"Ivar has been at home two months, yet we have had no visit from him."
The speaker was Godfrey Rothwell, and the scene the breakfast-room of his villa, Wave Crest.
"Why should he visit us?" asked Beatrice.
"Ahem! as a suitor for your hand, in compliance with his father's wish."
"Ivar had better not insult me by such an offer."
"An offer of marriage can scarcely be called an insult, Trixie."
"It would be—fromhim," returned Beatrice with a heightened colour. "I speak what I know," she added oracularly.
She began to pour out the coffee: while Godfrey, somewhat puzzled by her words, turned to the letters awaiting him. No sooner had he glanced at the handwriting on the envelope of the first than he gave a great start.
"Heavens! have the dead returned to life?"
He hastily broke the seal and ran his eye over the letter, while the mystified Beatrice awaited the explanation of his words.
"From my old college-friend, Idris Marville."
"What?" cried Beatrice with a little scream of surprise. "Is he not dead, then? Did he escape the fire?"
"That's self-evident. There has been a dreadful mistake somewhere. He will prove that he is alive bypaying us a visit. In fact, he will be here this very morning. Well, thisisa surprise!"
"More—a pleasure," added his sister.
Beatrice had never seen Idris, but she had often heard of him from Godfrey, and knew the painful story of his boyhood. She was aware, too, that on one occasion, Godfrey, being in pecuniary difficulties, had applied to Idris in preference to the Earl of Ormsby, and had received by return of post a handsome cheque. The memory of this event was still fresh in her mind, and she was desirous of showing her gratitude to her brother's benefactor.
"He signs himself 'Breakspear,' I see," she said, glancing at the signature of Idris.
"Yes: he has dropped the name of Marville, and has taken his mother's maiden name. It is easy to guess his reason."
True to the promise contained in his letter Idris arrived that same morning, and Beatrice took a good view of him from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, as he strode up the garden path accompanied by Godfrey.
Twenty-three years had passed since that memorable night at Quilaix, and Idris was now verging upon thirty—dark-eyed, handsome, athletic, with a face bronzed by southern suns. His appearance impressed Beatrice favourably.
"There is nothing mean or ignoble abouthim," she murmured.
The first greetings being ended, Idris sat down to a pleasant luncheon, presided over by Beatrice.
"Your name has been so often on Godfrey's lips," she said, "that you seem quite like an old friend, though I never thought to see you after the announcement of your death in the newspapers."
Idris smiled.
"Perhaps I have done wrong in letting people think that I perished in the burning of the 'Hôtel de l'Univers.' At the time of the fire I was at the opera-house. On leaving I found the boulevards ringing with the news. I bought a newspaper and discovered my own name erroneously inserted among the list of victims. I resolved not to set the mistake right, for it suddenly occurred to me that here was a convenient opportunity to die—to the world. Wherever I went, the name Marville recalled my father's crime, or rather, supposed crime. 'Let the world think that Eric Marville's son is dead,' I thought, 'and let him begin life anew, and under a different name.'"
"Was the yachtNemesis, in which your father escaped, never heard of again?" asked Godfrey.
"It vanished, leaving not a trace behind."
"Strange! The news of your father's escape, together with a description of the delinquent vessel, would be telegraphed to all civilized countries. Every ocean-steamer, every seaport, would be on the watch for the yacht, and yet you say it was never seen again."
"Its disappearance shows how well Captain Rochefort had devised his plans," Idris answered.
"Since your father did not communicate with you, his only son, it follows, almost as a matter of course, that he did not communicate with his more distant relatives?"
"His relatives, if he had any, are unknown to me: in fact, I am quite in the dark as to my father's antecedents. Among all his papers there was not one letter relating to his kinsfolk, nor any clue whatever to indicate his history prior to his settling at Nantes in 1866."
"You are certain that your father was English born? Because if so, his name, and date and place of birth, together with his parents' names, should be among the records of Somerset House."
"I have tried Somerset House, and have traced several Eric Marvilles, some living and some dead, but none of them could I identify as my father. I am sometimes disposed to believe that Marville was not his real name, but one assumed by him on settling at Nantes."
"Cannot your mother's relatives give you any information?"
"They, too, are ignorant of my father's origin. My mother was an English governess at Nantes when she first met my father. A few months after her marriage the death of an aunt endowed her with an ample fortune, a fortune which has devolved upon me."
"If twenty-three years have passed since your father was last heard of," said Beatrice, "do you not think that the probabilities point to his death? He must be dead," she added. "He would not be so unfatherly as not to communicate with you during all these years."
"That is my opinion—at times: and at other times I think he is still living, but resolved, from some mistaken notion of honour, to ignore me until he can give me the heritage of a fair name."
"If he is alive," continued Beatrice, "he has perhaps married again, and has children, and, though it sounds harsh to say it, other and new interests which your appearance on the scene might embarrass."
This was a bitter thought, but by no means new to Idris.
"I trust I am not offending you by the question," observed Godfrey, "but do you really, in your heart of hearts, believe that your father was innocent?"
"There, the torture. My mother was firmly convinced of his innocence, and only an hour or two before her death, as if gifted with prevision, she did her best to impress me with her belief; nay, more, she made me take an oath that I would, on attaining manhood, use all myendeavours to clear my father's name. Yet the thought often strikes me that I am nursing an illusion in thinking him innocent. Who am I that I should set up my opinion against that of the judge, the jury, and the press?"
"And the masked man who stole the runic ring—what of him?" Godfrey asked.
"He, too, is a person who has eluded all my inquiries. And small wonder! Had I been a man at the time when these events happened, instead of a boy of seven, my investigations, begun at once, might have met with success, whereas the long lapse of years has handicapped my efforts. And yet, fanciful as it may sound to you, Godfrey, I am not without hope, even at this late day, of finding my father, and of vindicating his innocence. At any rate, this is the object to which my life is devoted, and from which I shall never swerve."
And Idris, having satisfied the curiosity of his friends on various other points, immaterial in themselves, dropped the subject, and the conversation flowed into other channels.
Presently they were interrupted by the appearance of the page-boy, with a note addressed to Godfrey, who, finding that he was wanted in a critical case, withdrew, leaving Beatrice to entertain the guest.
