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"It's true," I agreed. "He asks her if she will 'give herself up,'
'renounce former manners,' and to swear so upon—the book we
saw. She does so."
"Then the prayer, which perplexes you by its form. The 'wert in
heaven' bit becomes obvious now, eh? How about the angel that fell
from grace and attempted to build up his own power to oppose?"
"Satan!" I almost shouted. "A prayer to the force of evil!"
"Not so loud, Connatt. And then, while Miss Holgar stands inside a
circle—that, also, is part of the witch ceremony—he touches her
head, and speaks words we do not know. But we can guess."
He struck his stick hard against the sandy earth.
"What then?" I urged him on.
"It's in an old Scottish trial of witches," said Pursuivant. "Modern
works—J. W. Wickwar's book, and I think Margaret Alice Murray's—
quote it. The master of the coven touched the head of the neophyte
and said that all beneath his hand now belonged to the powers of
darkness."
"No! No!" I cried, in a voice that wanted to break.
"No hysterics, please!" snapped Pursuivant. "Connatt, let me give
you one stark thought—it will cool you, strengthen you for what you
must help me achieve. Think what will follow if we let Miss Holgar
take this oath, accept this initiation, however unwittingly. At once
she will assume the curse that Varduk—Byron—lays down. Life after
death, perhaps; the faculty of wreaking devastation at a word or
touch; gifts beyond human will or comprehension, all of them a
burden to her; and who can know the end?"
"There shall not be a beginning," I vowed huskily. "I will kill Varduk
——"
"Softly, softly. You know that weapons—ordinary weapons—do not
even scratch him."
The twilight was deepening into dusk, Pursuivant turned back
toward the lodge, where windows had begun to glow warmly, and
muffled motor-noises bespoke the parking of automobiles. There
were other flecks of light, too. For myself, I felt beaten and weary,
as though I had fought to the verge of losing against a stronger,
wiser enemy.
"Look around you, Connatt. At the clumps of bush, the thickets.
What do they hide?"
I knew what he meant. I felt, though I saw only dimly, the presence
of an evil host in ambuscade all around us.
"They're waiting to claim her, Connatt. There's only one thing to do."
"Then let's do it, at once."
"Not yet. The moment must be his moment, one hour before
midnight. Escape, as I once said, will not be enough. We must
conquer."
I waited for him to instruct me.
"As you know, Connatt, I will make a speech before the curtain.
After that, I'll come backstage and stay in your dressing-room. What
you must do is get the sword that you use in the second act. Bring it
there and keep it there."
"I've told you and told you that the sword meant nothing against
him."
"Bring it anyway," he insisted.
I heard Sigrid's clear voice, calling me to the stage door. Pursuivant
and I shook hands quickly and warmly, like team-mates just before a
hard game, and we went together to the lodge.
Entering, I made my way at once to the property table. The sword
still lay there, and I put out my hand for it.
"What do you want?" asked Elmo Davidson behind me.
"I thought I'd take the sword into my dressing-room."
"It's a prop, Connatt. Leave it right where it is."
I turned and looked at him. "I'd rather have it with me," I said
doggedly.
"You're being foolish," he told me sharply, and there is hardly any
doubt but that I sounded so to him. "What if I told Varduk about
this?"
"Go and tell him, if you like. Tell him also that I won't go on tonight
if you're going to order me around." I said this as if I meant it, and
he relaxed his commanding pose.
"Oh, go ahead. And for heaven's sake calm your nerves."
I took the weapon and bore it away. In my room I found my
costume for the first act already laid out on two chairs—either
Davidson or Jake had done that for me. Quickly I rubbed color into
my cheeks, lined my brows and eyelids, affixed fluffy side-whiskers
to my jaws. The mirror showed me a set, pale face, and I put on
rather more make-up than I generally use. My hands trembled as I
donned gleaming slippers of patent leather, fawn-colored trousers
that strapped under the insteps, a frilled shirt and flowing necktie, a
flowered waistcoat and a bottle-green frock coat with velvet facings
and silver buttons. My hair was long enough to be combed into a
wavy sweep back from my brow.
"Places, everybody," the voice of Davidson was calling outside.
I emerged. Jake Switz was at my door, and he grinned his good
wishes. I went quickly on-stage, where Sigrid already waited. She
looked ravishing in her simple yet striking gown of soft, light blue,
with billows of skirt, little puffs of sleeves, a tight, low bodice. Her
gleaming hair was caught back into a Grecian-looking coiffure, with
a ribbon and a white flower at the side. The normal tan of her skin
lay hidden beneath the pallor of her make-up.
At sight of me she smiled and put out a hand. I kissed it lightly,
taking care that the red paint on my lips did not smear. She took her
seat on the bench against the artificial bushes, and I, as gracefully
as possible, dropped at her feet.
Applause sounded beyond the curtain, then died away. The voice of
Judge Pursuivant became audible:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have been asked by the management to
speak briefly. You are seeing, for the first time before any audience,
the lost play of Lord Byron, Ruthven. My presence here is not as a
figure of the theater, but as a modest scholar of some persistence,
whose privilege it has been to examine the manuscript and perceive
its genuineness.
"Consider yourselves all subpenaed as witnesses to a classic
moment." His voice rang as he pronounced the phrase required by
Varduk. "I wonder if this night will not make spectacular history for
the genius who did not die in Greece a century and more ago. I say,
he did not die—for when does genius die? We are here to assist at,
and to share in, a performance that will bring him his proper
desserts.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I feel, and perhaps you feel as well, the
presence of the great poet with us in this remote hall. I wish you joy
of what you shall observe. And now, have I your leave to withdraw
and let the play begin?"
Another burst of applause, in the midst of which sounded three raps.
Then up went the curtain, and all fell silent. I, as Aubrey, spoke the
first line of the play:
"I'm no Othello, darling...."

