Great Tales of Terror

INTEREST

Introduction

Why do people read tales of terror? Since 1764, when Horace Walpole published The Castle of Otranto, stories of horror, terror, the supernatural, and psychological suspense have represented a distinctive contribution to European letters, the roots of which can be traced as far back as the anecdotal ghost stories found in Greek, Latin, and other ancient literatures. And yet, the sensation of fear cannot be said to be a pleasant one; no one, in real life, would wish to be subject to it, whether it be the sublime terror of a haunted castle or the more mundane but no less clutching fear of bodily harm at the hands of a criminal or a madman. Why, then, are certain people drawn inexorably to the experiencing of such emotions by way of literature?

As early as 1773, Anna Laetitia Barbauld discussed the matter in a brief essay, On the Pleasure Derived from Objects of Terror. Already in her time, she states, The greediness with which the tales of ghosts and goblins, of murders, earthquakes, fires, shipwrecks, and all the most terrible disasters attending human life, are devoured by every ear, must have been generally remarked. Barbauld first conjectures that it is merely curiosity that leads us to reach the end of a work once we have begun it, even though it is full of horrors that may actually cause us pain as we read. But this solution dissatisfies her, because it cannot account for our fondness for rereading tales of terror whose outcomes we already know. It is at this point that Barbauld states a principle of great importance:

A strange and unexpected event awakens the mind, and keeps it on the stretch; and where the agency of invisible beings is introduced, of forms unseen, and mightier far than we, our imagination, darting forth, explores with rapture the new world which is laid open to its view, and rejoices in the expansion of its powers. Passion and fancy cooperating, elevate the soul to its highest pitch; and the pain of terror is lost in amazement.

In other words, it is imaginative liberation that readers are seeking. Realistic accounts of mundane events, gripping as they can be in their penetrating portrayals of character and society, nonetheless fail to satisfy what appears to be an inbred human desire to surpass the bounds of the ordinary and to approach (in Poe’s imperishable formulation)

a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space—out of Time.

That this kind of imaginative liberation has also been sought by a wide variety of writers—many of whom are or were chiefly known for their realistic writing—is evident in the tales in this volume. It is, of course, unwise to assert that all writers of weird tales are motivated by any single or simple purpose; but that many of them have relished the freedom from mundane realism afforded by the tale of terror is evident in a great majority of the contributions in this book.

It is misleading, however, to speak of the tale of terror as a definite genre, analogous to the detective story, the tale of science fiction, or the love story. Rather, terror is frequently only one component—perhaps not even the dominant one—in many of the tales included here, and it becomes quickly evident that a variety of elements utilized by writers of weird fiction are manipulated as a means of symbolically conveying messages that could not be conveyed in any other fashion. It is, indeed, in exactly this way that the tale of terror gains literary substance. The mere exercise of literary imagination, however distinctive, is not sufficient; that imagination must be harnessed in order to shed light on the human condition. As H. P. Lovecraft pointed out:

A serious adult story must be true to something in life. Since marvel tales cannot be true to the events of life, they must shift their emphasis toward something to which they can be true; namely, certain wistful or restless moods of the human spirit, wherein it seeks to weave gossamer ladders of escape from the galling tyranny of time, space, and natural law.

Lovecraft’s formulation is exemplified in many tales of terror. The ghost or revenant, perhaps the most ancient element of the weird tale, frequently serves as a kind of imaginative shorthand for the human conscience. The spirit of a murder victim who comes back from the dead to gain revenge on its murderer is perhaps nothing more than a vivid depiction of the guilt, fear, or trepidation that plagues even the most hardened criminal; but this motif is still capable of surprisingly powerful effects, as exemplified in various ways by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’s The Haunted Dragoon, William Sharp’s The Graven Image, and Lafcadio Hearn’s Of a Promise Broken. Related to the notion of the ghost is the idea of the persistence, and possible transmigration, of the soul; and this conception, however implausible it may now seem to be, gains surprising power in Robert Hichens’s lengthy tale, The Return of the Soul.

The haunted house, castle, or region is similarly a trope of great antiquity. The human mind is inexorably led to fear those locales where a great many people have died, perhaps under mysterious circumstances. Is it then strange that, in The Ghosts of Austerlitz, William Waldorf Astor, adroitly combining the tale of terror with historical fiction, finds terror on the bloody fields of one of the most significant battles of Europe? The haunted locale becomes ambulatory in Violet Hunt’s The Coach, but resumes more orthodox forms in James Hopper’s tale of a haunted school.