"I am afraid, Mr. Breakspear," she said, "that you will spend a rather dull time here; our household is a quiet one, and Ormsby offers little in the shape of entertainment. Our only show-places are the old Saxon church on the hill-top, and Ravenhall—Lord Ormsby's seat."
"I think I'll take a stroll towards the old Saxon church," said Idris, who was simple in his tastes, and easily pleased.
"I have to pass that way," Beatrice said, "and, if you care to accompany me——"
Idris, who found Beatrice's soft grey eyes veryattractive, readily accepted her offer; and, after a pleasant walk of half an hour, the two reached the ancient church of the Northumbrian saint, Oswald.
"This," said Beatrice, as they passed through an arched doorway, and stood within the subdued light cast by the stained glass, "this is the Ravengar Chantry."
"A sort of oratory and burial-place of the Ravengars?"
"Yes. These monumental brasses are the tombs of my ancestors, that is, of those who antedated the Restoration; those who lived after that time are interred in the private crypt at Ravenhall. For you must know—— Ah, listen!" she said, breaking off abruptly. "Some one is playing the organ."
"And playing with a masterly touch, too," remarked Idris, after a brief interval of listening.
"Who can it be?" murmured Beatrice. "Our own organist is not capable of such music."
She was about to advance on tiptoe from the transept to the nave in order to obtain a view of the organ-loft, but Idris gently checked her.
"Stay a moment. If we show ourselves we may disconcert the musician and put an end to his playing."
He sat down on a stone seat in the transept. Beatrice followed his example: and for several minutes they listened in silence, entranced by the sweet and noble strains flowing from the organ-loft.
Then, gradually, a peculiar change came over the spirit of the music.
"Ah! what an eerie strain!" murmured Beatrice, a shiver passing over her.
Idris, too, found himself curiously affected. Becoming oblivious of external things, yielding himself entirely to the influence of the music, he essayed to enter into the spirit and meaning of the piece. Those solemn rhythmiccadences that thrilled him with a melancholy awe could be interpreted only as a Funeral March. At intervals there pealed from the organ shivering, staccato notes, like the heart-sobs of those who "keen" for the dead, succeeded by a mournful, stately measure, as if the cold voice of Fate were declaring that death must be endured as the common lot of all. The very soul of grief was voiced in those notes, which, lofty and sad, mysterious as the moonlight, seemed to weep as they kissed the cold stones of the chantry.
During the dream-like spell induced by the weird character of the requiem Idris suddenly became subject to a very strange feeling, the like of which he had never before known. Vivid as fire on a dark night there came upon him the startling conviction that this was not his first visit to the Church of St. Oswald. He had been in this chantry in time past; he had seen these monumental brasses before: that Funeral March was a familiar air. The interior of the edifice was as the face of an old friend who has not been seen for years.
He was sitting in a part of the transept from which it was impossible for him to view the opposite ends of the nave, unless he possessed the power of being able to see around a distant corner; yet, directing his mental eye towards the interior of the church, he could see the chancel-window at its eastern end, and the hexagonal font by the western porch.
He felt that he could find his way about the building without once stumbling, even though it were wrapped in the gloom of night. Every part of it, from the belfry tower above to the crypt below, was familiar ground.
With a solemn and long drawn-out diminuendo the music ceased.
Shivering like one roused from a sleep upon the coldground Idris started from his reverie, to find Beatrice regarding him with a curious, half-frightened look.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Breakspear. I have spoken to you three times, and you have given me no answer. Have you seen a ghost? You look quite 'fey,' as we say in these parts."
"I have been subjected to a very singular experience," Idris answered, looking around with a perplexed air. "Till to-day I have never set foot in Ormsby. Yet I know this church, know it as well as I know my chambers in the Albany. Now, tell me, does not the chancel-window contain three divisions?"
Beatrice murmured an affirmative, seeing nothing wonderful in Idris' remark, inasmuch as chancel-windows usually contain three divisions.
"And in the central pane is painted the Madonna, treading upon the Old Dragon, with the Holy Child in her arms?"
Beatrice, beginning to be surprised, said that this was correct.
"The right-hand pane represents King Oswald setting up the Cross as his standard for battle, while the left portrays him at his palace-gate, distributing his gold and silver plate among the poor."
"Yes. How do you know, if you have never been here before?" Beatrice burst forth, her amazement increasing as Idris proceeded to enumerate other details.
"Mr. Breakspear, youmusthave been here before!"
"Never! I solemnly assure you; at least, not in the body."
He walked towards the head of an oblong marble sepulchre, surmounted by the gilt effigy of a crusading Ravengar, lying in cross-legged repose.
"Mark me," he said, turning to Beatrice, "I shall findon the other side of this tomb a circular hole large enough to admit my hand."
At the foot of the stone knight was sculptured the heraldic shield of the Ravengars, much defaced, and crumbling with age; in the first quartering of which was a round orifice of sufficient dimensions to admit the insertion of Idris' hand.
"What do you say to this?" he asked of Beatrice, who had followed him to the tomb.
But Beatrice, full of wonderment, could say nothing.
"I have a distinct remembrance of placing my hand here in days gone by," Idris continued. "Yes: I have been in this church before: I am as certain of that as I am of my own existence. But how? There's the puzzle. Not in the body, for my life has been passed at a distance from Ormsby. How then? Has the knowledge been imparted to me in a dream? Or is it a fact that during sleep the spirit of man may visit distant places? Or was old Pythagoras right in asserting that we have all had a previous existence? Am I a reincarnation of one who was familiar with this place in time past? Miss Ravengar, how is one to explain this psychological puzzle?"
Beatrice's reply was checked by a light footfall. A young lady, attired in a soft clinging dress of muslin, was coming slowly towards the chantry.
Idris looked up and met her eyes, eyes of a dark, tender violet. One glance: and then—and then——
If he had been previously required to write an essay on love, that essay would have run on the lines that love, to be sincere and lasting, must be grounded on the esteem that a man and a woman have for each other's good qualities; that love therefore must be the product of time; and that, consequently, genuine love at first sight is an impossibility.