15. "Whither? I Dread to Think—"

Sigrid and I struck on the instant the proper note of affectionate
gayety, and I could feel in the air that peculiar audience-rhythm by
which an actor knows that his effort to capture a mood is successful.
For the moment it was the best of all possible worlds, to be
exchanging thus the happy and brilliant lines with the woman I
adored, while an intelligent and sympathetic houseful of spectators
shared our happy mood.
But, if I had forgotten Varduk, he was the more imposing when he
entered. His luminous pallor needed no heightening to seize the
attention; his face was set off, like some gleaming white gem, by the
dark coat, stock, cape, books, pantaloons. He spoke his entrance
line as a king might speak in accepting the crown and homage of a
nation. On the other side of the footlights the audience grew tense
with heightened interest.
He overpowered us both, as I might have known he would, with his
personality and his address. We might have been awkward
amateurs, wilting into nothingness when a master took the stage. I
was eclipsed completely, exactly as Aubrey should be at the entrance
of Ruthven, and I greatly doubt if a single pair of eyes followed me
at my first exit; for at the center of the stage, Varduk had begun to
make love to Sigrid.
I returned to my dressing-room. Pursuivant sat astride a chair, his
sturdy forearms crossed upon its back.
"How does it go?" he asked.
"Like a producer's dream," I replied, seizing a powder puff with
which to freshen my make-up. "Except for the things we know
about, I would pray for no better show."
"I gave you a message in my speech before the curtain. Did you
hear what I said? I meant, honestly, to praise Byron and at the same
time to defy him. You and I, with God's help, will give Ruthven an
ending he does not expect."
It was nearly time for me to make a new entrance, and I left the
dressing-room, mystified but comforted by Pursuivant's manner. The
play went on, gathering speed and impressiveness. We were all
acting inspiredly, maugre the bizarre nature of the rehearsals and
other preparations, the dark atmosphere that had surrounded the
piece from its first introduction to us.
The end of the act approached, and with it my exit. Sigrid and I
dragged the limp Varduk to the center of the stage and retired,
leaving him alone to perform the sinister resurrection scene with
which the first act closes. I loitered in the wings to watch, but Jake
Switz tugged at my sleeve.
"Come," he whispered. "I want to show you something."
We went to the stage door. Jake opened it an inch.
The space behind the lodge was full of uncertain, half-formed lights
that moved and lived. For a moment we peered. Then the soft, larval
radiances flowed toward us. Jake slammed the door.
"They're waiting," he said.
From the direction of the stage came Varduk's final line:
"Grave, I reject thy shelter! Death, stand back!"
Then Davidson dragged down the curtain, while the house shook
with applause. I turned again. Varduk, backstage, was speaking
softly but clearly, urging us to hurry with our costume changes. Into
my dressing-room I hastened, my feet numb and my eyes blurred.
"I'll help you dress," came Pursuivant's calm voice. "Did Jake show
you what waits outside?"
I nodded and licked my parched, painted lips.
"Don't fear. Their eagerness is premature."
He pulled off my coat and shirt. Grown calm again before his
assurance, I got into my clothes for Act Two—a modern dinner suit.
With alcohol I removed the clinging side-whiskers, repaired my
make-up and brushed my hair into modern fashion once more.
Within seconds, it seemed, Davidson was calling us to our places.
The curtain rose on Sigrid and me, as Mary and Swithin, hearing the
ancestral tale of horror from Old Bridget. As before, the audience
listened raptly, and as before it rose to the dramatic entrance of
Varduk. He wore his first-act costume, and his manner was even
more compelling. Again I felt myself thrust into the background of
the drama; as for Sigrid, great actress though she is, she prospered
only at his sufferance.
Off stage, on again, off once more—the play was Varduk's, and
Sigrid's personality was being eclipsed. Yet she betrayed no anger or
dislike of the situation. It was as though Varduk mastered her, even
while his character of Ruthven overpowered her character of Mary. I
felt utterly helpless.