Many weird writers found the ghost, and such of its analogues as the vampire and the werewolf, rather too conventional for effective use in the tale of terror. The advance of science had shown that all these conceptions were merely the fallacious products of the primitive mind, so that their vestigial emotive resonance had, by the middle of the nineteenth century, worn quite thin. New creatures of wonder and terror had to be sought. Théophile Gautier answered the call by hypothesizing not an entire ghost, but only a portion of one, in The Mummy’s Foot. The sardonic Ambrose Bierce tartly envisions a demon being terrified by the appearance of a ghoul, the loathsome creature that eats the dead. Finally, W F. Harvey, in The Tortoise, is one of many authors who sought terror in imagining the possibility of animals endowed with human emotions—particularly the baleful emotion of vengeance.

Lovecraft’s notion of escaping from the galling tyranny of time, space, and natural law is nowhere better exemplified than in those many tales of superhuman figures that dominate the literature of the weird. Whether he is called Faust, Melmoth, or Dr. Frankenstein, the human being who surpasses his fellows—by extraordinary knowledge, anomalous physical endowments, or the conquest of such inevitable concomitants of the human condition as age and death—has been a figure of compelling fascination. In many ways, such tales are cautionary accounts of the dangers of knowledge—specincally scientific knowledge—unharnessed by moral restraints. The protagonist of E. Nesbit’s The Three Drugs learns, to his doom, that even in fleeing the law it is not wise to give one’s trust too readily to a stranger. Barry Pain’s The Diary of a God etches poignantly the sensations of a man whose development of superhuman power is only imaginary, and as a result this story crosses over into the realm of psychological suspense. That realm—exemplified in our day by such well-known works as Robert Bloch’s Psycho and Thomas Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs—is only on the borderline of the weird, but when it presents a vivid depiction of aberrant psychology—as in H. L. Mencken’s The Window of Horrors—it becomes an authentic branch of the tale of terror.

At the opposite extreme from the nonsupernatural tale of psychological suspense is the tale of fantasy. Here all, or many, of the earmarks of the real world are boldly abandoned, and the author’s imagination is allowed the widest play. Some critics have maintained, indeed, that this branch of the tale of terror represents art at its most quintessential. Clark Ashton Smith once wrote: imaginative art is surely the highest and purest art; and elsewhere, "I am far happier when I can create everything in a story, including the milieu. The danger of such tales is that they will have so little connection to reality that they will fail to elicit a response in the reader, or that they will be merely ventures into empty escapism. How this danger can be avoided is shown by three skillful and haunting tales: Erckmann-Chatrian’s The Queen of the Bees (a benign fantasy that exhibits the anomalous mental union between a blind girl and a horde of bees), Gertrude Atherton’s The Caves of Death (a fantasy where a dreamer crosses over to the House of Death and encounters the souls of the dead suffering the varied fates brought upon them by their actions in life), and Arthur Machen’s The Soldiers’ Rest" (where the souls of dead soldiers in World War I find an unexpected haven).

The tale of terror can be said to reach its most awe-inspiring scope in those accounts of cosmic wonder and awe. We learn early on in life that the human race—and, indeed, the entire history of all life on this earth—is a thing of vanishingly small importance in the well-nigh infinite reaches of space and time; but, encumbered by mundane concerns, we quickly put this awesome and depressing knowledge out of our minds. On occasion it is salutary to be reminded of it; and it is perhaps exactly this that the protagonist of Algernon Blackwood’s The Man Who Found Out learns to his horror. All humanity is a negligible experiment in J. D. Beresford’s cosmic vignette, while R. H. Barlow’s The Root-Gatherers speaks casually of the destruction of entire civilizations. In science fiction, the endless gulfs of space and time are scenes of thrilling exploration and adventure; but in the tale of terror, the incalculable light-years of the galaxy and the oppressive burden of ages past and to come can only be the sources of awe tinged with horror and melancholy.

