The Eve of St John in a Deserted Châlet

It was a beautiful day. A grey mist curled up from the lake and clung to the dark ravines of the mountains. As the sun grew warmer, a gentle breeze fanned the still water, and the mists rolled up to the mountain-tops. A few lazy patches lingered behind, lost in the deep gorges of the hills, where, blindly rubbing against the dark pines, they gradually melted before the mid-day heat, as luckless jelly-fish stranded on a sandy beach slowly evaporate under the fierce sun. The steamer was crowded with tourists,—girl-schools, spectacled Germans, smart young Frenchmen, the usual sprinkling of English, the inevitable curate or country rector, two friars, and one Swiss pasteur. This latter was a curious fossil. He was short, wizened, and decrepit. He wore a tall hat on the back of his head like the hatter in ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’; his coat was long, his waistcoat low, and his neck-tie meagre and not clean. It was difficult to look at him and then at the friars without thinking of history. I never can see a friar, with his corded frock, sandalled feet, and bare head, without seeming to see romantic pictures of the past. All other costumes change. If I were intimately acquainted with the cut of the friar’s dress in past ages, perhaps I should notice slight differences; but in the main the clothes they wore when the monks tore Hypatia to pieces, when Peter the Hermit preached, when Bernard and Abelard ruled their monasteries, when Chaucer wrote, when the fires of Smithfield blazed and the Inquisition terrified, are much the same clothes they wear now. The colour may be different; but black, brown, or grey, a friar centuries ago would be a friar now. They are no anachronism but a reality. I could not help being struck at the contrast they afforded, those men apart, with their bleared eyes, sensual lips, dirty beards, as they came on board amid a crowd of simple school-girls and startled English matrons. Living assertors of eighteen centuries of celibacy, they moved about amid that ship-load of nineteenth-century frivolity. Their power was gone, but their picturesqueness remained. And that insignificant comic little figure was the representative of the power that had supplanted them. How well he seemed to typify the dry syllogisms of that dreary controversy of Predestination and Free-will! Could any spark of poetic fire come from so wizened and matter-of-fact a being? Vates and Sacerdos are near akin, and those poetic souls who like mystery in their religion will always prefer a priesthood whose garb is poetic. And those who think a religion cannot be typified by a garb will prefer the dull prose of common dress. At the end of the lake I left the steamer. I intended to walk over the mountains by a little path marked in the Swiss Ordnance Survey, and which would lead me across the frontier into Savoy. The girl-school landed also. It is curious the way mothers dress their fair daughters abroad. Many of these girls were undoubtedly English. Fortunately they disguised the fact very well. What shapeless frocks, what marvellous colours, these nymphs were clothed in! Were there girl-schools at Lausanne, I wonder, when Byron moped away his time at Meillerie opposite; and did he write that “they always smelt of bread-and-butter”—the fair, innocent ones!—in bitter disappointment because they offered no other attractions? However, in spite of their chaotic clothes, these simple maidens seemed to enjoy themselves. They trooped up the road, under the chestnut and walnut trees, and laughed and chattered, and picked flowers, and ate biscuits and sandwiches, as healthy wholesome girls should. There were two girls who were really pretty, and with a flush of pride I was glad to recognise they were English. And not only were they pretty, but they were well dressed: and, if the dress be an index of the mind, then these young ladies were indeed perfect; but perhaps their mother dressed them. However, I soon left these fair sirens behind, and, like the hero of “Excelsior,” I steeled my heart against all softer feelings. I don’t know how it would have been, however, had these young ladies gone so far as the strange young person in that incoherent poem. They didn't. Instead of any tender invitation, expressed verbally or ocularly, they only ate wild strawberries, and made remarks sotto voce, which, as laughter was the result, caused me, with that self-consciousness of a true Briton, to feel a twitching in the back as I walked on. It was hot. The mountain road wound up and up. No breath of air seemed able to penetrate those thick chestnut-woods. The grass under the trees was a perfect carpet of wild loveliness. Flowers of every kind grew thick all round—the stately mountain-lily, bluebells, and yellow cowslips. Red, white, purple, and blue; yellow, green, mauve, and carmine: all the colours and blendings possible were spread everywhere. Delicate, dainty, mossy lawns, where the grass had just been cut, alternated with the rich wealth of unkempt pasture. The sunlight fell in brilliant patches across the twisting chestnut-boles, and on the cut and uncut grass. Bees hummed and flies persecuted, and all the while I trudged over ruthless stones upward and ever upward. It was hot! I could hear down below the merry laughter of the girls. A church clock struck the hour, and the thud, thud, thud of a distant steamer palpitated on the drowsy silence. The air quivered in the heat, a grey-green gloom shimmered under the fantastic chestnut-trees, velvety moss spread temptingly over shady banks. What a home for fairies! I sat down. But it would never do to waste time in dull sloth. I had many miles to go, and some fairly stiff climbing before me. There were awkward precipices to be faced, and Swiss weather is never certain. Up and up I trudged. The stony road had changed to a still more stony path. The chestnut-trees had given place to brushwood, where the hornbeam and mountain-ash reigned instead of the chestnut and walnut; a gentle breeze stirred the ferns, and the grey weather-worn sides of a few snow-streaked peaks rose above the foliage. How scarred and furrowed those solemn rocks looked! Snow still lay in the crevices, and little silver streaks trickled down their rugged faces. My object was to find the path