaving her in thedark; and he opened it again almost on the instant. Nobody. Shehad vanished without the slightest sound. He closed the doorquickly and bolted it with two heavy bolts.A profound mistrust possessed him suddenly. Why did the witchesquarrel about letting him sleep here? And what meant that stare ofthe girl as if she wanted to impress his features for ever in hermind? His own nervousness alarmed him. He seemed to himself to beremoved very far from mankind.He examined his room. It was not very high, just high enough totake the bed which stood under an enormous baldaquin-like canopyfrom which fell heavy curtains at foot and head; a bed certainlyworthy of an archbishop. There was a heavy table carved all roundthe edges, some arm-chairs of enormous weight like the spoils of agrandee's palace; a tall shallow wardrobe placed against the walland with double doors. He tried them. Locked. A suspicion cameinto his mind, and he snatched the lamp to make a closerexamination. No, it was not a disguised entrance. That heavy,tall piece of furniture stood clear of the wall by quite an inch.He glanced at the bolts of his room door. No! No one could get athim treacherously while he slept. But would he be able to sleep?he asked himself anxiously. If only he had Tom there--the trustyseaman who had fought at his right hand in a cutting out affair ortwo, and had always preached to him the necessity to take care ofhimself. "For it's no great trick," he used to say, "to getyourself killed in a hot fight. Any fool can do that. The properpastime is to fight the Frenchies and then live to fight anotherday."Byrne found it a hard matter not to fall into listening to thesilence. Somehow he had the conviction that nothing would break itunless he heard again the haunting sound of Tom's voice. He hadheard it twice before. Odd! And yet no wonder, he argued withhimself reasonably, since he had been thinking of the man for overthirty hours continuously and, what's more, inconclusively. Forhis anxiety for Tom had never taken a definite shape. "Disappear,"was the only word connected with the idea of Tom's danger. It wasvery vague and awful. "Disappear!" What did that mean?Byrne shuddered, and then said to himself that he must be a littlefeverish. But Tom had not disappeared. Byrne had just heard ofhim. And again the young man felt the blood beating in his ears.He sat still expecting every moment to hear through the pulsatingstrokes the sound of Tom's voice. He waited straining his ears,but nothing came. Suddenly the thought occurred to him: "He hasnot disappeared, but he cannot make himself heard."He jumped up from the arm-chair. How absurd! Laying his pistoland his hanger on the table he took off his boots and, feelingsuddenly too tired to stand, flung himself on the bed which hefound soft and comfortable beyond his hopes.He had felt very wakeful, but he must have dozed off after all,because the next thing he knew he was sitting up in bed and tryingto recollect what it was that Tom's voice had said. Oh! Heremembered it now. It had said: "Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!" Awarning this. But against what?He landed with one leap in the middle of the floor, gasped once,then looked all round the room. The window was shuttered andbarred with an iron bar. Again he ran his eyes slowly all roundthe bare walls, and even looked up at the ceiling, which was ratherhigh. Afterwards he went to the door to examine the fastenings.They consisted of two enormous iron bolts sliding into holes madein the wall; and as the corridor outside was too narrow to admit ofany battering arrangement or even to permit an axe to be swung,nothing could burst the door open--unless gunpowder. But while hewas still making sure that the lower bolt was pushed well home, hereceived the impression of somebody's presence in the room. It wasso strong that he spun round quicker than lightning. There was noone. Who could there be? And yet . . .It was then that he lost the decorum and restraint a man keeps upfor his own sake. He got down on his hands and knees, with thelamp on the floor, to look under the bed, like a silly girl. Hesaw a lot of dust and nothing else. He got up, his cheeks burning,and walked about discontented with his own behaviour andunreasonably angry with Tom for not leaving him alone. The words:"Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir," kept on repeating themselves in hishead in a tone of warning."Hadn't I better just throw myself on the bed and try to go tosleep," he asked himself. But his eyes fell on the tall wardrobe,and he went towards it feeling irritated with himself and yetunable to desist. How he could explain to-morrow the burglariousmisdeed to the two odious witches he had no idea. Nevertheless heinserted the point of his hanger between the two halves of the doorand tried to prize them open. They resisted. He swore, stickingnow hotly to his purpose. His mutter: "I hope you will besatisfied, confound you," was addressed to the absent Tom. Justthen the doors gave way and flew open.He was there.He--the trusty, sagacious, and courageous Tom was there, drawn upshadowy and stiff, in a prudent