He thought differently now, as he gazed upon a face fairer than any he had ever seen: so pure the spirit breathing from it that, like the face of a Madonna upon a cathedral window, it seemed hallowed by a light coming from beyond.
If, in the language of the mystic, all beauty be a manifestation of the Divinity, is it any marvel that Idris, as he stood mute and motionless, should have felt an awe, a sense of adoration, stealing over him?
As the young lady drew near she acknowledged Beatrice's presence with an inclination of her head, an action to which Beatrice responded with a frigid air, an air that seemed to trouble the other, for her eyes drooped, and a faint colour mantled her face. With quiet dignity she passed by, and the next moment had vanished through the porch.
Not till then did Idris find his tongue.
"What a divine face!" he murmured. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Rivière—Lorelie Rivière," answered Beatrice somewhat coldly.
"Rivière. She is French, then?"
Though evidently disinclined to pursue the subject, Beatrice, seeing Idris' interest in the stranger, proceeded to enlighten him so far as she was able.
"Mademoiselle Rivière is a lady, apparently of independent means. She came to Ormsby about four months ago, taking for her residence The Cedars, a villa on the North Road. She lives a quiet and secluded life. Her name indicates French nationality, but beyond that fact no one knows anything of her origin and antecedents. Godfrey once attended her professionally, and she impressed him as being a lady of birth and refinement: but," added Beatrice, compressing her lips, "Ido not like her."
The tone in which she delivered herself of this last sentiment somewhat vexed Idris: but whatever might be the cause of her dislike, he felt that it did not originate from jealousy of the stranger's beauty. Beatrice was too high-minded to be actuated by so paltry a motive. For his own part he could not associate anything bad with the sad grave eyes of Lorelie Rivière. Beatrice, in her judgment of the other's character, must surely be the victim of some misapprehension.
"But—but—was she the musician?" he asked.
"It seems so," replied Beatrice, moving into the nave. "There is no one in the organ-loft now. But here comes the boy who blows. He will tell us. Roger, was it Mademoiselle Rivière who was playing just now?"
The lad gave an affirmative nod, and exhibited with pleasure the coin he had received as a fee.
"Comes here often," he said. "Calls at our cottage when she wants me to blow."
Idris was silent, marvelling that one so young should play with a touch so masterly: marvelling still more that her music should have wrought upon him an impression so weird.
He moved around the church with Beatrice, and then mounted the stairs leading to the gallery, feigning to be interested in what he saw, in reality seeing nothing but the beautiful face of Lorelie Rivière.
On the seat fronting the organ was a book, left behind probably by an oversight. Idris lifted the volume, a handsome one, bound in vellum and gold, and was much surprised at the title.
"Paulus Diaconus de Gestis Langobardorum," he read aloud.
"What a dreadful title!" murmured Beatrice. "What does it mean?"
"It is Paul Warnefrid'sHistory of the Lombards, abook you'll scarcely meet with once in a lifetime. Quite a thrilling work, no doubt, to antiquaries of the Dryasdust order, but I cannot imagine a lady taking to this style of literature. To begin with, it's all in Latin: evidently she understands that language."
"Perhaps the book does not belong to Mademoiselle Rivière."
"The margin of almost every page contains notes in a lady's handwriting—obviously the remarks of one who understands the work. She seems to have been a diligent student," continued Idris, observing the numerous annotations. "Ah! what is this? 'The Fatal Skull,' written across the title-page. On other pages are the initials 'F. S.,' presumably standing for the same words, 'Fatal Skull.' See here, 'F. S.,' and here again, 'F. S.'"
"The Fatal Skull!" said Beatrice in wonderment. "What is meant by that?"
At Beatrice's request Idris translated some of the passages marked with the letters "F. S.," but he failed to grasp their significance, there being no connection whatever between a skull and the subject-matter of the paragraph. Then, becoming conscious that it was an unchivalrous proceeding to pry into an absent lady's book, he was on the point of closing it, when his eye was caught by the following words written upon the fly-leaf:—
Lorelie Rivière,16, Place Graslin,Nantes.
"16, Place Graslin?" murmured Idris in great surprise. "Heavens! It was before the door of 16, Place Graslin that M. Duchesne was murdered twenty-seven years ago!"
The room that Godfrey Rothwell was accustomed to call his study was a small and cosy apartment, well furnished with books; while, here and there, were many ornaments betraying the taste of Beatrice, for the room was jointly occupied by brother and sister. They loved to be together, and while Godfrey studied his medical tomes, Beatrice's fingers would be busy with sewing or embroidery.
On this particular evening the presence of Idris caused both study and needlework to be suspended. He had whetted the curiosity of his entertainers by affirming that his coming to Ormsby had something to do with the search for his father: he was, in fact, following a clue.
His hearers pressed for enlightenment.
"Let us sit around the fire, and I will explain my meaning."
Drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the hearth Beatrice composed herself for what she felt was about to be an interesting disclosure.
"Among the papers," Idris began, "handed to me on my eighteenth birthday by my mother's executors was a piece of vellum with runic letters upon it. Though eleven years had passed I immediately recognized these characters as being identical with those engraved on the Ring of Odin. My mother had had the forethought to make a copy of the inscription."
Here Idris paused, reading a question in Beatrice's eyes.
"Have you the transcript with you?" she asked. "It will be interesting to look at, though we do not understand it."
Idris produced from his pocketbook a scrap of vellum inscribed with four lines of tiny runic letters.
"And these are runes?" said Beatrice, looking at them attentively. "They are very like the characters on the bugle that hangs within the porch of Ravenhall."
"Precisely," said Godfrey, "inasmuch as that is an old Norse drinking-horn. But we are interrupting Idris' story."
"The sight of this inscription naturally interested me," continued Idris, "and I resolved to make an attempt at its decipherment, in the hope that it might cast a ray of light upon the mystery of Duchesne's murder, for I have always held to the belief that he was assassinated for the sake of the altar-ring. With this view I procured the services of a professor eminent for his knowledge of Norse antiquities, and under his tuition I began the study of runology.