The tale of terror, in all its multitudinous forms, offers virtually unlimited scope for imaginative development. Is it any accident that authors generally known for a very different kind of writing have so frequently tried their hands at it? Novelists of social realism such as Charles Dickens, Henry James, and F. Marion Crawford; writers of sentimental love stories such as Robert W. Chambers and Daphne du Maurier; even essayists and critics such as H. L. Mencken and Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch have all produced ventures into the weird, and with notable success. It is exactly the possibility of imaginative liberation that has led so many writers to explore this corner of literature; and in this sense, few will contest H. P. Lovecraft’s rousing declaration:

The imaginative writer devotes himself to art in its most essential sense.... He is a painter of moods and mind-pictures—a capturer and amplifier of elusive dreams and fancies—a voyager into those unheard-of lands which are glimpsed through the veil of actuality but rarely, and only by the most sensitive.... He is the poet of twilight visions and childhood memories, but sings only for the sensitive.

Let us hope that there will continue to be a sufficient modicum of sensitive readers to appreciate this most elusive and tenuous of literary productions.

—S. T. JOSHI

I. The Terror of Revenants

The Haunted Dragoon

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Beside the Plymouth road, as it plunges down hill past Ruan Lanihale church towards Ruan Cove, and ten paces beyond the lych-gate—where the graves lie level with the coping, and the horseman can decipher their inscriptions in passing, at the risk of a twisted neck—the base of the churchyard wall is pierced with a low archway, festooned with toad-flax and fringed with the hart’s-tongue fern. Within the archway bubbles a well, the water of which was once used for all baptisms in the parish, for no child sprinkled with it could ever be hanged with hemp. But this belief is discredited now, and the well neglected: and the events which led to this are still a winter’s tale in the neighbourhood. I set them down as they were told me, across the blue glow of a wreck-wood fire, by Sam Tregear, the parish bedman. Sam himself had borne an inconspicuous share in them; and because of them Sam’s father had carried a white face to his grave.

My father and mother (said Sam) married late in life, for his trade was what mine is, and ’twasn’t till her fortieth year that my mother could bring herself to kiss a gravedigger. That accounts, maybe, for my being born rickety and with other drawbacks that only made father the fonder. Weather permitting, he’d carry me off to churchyard, set me upon a flat stone, with his coat folded under, and talk to me while he delved. I can mind, now, the way he’d settle lower and lower, till his head played hidey-peep with me over the grave’s edge, and at last he’d be clean swallowed up, but still discoursing or calling up how he’d come upon wonderful towns and kingdoms down underground, and how all the kings and queens there, in dyed garments, was offering him meat for his dinner every day of the week if he’d only stop and hobbynob with them—and all such gammut. He prettily doted on me—the poor old ancient!

But there came a day—a dry afternoon in the late wheat harvest—when we were up in the churchyard together, and though father had his tools beside him, not a tint did he work, but kept travishing back and forth, one time shading his eyes and gazing out to sea, and then looking far along the Plymouth road for minutes at a time. Out by Bradden Point there stood a little dandy-rigged craft, tacking lazily to and fro, with her mains’le all shiny-yellow in the sunset. Though I didn’t know it then, she was the Preventive boat, and her business was to watch the Hauen: for there had been a brush between her and the Unity lugger, a fortnight back, and a Preventive man shot through the breast-bone and my mother’s brother Philip was hiding down in the town. I minded, later, how that the men across the vale, in Farmer Tresidder’s wheat-field, paused every now and then, as they pitched the sheaves, to give a look up towards the churchyard, and the gleaners moved about in small knots, causeying and glancing over their shoulders at the cutter out in the bay; and how, when all the field was carried, they waited round the last load, no man offering to cry the Neck, as the fashion was, but lingering till sun was near down behind the slope and the long shadows stretching across the stubble.

Sha’nt thee go underground today, father? says I, at last.

He turned slowly round, and says he, No, sonny. ’Reckon us ’ll climb skywards for a change.

And with that, he took my hand, and pushing abroad the belfry door began to climb the stairway. Up and up, round and round we vent, in a sort of blind-man’s-holiday full of little glints of light and whiffs of wind where the open windows came; and at last stepped out upon the leads of the tower and drew breath.

There’s two-an’-twenty parishes to be witnessed from where we’re standin’, sonny—if ye’ve got eyes, says my father.

Well, first I looked down towards the harvesters and laughed to see them so small: and then I fell to counting the church-towers dotted across the high-lands, and seeing if I could make out two-and-twenty. ‘Twas the prettiest sight—all the country round looking as if ’twas dusted with gold, and the Plymouth road winding away over the hills like a long white tape. I had counted thirteen churches, when my father pointed his hand out along this road and called to me—

Look‘ee out yonder, honey, an’ say what ye see!