silence, which his wide-open eyesby their fixed gleam seemed to command Byrne to respect. But Byrnewas too startled to make a sound. Amazed, he stepped back alittle--and on the instant the seaman flung himself forwardheadlong as if to clasp his officer round the neck. InstinctivelyByrne put out his faltering arms; he felt the horrible rigidity ofthe body and then the coldness of death as their heads knockedtogether and their faces came into contact. They reeled, Byrnehugging Tom close to his breast in order not to let him fall with acrash. He had just strength enough to lower the awful burdengently to the floor--then his head swam, his legs gave way, and hesank on his knees, leaning over the body with his hands resting onthe breast of that man once full of generous life, and now asinsensible as a stone."Dead! my poor Tom, dead," he repeated mentally. The light of thelamp standing near the edge of the table fell from above straighton the stony empty stare of these eyes which naturally had a mobileand merry expression.Byrne turned his own away from them. Tom's black silk neckerchiefwas not knotted on his breast. It was gone. The murderers hadalso taken off his shoes and stockings. And noticing thisspoliation, the exposed throat, the bare up-turned feet, Byrne felthis eyes run full of tears. In other respects the seaman was fullydressed; neither was his clothing disarranged as it must have beenin a violent struggle. Only his checked shirt had been pulled alittle out the waistband in one place, just enough to ascertainwhether he had a money belt fastened round his body. Byrne beganto sob into his handkerchief.It was a nervous outburst which passed off quickly. Remaining onhis knees he contemplated sadly the athletic body of as fine aseaman as ever had drawn a cutlass, laid a gun, or passed theweather earring in a gale, lying stiff and cold, his cheery,fearless spirit departed--perhaps turning to him, his boy chum, tohis ship out there rolling on the grey seas off an iron-boundcoast, at the very moment of its flight.He perceived that the six brass buttons of Tom's jacket had beencut off. He shuddered at the notion of the two miserable andrepulsive witches busying themselves ghoulishly about thedefenceless body of his friend. Cut off. Perhaps with the sameknife which . . . The head of one trembled; the other was bentdouble, and their eyes were red and bleared, their infamous clawsunsteady. . . It must have been in this very room too, for Tomcould not have been killed in the open and brought in hereafterwards. Of that Byrne was certain. Yet those devilish cronescould not have killed him themselves even by taking him unawares--and Tom would be always on his guard of course. Tom was a verywide awake wary man when engaged on any service. . . And in facthow did they murder him? Who did? In what way?Byrne jumped up, snatched the lamp off the table, and stoopedswiftly over the body. The light revealed on the clothing nostain, no trace, no spot of blood anywhere. Byrne's hands began toshake so that he had to set the lamp on the floor and turn away hishead in order to recover from this agitation.Then he began to explore that cold, still, and rigid body for astab, a gunshot wound, for the trace of some killing blow. He feltall over the skull anxiously. It was whole. He slipped his handunder the neck. It was unbroken. With terrified eyes he peeredclose under the chin and saw no marks of strangulation on thethroat.There were no signs anywhere. He was just dead.Impulsively Byrne got away from the body as if the mystery of anincomprehensible death had changed his pity into suspicion anddread. The lamp on the floor near the set, still face of theseaman showed it staring at the ceiling as if despairingly. In thecircle of light Byrne saw by the undisturbed patches of thick duston the floor that there had been no struggle in that room. "He hasdied outside," he thought. Yes, outside in that narrow corridor,where there was hardly room to turn, the mysterious death had cometo his poor dear Tom. The impulse of snatching up his pistols andrushing out of the room abandoned Byrne suddenly. For Tom, too,had been armed--with just such powerless weapons as he himselfpossessed--pistols, a cutlass! And Tom had died a nameless death,by incomprehensible means.A new thought came to Byrne. That stranger knocking at the doorand fleeing so swiftly at his appearance had come there to removethe body. Aha! That was the guide the withered witch had promisedwould show the English officer the shortest way of rejoining hisman. A promise, he saw it now, of dreadful import. He who hadknocked would have two bodies to deal with. Man and officer wouldgo forth from the house together. For Byrne was certain now thathe would have to die before the morning--and in the same mysteriousmanner, leaving behind him an unmarked body.The sight of a smashed head, of a throat cut, of a gaping gunshotwound, would have been an inexpressible relief. It would havesoothed all his fears. His soul cried within him to that dead manwhom he had never found wanting in danger. "Why don't you tell mewhat I am to look for, Tom? Why don't you?" But in rigidimmobility, extended