"I was soon able to read all the letters of the inscription, and to pronounce what I supposed were syllables and words: but syllables and words would not yield any sense. And here and there came a juxtaposition of consonants quite unpronounceable. To add to the difficulty there were no spaces to show where one word ended and another began. All the characters were equally close together and seemed to form one long word. I did my best to break the inscription up into its component parts, but failed. I could not distinguish one familiar term. Either the language was not old Norse, or the professor had taught me wrongly."
"Why did you not lay the inscription before the professor," asked Beatrice, "and get him to decipher it for you?"
"Because I did not wish any one to know the secret till I myself had first ascertained its value. In the belief that it might be written in some language other than old Norse I made incursions, not very deep, I fear, into Danish, Frisian, Icelandic, and other northern dialects, but failed to identify the inscription with any one of these tongues.
"At last in despair I cast aside the caution I had hitherto exercised, and placed the writing before my tutor; but, eminent runologist as he was, he could extract no meaning from it.
"Anxious to begin the search for my father, I parted from the Norse professor; but yet, amid all my wanderings through Europe, I never quite gave up the hope of being able to decipher the inscription.
"Now, a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the art of secret writing may have been practised in Norse times just as in our own. Hitherto, following modern usage, I had always read the inscription from left to right: why not from right to left, as ancient Hebrew is read? I tried the course, but it made me no wiser.
"However, the cryptographic idea grew upon me, and was not to be shaken off. As you perceive, it is a four-line inscription; I therefore read downwards, combining the letters in the first line with those directly beneath in the second, third, and fourth lines, but with no success. I read upwards: disappointment was still my lot. I tried the plan of omitting every alternate letter. I seemed as far off as ever."
"But you succeeded in the end," said Beatrice.
"Yes. By playing at random with the letters, I hit upon the key to the decipherment. Observe this character," continued Idris, pointing to one in the first line, shaped thus:—*. "It is calledHagl, and corresponds to our H. As it is slightly larger than the other letters,I had come to regard it as the initial one in the series, and the sequel proved that I was correct. Beginning with thisHagl, I omitted the three following letters, taking the fifth which corresponds to our i."
"That gives us H-i," said Beatrice.
"Just so. Passing over the next three characters we come to the equivalent of our l."
"H-i-l," said Beatrice.
"Proceeding in this way I add two more letters, and the result is a woman's name, as common in Norse days as in our own."
"You mean Hilda?"
"Precisely. Hilda is the first word of the inscription. Light had dawned at last. I had discovered the key to the writing, and it is this: every fourth letter is to be treated as if in immediate sequence.
"I instantly marked off the characters into sets of four. By taking out the first letter in each quartette, and placing them in consecutive order, I found the result was an intelligible sentence. By treating the second letter of each quartette in like manner the sentence was continued: and so with the third and fourth letters. There could be no doubt about it. I had mastered the secret of Odin's Ring."
"And whatisthe secret?" said Beatrice breathlessly.
Idris could not avoid smiling at her eagerness. It was pleasant to have so fair and interested a listener.
"Impulsive Beatrice!" said Godfrey. "Idris may wish to keep the secret to himself."
"It will be very unfair, then, after having excited our curiosity," she retorted.
"You shall have the secret," said Idris; "though you will probably be as much disappointed with it as I was. There is nothing very startling in it. It does not relate to Odin and the gods of Valhalla, but to an old Vikingand a buried treasure. This is my rendering of the Norse runes engraved on the broad perimeter of the ancient altar-ring."
And here Idris drew forth a second piece of vellum, and read from it as follows:—
"'Hilda, the Alruna, to her son, Magnus of Deira, greeting.—Within the lofty tomb of thy sire Orm, the Golden, wilt thou find the treasure won by his high arm. The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign. And may the fires of the Asas guard thy heritage for thee.—Farewell."
"'Hilda, the Alruna, to her son, Magnus of Deira, greeting.—Within the lofty tomb of thy sire Orm, the Golden, wilt thou find the treasure won by his high arm. The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign. And may the fires of the Asas guard thy heritage for thee.—Farewell."
"That," continued Idris, after a pause, "is the secret of Odin's Ring: and though, as I have said, I was disappointed at first, yet in course of time I began to think that the knowledge I had acquired might furnish me with a clue—a very faint one, it is true,—towards discovering my father."
"I fail to see how," observed Godfrey.
"In this way. Captain Rochefort, who was instrumental in effecting my father's escape, possessed—so I have learned—a copy of this runic inscription. Now, let us suppose that he and my father turned their attention to its decipherment, and, like myself, succeeded. Let us further grant that they had reasons for believing that the old Viking's treasure still existed in the spot where it was originally placed. Allowing these premises, what is the conclusion?"
"That they would endeavour to possess themselves of this treasure."
"Just so. They would try to find the Viking's tomb. Therefore, if I, too, could hit upon the place——"
"I understand. You might come upon some trace of your father."
"That is my meaning. I admit that it is a very slender thread upon which to hang my hopes, but it is all that is left me. To find the burial-place of Orm the Golden became my next object, a somewhat difficult feat, seeing that he is a person who has altogether escaped the historian's pen. However, I have succeeded."
"What!" exclaimed Godfrey, incredulously. "You have discovered the burial-place of this unknown Viking, who, granting the reality of his existence, must have lived at least a thousand years ago?" And on receiving a nod of affirmation, he asked, "How did you accomplish it? 'Within the lofty tomb of thy sire Orm, the Golden,'" continued he, reading from Idris' translation of the inscription, "'wilt thou find the treasure, won by his high arm.' There is nothing here to indicate the site of this 'lofty tomb.'"
"There is just a hint. Magnus, the Viking's son, is said to be 'of Deira.' I infer, therefore, that the father Orm was likewise of Deira; that in Deira he lived, in Deira he died, and in Deira he was buried. 'Look for the tomb in Deira,' became my watchword."
"Deira," said Beatrice quickly. "Is not Deira the ancient name for this part of the country?"
"Yes," Godfrey answered, "and it is rather a wide area for our friend Idris to explore, seeing that the name included all the country from the Tyne to the Humber, and from the Pennines to the sea."