I see dust, says I.

Nothin’ else? Sonny boy, use your eyes, for mine be dim.

I see dust, says I again, an’ suthin’ twinklin’ in it, like a tin can—

Dragooners! shouts my father; and then, running to the side or the tower facing the harvest-field, he put both hands to his mouth and called:

What have ’ee? What have ’ee?

—very loud and long.

"A neck—a neck! came back from the field, like as if all shouted at once—dear, the sweet sound! And then a gun was fired, and craning forward over the coping I saw a dozen men running across the stubble and out into the road towards the Hauen; and they called as they ran, A neck—a neck!"

Iss, says my father, ‘tis a neck, sure ’nuff. Pray God they save en! Come, sonny—

But we dallied up there till the horsemen were plain to see, and their scarlet coats and armour blazing in the dust as they came. And when they drew near within a mile, and our limbs ached with crouching—for fear they should spy us against the sky—father took me by the hand and pulled hot foot down the stairs. Before they rode by he had picked up his shovel and was shovelling out a grave for his life.

Forty valiant horsemen they were, riding two-and-two (by reason of the narrowness of the road) and a captain beside them—men broad and long, with hairy top-lips, and all clad in scarlet jackets and white breeches that showed bravely against their black war-horses and jet-black holsters, thick as they were wi’ dust. Each man had a golden helmet, and a scabbard flapping by his side, and a piece of metal like a half-moon jingling from his horse’s cheek-strap. 12 D was the numbering on every saddle, meaning the Twelfth Dragoons.

Tramp! tramp! they rode by, talking and joking, and taking no more heed of me—that sat upon the wall with my heels dangling above them—than if I’d been a sprig of stonecrop. But the captain, who carried a drawn sword and mopped his face with a handkerchief so that the dust ran across it in streaks, drew rein, and looked over my shoulder to where father was digging.

Sergeant! he calls back, turning with a hand upon his crupper; didn’t we see a figger like this a-top o’ the tower, some way back?

The sergeant pricked his horse forward and saluted. He was the tallest, straightest man in the troop, and the muscles on his arm filled out his sleeve with the three stripes upon it—a handsome red-faced fellow, with curly black hair.

Says he, That we did, sir—a man with sloping shoulders and a boy with a goose neck. Saying this, he looked up at me with a grin.

I’ll bear it in mind, answered the officer, and the troop rode on in a cloud of dust, the sergeant looking back and smiling, as if ‘twas a joke that he shared with us. Well, to be short, they rode down into the town as night fell. But ’twas too late, Uncle Philip having had fair warning and plenty of time to flee up towards the little secret hold under Mabel Down, where none but two families knew how to find him. All the town, though, knew he was safe, and lashins of women and children turned out to see the comely soldiers hunt in vain till ten o’clock at night.

The next thing was to billet the warriors. The captain of the troop, by this, was pesky cross-tempered, and flounced off to the Jolly Pilchards in a huff. Sergeant, says he, here’s an inn, though a damned bad ‘un, an’ here I means to stop. Somewheres about there’s a farm called Constantine, where I’m told the men can be accommodated. Find out the place, if you can, an’ do your best: an’ don’t let me see yer face till to-morra, says he.

So Sergeant Basket—that was his name—gave the salute, and rode his troop up the street, where—for his manners were mighty winning, notwithstanding the dirty nature of his errand—he soon found plenty to direct him to Farmer Noy’s, of Constantine; and up the coombe they rode into the darkness, a dozen or more going along with them to show the way, being won by their martial bearing as well as the sergeant’s very friendly way of speech.

Farmer Noy was in bed—a pock-marked, lantern-jawed old gaffer of sixty-five; and the most remarkable point about him was the wife he had married two years before—a young slip of a girl but just husband-high. Money did it, I reckon; but if so, ’twas a bad bargain for her. He was noted for stinginess to such a degree that they said his wife wore a brass wedding-ring, weekdays, to save the genuine article from wearing out. She was a Ruan woman, too, and therefore ought to have known all about him. But woman’s ways be past finding out.

Hearing the hoofs in his yard and the sergeant’s stram-a-ram upon the door, down comes the old curmudgeon with a candle held high above his head.

What the devil’s here? he calls out.