In the wings I saw the climax approach. Varduk, flanked by

Davidson as the obedient Oscar, was declaring Ruthven's intention to
gain revenge and love.
"Get your sword," muttered Jake, who had taken Davidson's place at
the curtain ropes. "You're on again in a moment."
I ran to my dressing-room. Pursuivant opened the door, thrust
something into my hand.
"It's the silver sword," he told me quickly. "The one from my cane.
Trust in it, Connatt. Almost eleven o'clock—go, and God stiffen your
arm."
It seemed a mile from the door to the wings. I reached it just in
time for my entrance cue—Sigrid's cry of "Swithin will not allow this."
"Let him try to prevent it," grumbled Davidson, fierce and grizzled as
the devil-converted Oscar.
"I'm here for that purpose," I said clearly, and strode into view. The
sword from Pursuivant's cane I carried low, hoping that Varduk
would not notice at once. He stood with folded arms, a mocking
smile just touching his white face.
"So brave?" he chuckled. "So foolish?"
"My ancestor killed you once, Ruthven," I said, with more meaning
than I had ever employed before. "I can do so again."
I leaped forward, past Sigrid and at him.
The smile vanished. His mouth fell open.
"Wait! That sword——"
He hurled himself, as though to snatch it from my hand. But I lifted
the point and lunged, extending myself almost to the boards of the
stage. As once before, I felt the flesh tear before my blade. The
slender spike of metal went in, in, until the hilt thudded against his
breast-bone.
No sound from audience or actors, no motion. We made a tableau,
myself stretched out at lunge, Varduk transfixed, the other two
gazing in sudden aghast wonder.
For one long breath's space my victim stood like a figure of black
stone, with only his white face betraying anything of life and feeling.
His deep eyes, gone dark as a winter night, dug themselves into
mine. I felt once again the intolerable weight of his stare—yet it was
not threatening, not angry even. The surprize ebbed from it, and the
eyes and the sad mouth softened into a smile. Was he forgiving me?
Thanking me?...

Sigrid found her voice again, and screamed tremulously. I released

the cane-hilt and stepped backward, automatically. Varduk fell limply
upon his face. The silver blade, standing out between his shoulders,
gleamed red with blood. Next moment the red had turned dull black,
as though the gore was a millennium old. Varduk's body sagged. It
shrank within its rich, gloomy garments. It crumbled.
The curtain had fallen. I had not heard its rumble of descent, nor
had Sigrid, nor the stupefied Davidson. From beyond the folds came
only choking silence. Then Pursuivant's ready voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a sad accident has ended the play
unexpectedly—tragically. Through the fault of nobody, one of the
players has been fatally——"
I heard no more. Holding Sigrid in my arms I told her, briefly and
brokenly, the true story of Ruthven and its author. She, weeping,
gazed fearfully at the motionless black heap.
"The poor soul!" she sobbed. "The poor, poor soul!"
Jake, leaving his post by the curtain-ropes, had walked on and was
leading away the stunned, stumbling Davidson.
I still held Sigrid close. To my lips, as if at the bidding of another
mind and memory, came the final lines of Manfred:
"He's gone—his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight—Whither? I dread
to think—but he is gone."

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