"True," assented Idris; "but we may narrow the area of our search considerably. These old Vikings had such love for the sea that they were usually buried within sound of the breakers. We shall not err, therefore, if we confine our attention to the sea-board only of Deira."
"Even then you will have a coast-line of more than one hundred miles to explore."
"A glance at an ordnance map will help us to fix the site."
"In what way?"
"Thus. I take it that Orm the Viking, being master of much wealth, as is clear from the words on the ring, would build for himself a dwelling or castle by the sea. Around the abode of their chief the vassals and dependants would fix theirs, thus forming the nucleus of a town. Now what name would such a place be likely to take?"
"My dear Idris," said Godfrey, protestingly, "how can I tell?—or you either?" he added.
"Well, like most town-names of Norse origin it would probably end in the syllableby."
"I will grant you that much—no more."
"You cannot see at what I am aiming?"
"I am completely in the dark."
"Receive a ray of light, then. Don't you think that if this Orm built a town, that town would bear his name?"
"Surely you are not alluding to Ormsby?"
"But I am. This town must have received its name from some one called Orm, and it is my belief that this Orm was none other than the Viking who figures on the runic ring. In the neighbourhood of this town, then, we must look for the 'lofty tomb' of my Norse warrior. Now, four miles to the north of us, there is, so local guide-books say, a lonely valley called Ravensdale, containing——"
"Containing," Beatrice broke in, excitedly, "containing a rounded, artificial hillock, over fifty feet high, and known by the name of Ormfell."
"Ah! I see you know it," smiled Idris. "Yes, Ormfell, or Orm's Hill, is the spot where I shall find the bones of the ancient Viking."
"And do you really intend," asked Beatrice, "to boreyour way to the heart of that hillock in order to see what it contains?"
"Such is the purpose that has brought me to Ormsby, my object being to discover whether this tumulus exhibits traces of having been recently opened. It may be that in the sepulchral chamber within the hillock I shall light upon something that will afford a clue towards discovering my father. It may be a handkerchief merely, a discarded lantern, a tool, a match-box, a button, or some other article trifling in itself, but which a skilled detective will know how to employ in tracing the man he wants. I may come even upon a pocketbook or a letter unwittingly dropped—who can tell? Ormfell is my last hope. Fanciful as it may appear to you, Godfrey, something seems to whisper to me that the interior of that tumulus will furnish me with the means of lifting the veil that has so long shrouded my father's fate."
There was in Idris' manner a confidence which his hearers did not like to quell by the expression of cold doubt, though they considered his expectation fanciful in the extreme.
"Do you intend to obtain the earl's sanction to make your excavations?" asked Beatrice. "Ormfell stands on the Ravengar lands, you know."
"Humph! if I should ask for permission I may meet with a refusal. In such circumstances, therefore, I feel myself justified in committing a bold trespass."
"Well, if you should be caught, Mr. Breakspear," said Beatrice with a blush, "I will intercede for you with Lord Ormsby, for I believe I am rather a favourite of his."
Idris tendered her his thanks. He had almost forgotten that the pretty maiden sitting beside him might one day be the inheritrix of Ravenhall, and owner of those very lands the proprietary rights of which he was preparing to set at naught.
"But," continued Beatrice, "if you are not going to apply for the earl's permission, how do you intend to escape observation?"
"By conducting my operations in the dead of night."
"Break into a Viking's tomb in the dead of night! What a weird idea!"
"I shall not be the first who has so acted, Miss Ravengar."
"You will not object to my help, I presume?" Godfrey remarked.
"On the contrary, I shall be glad of it."
"I am half-disposed to join in this romantic business myself," said Beatrice with a smile. "How interesting if you should discover the treasure!"
"We are not very likely to discover treasure that was secreted a thousand years ago," commented Godfrey.
"And yet," said Idris, "many sepulchral barrows, opened in our day, are found to contain treasure—coins, drinking-horns, armour, and the like."
"True: but in this case you forget that the words on the runic ring were an express invitation to Orm's son—what was his name, Magnus?—to possess himself of the treasure. He would not leave much for posterity to glean."
"Yes, if he received his mother's ring; but how if it miscarried? Hilda evidently lived far away from her son Magnus, else why should she have engraved her communication on metal, when she could more easily have delivered itvivâ voceand face to face? The messenger entrusted with the ring may have gone astray. Travelling was a difficult matter in Norse times, and many perils beset the wayfarer, especially a wayfarer who carried anything worth stealing. Or consider this point, that though Magnus was capable of understanding the runic riddle—otherwise his mother would not have adopted such amode of communication—yet it does not follow that his son or successor was equally skilled. Supposing, then, that Magnus was dead when the messenger arrived with the ring, there may have been no one in Deira capable of interpreting the message. The ring might thus retain its secret, and the hillock its treasure, down to our own time."
"Possible, but not probable," smiled Godfrey.
Beatrice's eyes rested upon the vellum containing Idris' translation of the runic inscription.
"'The fires of the Asas guard thy heritage for thee!'" she read. "What does that mean?"
"The Asas were the old Norse gods, who were supposed to dart forth flames upon any one venturing to disturb the sleep of the dead."
"Then beware, Mr. Breakspear," she said playfully, "for you are going the very way to evoke their wrath. 'The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign.' How do you interpret that?"
"I wish I could answer you, Miss Ravengar. That sentence is an enigma I've never been able to solve. It is my intention to pay a visit to Ormfell at noon to-morrow, when an inspection of the hillock may perhaps throw some light on the matter."
Soon afterwards Beatrice retired for the night, but it was a long time before sleep came to her. She lay awake, thinking of Idris, and of the passionate look that came into his eyes at the sight of the beautiful Lorelie Rivière.
Four miles to the north of Ormsby lies the valley of Ravensdale, extending due east and west, with sides steep and wall-like.
The eastern end opens out upon the sea-beach, and here the width of the valley is greatest, the distance across being about half a mile. Farther inland the breadth contracts, and the sides approach each other till they meet in a narrow leafy gorge, whence issues the slender, silvery Ravensbec.
The valley contains no human habitation. The only sounds that disturb the stillness are the melancholy murmur of the sea, and the occasional tinkling of sheep-bells.