Sergeant Basket looks over the old man’s shoulder; and there, halfway up the stairs, stood Madam Noy in her night rail—a high-coloured ripe girl, languishing for love, her red lips parted and neck all lily-white against a loosened pile of dark brown hair.

Be cussed if I turn back! said the sergeant to himself; and added out loud—

Forty souldjers, in the King’s name!

Forty devils! says the old Noy.

They’re devils to eat, answered the sergeant, in the most friendly manner; an’, begad, ye must feed an’ bed ‘em this night—or else I’ll search your cellars. Ye are a loyal man—eh, farmer? An’ your cellars are big, I’m told.

Sarah, calls out the old man, following the sergeant’s bold glance, go back an’ dress yersel’ dacently this instant! These here honest souldjers—forty damned honest gormandisin’ souldjers—be come in his Majesty’s name, forty strong, to protect honest folks’ rights in the intervals of eatin’ ‘em out o’ house an’ home. Sergeant, ye be very welcome i’ the King’s name. Cheese an’ cider ye shall have, an’ I pray the mixture may turn your forty stomachs.

In a dozen minutes he had fetched out his stable-boys and farm-hands, and, lantern in hand, was helping the sergeant to picket the horses and stow the men about on clean straw in the outhouses. They were turning back to the house, and the old man was turning over in his mind that the sergeant hadn’t yet said a word about where he was to sleep, when by the door they found Madam Noy waiting, in her wedding gown, and with her hair freshly braided.

Now, the farmer was mortally afraid of the sergeant, knowing he had thirty ankers and more of contraband liquor in his cellars, and minding the sergeant’s threat. None the less his jealousy got the upper hand.

Woman, he cried out, to thy bed!

I was waiting, said she, to say the Cap’n’s bed—

Sergeant’s, says the dragoon, correcting her.

—Was laid i’ the spare room.

Madam, replies Sergeant Basket, looking into her eyes and bowing, a soldier with my responsibility sleeps but little. In the first place, I must see that my men sup.

The maids be now cuttin’ the bread an’ cheese and drawin’ the cider.

Then, Madam, leave me but possession of the parlour, and let me have a chair to sleep in.

By this they were in the passage together, and her gaze devouring his regimentals. The old man stood a pace off, looking sourly. The sergeant fed his eyes upon her, and Satan got hold of him.

Now if only, said he, one of you could play cards!

But I must go to bed, she answered; though I can play cribbage, if only you stay another night.

For she saw the glint in the farmer’s eye; and so Sergeant Basket slept bolt upright that night in an armchair by the parlour fender. Next day the dragoons searched the town again, and were billeted all about among the cottages. But the sergeant returned to Constantine, and before going to bed—this time in the spare room—played a game of cribbage with Madam Noy, the farmer smoking sulkily in his armchair.

Two for his heels! said the rosy woman suddenly, halfway through the game. Sergeant, you’re cheatin’ yoursel’ an’ forgettin’ to mark. Gi’e me the board; I’ll mark for both.

She put out her hand upon the board, and Sergeant Basket’s closed upon it. ‘Tis true he had forgot to mark; and feeling the hot pulse in her wrist, and beholding the hunger in her eyes, ’tis to be supposed he’d have forgot his own soul.

He rode away next day with his troop: but my uncle Philip not being caught yet, and the Government set on making an example of him, we hadn’t seen the last of these dragoons. ’Twas a time of fear down in the town. At dead of night or at noonday they came on us—six times in all: and for two months the crew of the Unity couldn’t call their souls their own, but lived from day to day in secret closets and wandered the country by night, hiding in hedges and straw-houses. All that time the revenue men watched the Hauen, night and day, like dogs before a rat-hole.

But one November morning ‘twas whispered abroad that Uncle Philip had made his way to Falmouth, and slipped across to Guernsey. Time passed on, and the dragooners were seen no more, nor the handsome devil-may-care face of Sergeant Basket. Up at Constantine, where he had always contrived to billet himself, ’tis to be thought pretty Madam Noy pined to see him again, kicking his spurs in the porch and smiling out of his gay brown eyes; for her face fell away from its plump condition, and the hunger in her eyes grew and grew. But a more remarkable fact was that her old husband—who wouldn’t have yearned after the dragoon, ye’d have thought—began to dwindle and fall away too. By the New Year he was a dying man, and carried his doom on his face. And on New Year’s Day he straddled his mare for the last time, and rode over to Looe, to Doctor Gale’s.