on his back, he seemed to preserve an austeresilence, as if disdaining in the finality of his awful knowledge tohold converse with the living.Suddenly Byrne flung himself on his knees by the side of the body,and dry-eyed, fierce, opened the shirt wide on the breast, as if totear the secret forcibly from that cold heart which had been soloyal to him in life! Nothing! Nothing! He raised the lamp, andall the sign vouchsafed to him by that face which used to be sokindly in expression was a small bruise on the forehead--the leastthing, a mere mark. The skin even was not broken. He stared at ita long time as if lost in a dreadful dream. Then he observed thatTom's hands were clenched as though he had fallen facing somebodyin a fight with fists. His knuckles, on closer view, appearedsomewhat abraded. Both hands.The discovery of these slight signs was more appalling to Byrnethan the absolute absence of every mark would have been. So Tomhad died striking against something which could be hit, and yetcould kill one without leaving a wound--by a breath.Terror, hot terror, began to play about Byrne's heart like a tongueof flame that touches and withdraws before it turns a thing toashes. He backed away from the body as far as he could, then cameforward stealthily casting fearful glances to steal another look atthe bruised forehead. There would perhaps be such a faint bruiseon his own forehead--before the morning."I can't bear it," he whispered to himself. Tom was for him now anobject of horror, a sight at once tempting and revolting to hisfear. He couldn't bear to look at him.At last, desperation getting the better of his increasing horror,he stepped forward from the wall against which he had been leaning,seized the corpse under the armpits, and began to lug it over tothe bed. The bare heels of the seaman trailed on the floornoiselessly. He was heavy with the dead weight of inanimateobjects. With a last effort Byrne landed him face downwards on theedge of the bed, rolled him over, snatched from under this stiffpassive thing a sheet with which he covered it over. Then hespread the curtains at head and foot so that joining together as heshook their folds they hid the bed altogether from his sight.He stumbled towards a chair, and fell on it. The perspirationpoured from his face for a moment, and then his veins seemed tocarry for a while a thin stream of half, frozen blood. Completeterror had possession of him now, a nameless terror which hadturned his heart to ashes.He sat upright in the straight-backed chair, the lamp burning athis feet, his pistols and his hanger at his left elbow on the endof the table, his eyes turning incessantly in their sockets roundthe walls, over the ceiling, over the floor, in the expectation ofa mysterious and appalling vision. The thing which could dealdeath in a breath was outside that bolted door. But Byrne believedneither in walls nor bolts now. Unreasoning terror turningeverything to account, his old time boyish admiration of theathletic Tom, the undaunted Tom (he had seemed to him invincible),helped to paralyse his faculties, added to his despair.He was no longer Edgar Byrne. He was a tortured soul sufferingmore anguish than any sinner's body had ever suffered from rack orboot. The depth of his torment may be measured when I say thatthis young man, as brave at least as the average of his kind,contemplated seizing a pistol and firing into his own head. But adeadly, chilly, langour was spreading over his limbs. It was as ifhis flesh had been wet plaster stiffening slowly about his ribs.Presently, he thought, the two witches will be coming in, withcrutch and stick--horrible, grotesque, monstrous--affiliated to thedevil--to put a mark on his forehead, the tiny little bruise ofdeath. And he wouldn't be able to do anything. Tom had struck outat something, but he was not like Tom. His limbs were deadalready. He sat still, dying the death over and over again; andthe only part of him which moved were his eyes, turning round andround in their sockets, running over the walls, the floor, theceiling, again and again till suddenly they became motionless andstony-starting out of his head fixed in the direction of the bed.He had seen the heavy curtains stir and shake as if the dead bodythey concealed had turned over and sat up. Byrne, who thought theworld could hold no more terrors in store, felt his hair stir atthe roots. He gripped the arms of the chair, his jaw fell, and thesweat broke out on his brow while his dry tongue clove suddenly tothe roof of his mouth. Again the curtains stirred, but did notopen. "Don't, Tom!" Byrne made effort to shout, but all he heardwas a slight moan such as an uneasy sleeper may make. He felt thathis brain was going, for, now, it seemed to him that the ceilingover the bed had moved, had slanted, and came level again--and oncemore the closed curtains swayed gently as if about to part.Byrne closed his eyes not to see the awful apparition of theseaman's corpse coming out animated by an evil spirit. In theprofound silence of the room he endured a moment of frightfulagony, then opened his eyes again. And he saw at once that thecurtains remained closed