In the middle of the dale, and distant a few hundred yards from the beach, rises the eminence that for centuries has borne the name of Ormfell, an eminence circular at the base, about fifty feet in height, and covered with green turf.
Upon this hillock Idris was now gazing with deep interest.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and with Beatrice for his companion he had come to take a view of the tumulus, preliminary to the task of breaking into it at night.
"We want no geologist," he remarked, "to tell us that this is an artificial elevation. Nature never carved out this pyramid; it has been raised by the hand of man. This is the 'lofty tomb' spoken of on the runic ring.Within the heart of this tumulus we shall find all that remains of old Orm the Viking."
Beatrice shared fully in his enthusiasm. She had seen the mound many a time, but now the words on the runic ring had invested the spot with a new and mysterious charm.
"Orm's warriors were men with a taste for the picturesque," she said. "They could not have chosen a prettier place for the grave of their hero."
"Ay, close to the sea, that he doubtless loved well, as became a Norse Viking. And here for ages he has remained in solitary glory, with the surge forever murmuring his requiem."
"This is certainly a tremendous mass of earth to pile over one poor mortal," said Beatrice, contemplating the mound.
"Every vassal was supposed to contribute one helmetful of soil to the grave of his chieftain."
"Judged by that test Orm must have had a pretty numerous following," said Beatrice.
"Or else each follower contributed more than the orthodox helmetful. O, they could toil as well as fight, these old Norsemen. They were not afraid of work."
"May the old Norse blood in us never die out, then!"
"Amen to that! But I see an upright stone crowning the apex of our fell. Let us examine it. There may be runes upon it."
Idris extended his hand to Beatrice and assisted her up the side of the mound. Arrived at the summit he closely inspected the stone, which was a six-sided pillar, about four feet in height, black in colour, relieved here and there by curious red convolutions.
"So far as I can see," he said, "this pillar does not betray any mark of a tool. Its hexagonal shape, then, is due to nature. The stone is basalt, which often assumesa six-sided form. These red spirals are apparently sandstone. It is evident that the mass of basalt, of which this pillar is a fragment, was forced upwards in an igneous liquid state through a bed of sandstone, taking up some of the latter in its passage. Hence these red convoluted bands."
"I have heard that there is only one place in Europe where basalt of this character is to be found," said Beatrice, "and that is in a certain valley of the Crimea."
"It may be so. The old Norse people are said by some historians to have been of Scythian origin, and to have migrated from the region of the Crimea. Perhaps they carried this piece of basalt with them. It may have been abaitulion, or holy stone; in fact," continued Idris, as he removed some moss from the foot of the pillar, "there can be no doubt about it. Look on this side, and you will see why a sacred character was attributed to it. Tell me, Miss Ravengar, what does this red streak resemble?"
"A curved sword!" cried Beatrice, in wonderment. "Why have I never noticed it before? A curved sword, with blade, hilt, and cross-guard, as perfect as if drawn by human hand."
"Just so. And history says that the ancient Scythians worshipped a scimitar—an appropriate deity for a barbaric and warlike race. This hexagon, stamped with the image of their god, would be holy in their eyes. It would be their altar-stone, and a necessary companion in all their migrations."
Beatrice, not doubting the truth of Idris' theory, gazed with a feeling almost akin to awe upon the mysterious stone, which the superstition of a far-off age had elevated to the rank of deity. Eternity seemed to be its attribute. In its presence she and Idris were but as the quickly-evaporating dew; long after their bodies should havecrumbled to dust this altar would remain. A silent contemporary of the rise and fall of past empires, it would survive the rise and fall of many to come. If ever stone was eloquent on the evanescence of all things human, surely this stone was!
Such were Beatrice's thoughts, while Idris, more prosaic, was on his knees, removing the earth from the foot of the pillar, and scraping the surface of the stone with his penknife in the hope of finding runic letters engraved upon it: but in this he met with disappointment; each face of the hexagon was free from inscription.
"I was hoping," he said, rising to his feet, "to come upon some epitaph, such as, 'I, Magnus, raise this stone to the memory of my sire, Orm', which would give me proof that I am on the right track, since, after all, my opinion that this is the tomb of the Golden Viking is purely conjectural."
They descended to level ground again, and Idris proceeded to walk slowly around the base of the hillock, endeavouring to take no more than a foot at each step.
"The circumference is, roughly speaking, about one hundred and fifty feet," he remarked, when he had completed the circuit. "The diameter, therefore, will be about fifty, and the centre about twenty-five feet off."
"If you have that distance, or nearly that distance, of solid earth to bore through, you have a hard task," said Beatrice.
"My work will be of a much lighter nature, I trust. If this tumulus has been constructed like the generality of its kind, there should be a stone chamber in the centre with a stone passage leading to it from the side of the mound. Earth was piled over the mouth of the passage, but marks, usually taking the shape of two upright stones, were left to indicate the entrance."
"What point of the compass did the Norsemenfavour when constructing the entrance-passage of their tumuli?"
"The point of ingress usually faced the east."
"This is the easternmost point, nearest the sea," said Beatrice, moving onward a few steps; and full of their enterprise, she cried, "Let us try to find the guide-stones."
They carefully surveyed the eastern curve of the base, Beatrice probing with the point of her sunshade, and Idris with the ferule of his walking-stick, among the long grass and bracken that grew in profusion at the foot of the hillock. Their search, however, was without result.
"I am at fault, it seems," said Idris, "or, it may be, the rain of centuries has washed down so much earth from the side of the mound that the guide-stones at its foot have become buried. We can do nothing without proper tools."
"Let us explore all round," suggested Beatrice, the spirit of adventure growing upon her.
They examined the entire circuit of the base, and, when that investigation was over, were no wiser than when they had begun.
Beatrice seated herself on a grassy bank facing the tumulus, and Idris took his place beside her.
"This will never do," he muttered, ruefully contemplating the hillock. "Imustdiscover the mouth of the passage. If I begin to bore at any other point I might indeed reach the wall of the central chamber, but I should be on the outside, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make a way through the masonry. Besides, as I cannot admit the coöperation of any one but Godfrey, tunnelling through twenty feet of earth is a task that will take several nights, not to speak of the impossibility of concealing our work in the daytime."