Goody-losh! cried the doctor, taken aback by his appearance—What’s come to ye, Noy?

Death! says Noy. Doctor, I bain’t come for advice, for before this day week I’ll be a clay-cold corpse. I come to ax a favour. When they summon ye, before lookin’ at my body—that’ll be past help—go you to the little left-top corner drawer o’ my wife’s bureau, an’ there ye’ll find a packet. You’re my executor, says he, and I leaves ye to deal wi’ that packet as ye thinks fit.

With that, the farmer rode away home-along, and the very day week he went dead.

The doctor, when called over, minded what the old chap had said, and sending Madam Noy on some pretence to the kitchen, went over and unlocked the little drawer with a duplicate key, that the farmer had unhitched from his watch-chain and given him. There was no parcel of letters, as he looked to find, but only a small packet crumpled away in the corner. He pulled it out and gave a look, and a sniff, and another look: then shut the drawer, locked it, strode straight down-stairs to his horse and galloped away.

In three hours’ time, pretty Madam Noy was in the constables’ hands upon the charge of murdering her husband by poison.

They tried her, next Spring Assize, at Bodmin, before the Lord Chief Justice. There wasn’t evidence enough to put Sergeant Basket in the dock alongside of her—though ’twas freely guessed he knew more than anyone (saving the prisoner herself) about the arsenic that was found in the little drawer and inside the old man’s body. He was subpœna’d from Plymouth, and cross-examined by a great hulking King’s Counsel for three-quarters of an hour. But they got nothing out of him. All through the examination the prisoner looked at him and nodded her white face, every now and then, at his answers, as much as to say, That’s right—that’s right: they shan’t harm thee, my dear. And the love-light shone in her eyes for all the court to see. But the sergeant never let his look meet it. When he stepped down at last she gave a sob of joy, and fainted bang-off.

They roused her up, after this, to hear the verdict of Guilty and her doom spoken by the judge. Pris‘ner at the bar, said the Clerk of Arraigns, have ye anything to say why this court should not pass sentence o’ death?

She held tight of the rail before her, and spoke out loud and clear—

My Lord and gentlemen all, I be a guilty woman; an’ I be ready to die at once for my sin. But if ye kill me now, ye kill the child in my body—an’ he is innocent.

Well, ’twas found she spoke truth; and the hanging was put off till after the time of her delivery. She was led back to prison, and there, about the end of June, her child was born, and died before he was six hours old. But the mother recovered, and quietly abode the time of her hanging.

I can mind her execution very well; for father and mother had determined it would be an excellent thing for my rickets to take me into Bodmin that day, and get a touch of the dead woman’s hand, which in those times was considered an unfailing remedy. So we borrowed the parson’s manure-cart, and cleaned it thoroughly, and drove in together.

The place of the hangings, then, was a little door in the prison-wall, looking over the bank where the railway now goes, and a dismal piece of water called Jail-pool, where the townsfolk drowned most of the dogs and cats they’d no further use for. All the bank under the gallows was that thick with people you could almost walk upon their heads; and my ribs were squeezed by the crowd so that I couldn’t breathe freely for a month after. Back across the pool, the fields along the side of the valley were lined with booths and sweet-stalls and standings—a perfect Whitsun-fair; and a din going up that cracked your ears.

But there was the stillness of death when the woman came forth, with the sheriff and the chaplain reading in his book, and the unnamed man behind—all from the little door. She wore a strait black gown, and a white kerchief about her neck—a lovely woman, young and white and tearless.

She ran her eye over the crowd and stepped forward a pace, as if to speak; but lifted a finger and beckoned instead: and out of the people a man fought his way to the foot of the scaffold. ’Twas the dashing sergeant, that was here upon sick-leave. Sick he was, I believe. His face above his shining regimentals was gray as a slate; for he had committed perjury to save his skin, and on the face of the perjured no sun will ever shine.

Have you got it? the doomed woman said, many hearing the words.

He tried to reach, but the scaffold was too high, so he tossed up what was in his hand, and the woman caught it—a little screw of tissue-paper.

I must see that, please! said the sheriff, laying a hand upon her arm.

‘Tis but a weddin’-ring, sir—and she slipped it over her finger. Then she kissed it once, under the beam, and, lookin’ into