still, but that the ceiling over the bedhad risen quite a foot. With the last gleam of reason left to himhe understood that it was the enormous baldaquin over the bed whichwas coming down, while the curtains attached to it swayed softly,sinking gradually to the floor. His drooping jaw snapped to--andhalf rising in his chair he watched mutely the noiseless descent ofthe monstrous canopy. It came down in short smooth rushes tilllowered half way or more, when it took a run and settled swiftlyits turtle-back shape with the deep border piece fitting exactlythe edge of the bedstead. A slight crack or two of wood wereheard, and the overpowering stillness of the room resumed its sway.Byrne stood up, gasped for breath, and let out a cry of rage anddismay, the first sound which he is perfectly certain did make itsway past his lips on this night of terrors. This then was thedeath he had escaped! This was the devilish artifice of murderpoor Tom's soul had perhaps tried from beyond the border to warnhim of. For this was how he had died. Byrne was certain he hadheard the voice of the seaman, faintly distinct in his familiarphrase, "Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!" and again uttering words hecould not make out. But then the distance separating the livingfrom the dead is so great! Poor Tom had tried. Byrne ran to thebed and attempted to lift up, to push off the horrible lidsmothering the body. It resisted his efforts, heavy as lead,immovable like a tombstone. The rage of vengeance made him desist;his head buzzed with chaotic thoughts of extermination, he turnedround the room as if he could find neither his weapons nor the wayout; and all the time he stammered awful menaces. . .A violent battering at the door of the inn recalled him to hissoberer senses. He flew to the window pulled the shutters open,and looked out. In the faint dawn he saw below him a mob of men.Ha! He would go and face at once this murderous lot collected nodoubt for his undoing. After his struggle with nameless terrors heyearned for an open fray with armed enemies. But he must haveremained yet bereft of his reason, because forgetting his weaponshe rushed downstairs with a wild cry, unbarred the door while blowswere raining on it outside, and flinging it open flew with his barehands at the throat of the first man he saw before him. Theyrolled over together. Byrne's hazy intention was to break through,to fly up the mountain path, and come back presently with Gonzales'men to exact an exemplary vengeance. He fought furiously till atree, a house, a mountain, seemed to crash down upon his head--andhe knew no more.* * * * *Here Mr. Byrne describes in detail the skilful manner in which hefound his broken head bandaged, informs us that he had lost a greatdeal of blood, and ascribes the preservation of his sanity to thatcircumstance. He sets down Gonzales' profuse apologies in fulltoo. For it was Gonzales who, tired of waiting for news from theEnglish, had come down to the inn with half his band, on his way tothe sea. "His excellency," he explained, "rushed out with fierceimpetuosity, and, moreover, was not known to us for a friend, andso we . . . etc., etc. When asked what had become of the witches,he only pointed his finger silently to the ground, then voicedcalmly a moral reflection: "The passion for gold is pitiless inthe very old, senor," he said. "No doubt in former days they haveput many a solitary traveller to sleep in the archbishop's bed.""There was also a gipsy girl there," said Byrne feebly from theimprovised litter on which he was being carried to the coast by asquad of guerilleros."It was she who winched up that infernal machine, and it was shetoo who lowered it that night," was the answer."But why? Why?" exclaimed Byrne. "Why should she wish for mydeath?""No doubt for the sake of your excellency's coat buttons," saidpolitely the saturnine Gonzales. "We found those of the deadmariner concealed on her person. But your excellency may restassured that everything that is fitting has been done on thisoccasion."Byrne asked no more questions. There was still another death whichwas considered by Gonzales as "fitting to the occasion." The one-eyed Bernardino stuck against the wall of his wine-shop receivedthe charge of six escopettas into his breast. As the shots rangout the rough bier with Tom's body on it went past carried by abandit-like gang of Spanish patriots down the ravine to the shore,where two boats from the ship were waiting for what was left onearth of her best seaman.Mr. Byrne, very pale and weak, stepped into the boat which carriedthe body of his humble friend. For it was decided that Tom Corbinshould rest far out in the bay of Biscay. The officer took thetiller and, turning his head for the last look at the shore, saw onthe grey hillside something moving, which he made out to be alittle man in a yellow hat mounted on a mule--that mule withoutwhich the fate of Tom Corbin would have remained mysterious forever.June, 1913.Footnotes:{1} The gallows, supposed to be widowed of the last executedcriminal and waiting for another.[From Within the Tides]

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