"Or the risk of your tunnel falling upon you, in which case," added Beatrice, demurely, "you would havemuch groundfor complaint."
"Wicked Miss Ravengar! Would you jest at my misfortunes? I will defeat your hopes by finding the legitimate entrance."
"And how do you propose to find it?"
"Well, I conceive that the entrance is shaped like an ordinary doorway, that is to say, it consists of two upright stones a little distance apart, with a third resting horizontally upon them. I shall have to move round the base of the hillock with an iron implement, striking into the soil till I meet with stone. A little judicious probing will soon tell me whether it be a boulder, or one of the entrance-columns. If a boulder merely, I shall have to pass on, repeating my experiment."
"But if these entrance-columns stand well within the hillock you may go all round without lighting upon them."
"In that case I shall have to begin again, and strike deeper."
"Even then you may fail. You are arguing on the supposition that the mouth of the passage must be on a level with the base of the hillock, whereas it may be higher, six, nine, or twelve feet above level ground. And," pursued Beatrice, "if you conduct your operations in the manner you describe, it will be difficult to keep your work secret. The disturbed state of the soil, and the uprooting of the herbage, will tell a tale to the earl's bailiffs."
"Humph! these are difficulties which call for a cheroot," replied Idris. "You have no objection, Miss Ravengar? Thank you," he continued, lighting it. "Now to put on my thinking-cap."
Reclining upon the grass he puffed thoughtfully at hischeroot, and gazed at the green mound that seemed to be quietly mocking his endeavours.
"Ormfell appears determined to keep its secret," said Beatrice. "We want Belzoni here."
"Belzoni? 'I thank thee, Jew,'—or shall I say Jewess?—'for teaching me that word.' Shall an Italian find his way to the heart of the great stone pyramid, while I, an Englishman, am to be defeated by a paltry cone of earth, fifty feet only in diameter? Never!" he exclaimed, theatrically. "How," he continued, knitting his brows in perplexity, "how were the Norsemen themselves enabled to remember where the point of ingress lay? They must surely have left some mark to indicate it."
For the twentieth time that morning Idris murmured the inscription on the runic ring.
"'Within the lofty tomb of thy sire, Orm the Golden, wilt thou find the treasure won by his high arm. The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign.' How long am I to be baffled by this dark oracle? What is meant by the 'oft-carried throne'?"
The light of understanding suddenly leaped into Beatrice's eyes, and she pointed excitedly to the piece of basalt crowning the summit.
"Mr. Breakspear, are not the words 'oft-carried' very applicable to that stone, if it has really been brought over sea and land from the Crimea? Is not that the 'throne' alluded to?"
The cheroot dropped from Idris' lips, and he sprang to his feet with a cry of exultation.
"By heaven! Miss Ravengar, you are right. 'Oft-carried throne?' Yes, that must be it! As the holybaitulionof a tribe, marked with the image of their deity, it would doubtless be the stone on which the new chief would stand when invested with kingly rule. Thatpiece of basalt was a kind ofLia Fail, like the coronation-stone at Westminster."
"Ormfell is becoming more interesting than ever," said Beatrice, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at having solved a problem that had perplexed Idris so long. "We have discovered the oft-carried throne, and the oft-carried throne is to be to us for a sign. A sign of what?"
"Indicative of the entrance, I presume, otherwise there would be no reason for engraving the fact on the ring."
"Do the words mean that the stone stands over the entrance itself? If we remove it, shall we discover the mouth of a shaft?"
"Scarcely, I think: for, if so, the stone would be a sign at all hours of the twenty-four, whereas the language of the ring restricts its significance to the noontide hour only."
"It wants an hour yet to noon," said Beatrice, referring to her watch.
"Good! We will wait till then. I have formed my opinion. Mark my words, Miss Ravengar, we shall find that the entrance is on the northern side. The noontide hour will show whether I am right."
And Idris, resuming his fallen cheroot, relighted it, and reclining once more upon the grassy bank, waited for the time to pass, while Beatrice sat beside him in a state of pleasing suspense.
"Now if my grandfather were here," she remarked, "he might be able to tell us whether or not Ormfell contains the treasure, without taking the trouble to break into the tumulus."
"Then your grandfather must have been a remarkably clever fellow."
"He was. By simply walking barefoot over the ground he was able to tell whether metals lay below, and not only that, but the depth even at which they lay. Hehas been known to point out and trace accurately the course of water, veins of metal, coal-measures, and the like."
"I have heard of similar feats performed by miners of the Hartz Mountains," said Idris, "but have always regarded such stories as apocryphal. Had your grandfather any theory to account for his marvellous power?"
"His idea was that the proximity of metals imparted a peculiar sensation to the soles of his feet, the intensity of the impression being a measure of their nearness to the surface. His belief was that metals cast off subtle exhalations capable of being detected by a highly magnetic organism, which his undoubtedly was."
"There may be something in that theory. There are persons who cannot enter the Mint without fainting."
"He always maintained," Beatrice went on, "that this valley of Ravensdale was the centre of a rich coalfield."
"Your grandfather's power of divining for metals has not descended to you and Godfrey, I presume?"
"I sometimes think it has—in a slight degree. We still keep his walking-stick cut from the witch-hazel. This stick would turn visibly in his hands at the proximity of metals; it has sometimes turned in Godfrey's hands, and more than once in mine."
"Strange! Well, if this stick is capable of being affected by metals let Godfrey by all means bring it with him to-night," said Idris, more in jest than in earnest. "The treasures of the Viking, supposing them to be still within the hillock, may lie concealed under the floor of the chamber, and we shall be at a loss to know at what point to dig for them."
The minutes moved tardily on, and as the meridian hour approached, Beatrice said:—
"Have you noticed how the shadow cast by the stonecreeps slowly along over the face of the ground? This hillock could easily be turned into a giant sun-dial."
"You echo my thoughts, Miss Ravengar. And it seems to me that this shadow will furnish us with the clue we want."
"You mean that the shadow of the stone will fall on the very spot where the entrance is?"
"Not quite: for in that case the shadow would be an uncertain guide, varying with the sun's altitude at the different seasons: and, besides, you will notice that the shadow is many yards from the foot of the tumulus. It is not probable that the secret entrance lies so far off. No: my idea is this. Connect the oft-carried throne and its shadow with an ideal line, and near the point where this line cuts the base of the hillock will be found the mouth of the passage. It is the noontide hour now," continued Idris, rising. "We will put a little pile of stones to mark the spot where the apex of the shadow falls—so," he added, suiting the action to the word. "Now all we have to do is to walk from this point to the foot of the hillock, keeping in a bee-line with that piece of basalt on the summit, and, unless I err, we shall hit upon the entrance."
Speaking thus, Idris began his experiment. When he had come to the foot of the hillock, Beatrice observed with surprise that the thick, heavy walking-stick carried by him was in reality the receptacle for a long and stout sword. This weapon he pushed into the side of the hillock at the spot touched by the imaginary line.
After a series of probings, begun on a level with the ground and continued in an upward direction, Idris paused with a gleam of excitement on his face. Changing the direction, he resumed his probing, moving horizontally to the right and stopping again. Then he continued the movement, this time coming downward, so thatthe course of his sword had described three sides of a rectangle.
"Miss Ravengar," he cried, in a voice of emotion, "I have found the entrance! As I live, I have found it! Here, hidden within the soil, are two stone blocks a little distance apart, with a third resting crosswise upon them, the three forming a kind of doorway. We have only to remove the earth overlying them, and we shall find a hollow passage beyond."
Beatrice's cheek coloured with pleasure as Idris continued:—
"Miss Ravengar, you have proved yourself a valuable auxiliary. But for your explanation I might still be puzzling my mind as to the meaning of 'the oft-carried throne.' I offer you a somewhat problematic reward. Whatever spoil is found within shall be divided equally between us."
"Merci!But are you not promising too much? Is not treasure-trove the property of the Crown?"
"Provided that the Crown hears of the discovery."
"Fie, Mr. Breakspear! you would corrupt my honesty."
"I can depart now with a hopeful heart for to-night's work. I shall have but little difficulty in penetrating to the interior of the hillock. We have no need to mark the entrance. Nature has already done it for us."
He pointed to a cluster of white flowers growing upon the side of the hillock. Beatrice had no sooner set eyes upon them than an expression of surprise stole over her face.
"Do you know the name of this flower?" she said. "It is the vernal mandrake."
"What? The mandragora of the ancients?—the plant that played so potent a factor in classic witchcraft?"
"The same."
Idris gazed with considerable interest upon the pale mysterious plant around which so many weird superstitions have gathered.
"And a curious circumstance it is," continued Beatrice, who was somewhat of a botanist, "that it should be growing here."
"Why so?"
"Because it is a plant requiring cultivation. It does not grow wild, at least not in this country."
"Then your inference is that it has been planted here by human agency?"
"Sown is perhaps a better word than planted. It certainly did not spring up spontaneously from the soil."
"Hum! This raises a curious question. For what purpose was it sown? Is some one carrying on botanic experiments here? Or shall we say that my projected visit to the interior of the tumulus has been forestalled, and my unknown forerunner, desirous of renewing his visit at an early date, has left these tokens here to mark the point of entrance, probably having had the same difficulty as ourselves in discovering it? What simpler plan could he adopt than just to sprinkle here a few seeds of the white-flowering mandrake?"
Beatrice had nothing to say either for or against this last theory, and, after puzzling themselves in vain to account for the presence of the mandrake, they set off for Ormsby.
On their way they passed a small workshop belonging to the cemetery-mason. The man himself was standing at the door, and Beatrice stopped to exchange a few civilities with him.
"Well, Robin, how is the world using you?" she asked pleasantly.
"Rather badly of late. The people of Ormsby seem to live longer than they used to do."
"I am afraid my brother is partly responsible for that," said Beatrice demurely. "It is his business to oppose yours, you see."
"No one seems to want a tombstone nowadays," continued the man gloomily. "However, I had a little work put in my way yesterday by Mademoiselle Rivière."
"Mademoiselle Rivière!" echoed Beatrice in surprise. "What order hasshegiven you?"
"You have perhaps heard that more than twenty years ago an unknown vessel was wrecked in Ormsby Race. Four bodies only were washed ashore, and these were buried in a corner of St. Oswald's churchyard. Mademoiselle Rivière has obtained permission of the Rector to place a marble cross over their grave."
"Did she say why she takes such an interest in these drowned men?" asked Beatrice.
"Well, as to that I was a little bit curious myself, and so I could not help putting a question or two. Mademoiselle said she had good reason for believing that the lost vessel was French: and being French herself she felt a desire to honour their grave. If you will step inside, I will show you what she has chosen."
Idris, who felt a strange interest in Mademoiselle Rivière, required no second bidding, and with Beatrice entered the workshop, where the mason exhibited with manifest pride a cross of Sicilian marble, standing on a base of the same material. This pedestal was wrought in the shape of a rock, and decorated with seaweed and an anchor.
"What is the epitaph to be?" asked Idris, after some words complimentary to the mason's skill.
The man produced a paper upon which was written,in the same delicate, flowing penmanship that had adorned the margin of the Lombard historian, the following words:—
"SacredTo the MemoryofThe Drowned.October 13th, 1876.'He that is without sin, let him firstcast the stone.'"
Idris laid down the paper, and, after a few more words with the mason, the two went on their way again.
"Mademoiselle Rivière must know something more about those shipwrecked men than that they were Frenchmen merely," observed Idris. "If the verse cited is to have any application at all, it must mean that the drowned men were guilty of—I know not what, but something upon which the world would not look leniently. Hence, perhaps, the absence of their names from the epitaph."
"You think she knows their names?"
"Without doubt. Why should a lady erect a costly memorial over the grave of men of whom she knows nothing? If I may venture a conjecture I should say that she must be related to one of them. 'He that is without sin, let him first cast the stone.' I have often thought that that verse might very well form a part of my father's epitaph."