which led up over these cliffs, across the neck which united them to the highest point, and so down into a deep valley where France and Switzerland joined hands across a foaming torrent. I had been warned the path was dangerous. Only a week ago a hapless professor from Vevey had fallen over a precipice and been killed. His body was brought over the day before I started. He was actually in the right path, and his death had been the result of a slip. A mountaineer whom I met told me it was because he wore Oxford shoes, and had no nails in them. I thanked Providence I had a heavy pair of stout boots, and, what appeared to me as I walked, a ton of nails in the soles. Up and up I clambered. The stony path had changed to a vague rut in the close herbage. The brushwood had yielded to a few straggling bushes, with here and there a clump of fir. Their sombre foliage and fragrant odour invited me to rest. The dry red cones lay all about under the solemn shade. No sound reached me now. The breeze fitfully whispered among the pine-plumes, but the stately trees disdained to break the brooding stillness. Far, far down below lay the blue lake. The basement of the peak whereon I sat was entirely hidden. The flowers and lower pine-trees seemed to spring at once from the small blue patch below. On the other side rose tier upon tier of jagged rocks. Range on range of precipitous peaks tossed themselves aloft, while above all, against the blue sky, soared the white billows of the Oberland of Berne, where the everlasting snows piled themselves along the horizon. How strange the contrast seems from the busy everyday life of that blue lake, with its fashionable hotels, tennis-lawns, and artificial society, to the unknown solitude of that arctic region! In that white mystery before me, so near and yet so far, lay spots as untrodden by man as any solitudes in Spitzbergen or Enderby land. There is no spot in the world which brings into such striking proximity the primeval and the ephemeral as Switzerland. Up and up I trudged. It was no longer sultry. The sun scorched, but the air was keen. I had passed all shade, except where the precipitous cliff flung its cool shadow over the deep ravine. The track was becoming difficult to find. I was climbing a steep slope of coarse grass littered with huge boulders. The path had dwindled to countless holes made by the hoofs of the goats who alone could browse up here. It was impossible to find any real track. And now my difficulties began. I was a novice in Alpine climbing. Counting on being what is usually called a good cragsman where crags are not frequent, I had anticipated little difficulty in surmounting the rugged cliffs which towered up opposite Montreux. I knew the snow would present obstacles which might be very dangerous; but I calculated that a cliff in Switzerland must be very like a cliff in England. There was little or no snow here. There were only cliffs, But when I looked at them I could not help thinking, “But what cliffs!” The track I had been doubtfully following led to the very base of an overhanging precipice, and there ended. I looked up at the grey height above me. Sheer walls of rock looked down at me. There was a sinister expression about the sharp lines which furrowed the face of the cliff. They went zig-zag down the surface like the grim sneer on the face of some coldly sarcastic man. The silent gloom of the overshadowing rock chilled me. A little jet of water spouted over a black ledge above, and splashed into an old patch of snow below—so dirty and stone-covered a patch that at first I took it only for the brown soil of the mountain, It was tough and hard to tread on. I could hardly realise such a substance could melt. Clearly I had missed the path. Not even a goat could climb up there. However, climbing had to be done; it was getting late in the afternoon, and I had yet far to go. Without wasting time in going back to look for the path, I determined to get up this wall somehow. To my left was a dark gully, black and forbidding. I instinctively felt I could never get up that. To my right a few pines grew, stunted and wind-torn, and above them was a ledge which I felt I might reach. After a difficult climb, and several narrow slips, I reached the ledge. How magnificent was the view! But I felt if I looked long I should grow giddy. I could no longer see any grass slope below. Not even the top of the last pine-tree was visible, although only a few feet beneath. There seemed nothing between me and that small blue patch, some five thousand feet below. I turned to look at the wall behind. It was not encouraging. By clinging to my ledge I hoped I might reach a rift in the rock which seemed to present an easier foothold, as seen from below. But I could not disguise from myself the difficulty of the attempt. I had begun to realise that what looks only a little way up, seems a horrible distance down. It was no longer warm. The sun was behind the towering precipice overhead. Its rich light flooded the downward slope of a grass patch to the right. There must be a gully there, down which the light can penetrate. The keen mountain air against the cold face of this never-warmed rock chilled me. That rock had never seen the sun. I buttoned up my coat, and altered my course for the gully. After great exertions, I managed to reach a fairly easy place. The narrow escapes I had gone through caused me to appreciate the change from the position of a fly when clinging to the ceiling to the less sustained effort of resting on a ledge of the cornice. At last I could sit down. There was the same view before me. A few more peaks of the Bernese Oberland rose up. The blue lake looked smaller and farther down. That was all. I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock. I must get on. I had taken an hour in climbing about two hundred feet. This would never do. After a little refreshment I buckled to my work. The gully was reached, the course became less hazardous, although rather more fatiguing. At last I was within sight of the top. A few more scrapings, a little more back-wrenching, knee-twisting struggles, and I should be there. I endured them all, and—I was not there! I was on my ledge again, and very nearly in another world. My foot had slipped, as I tried for the thousandth time to bump my mouth with my knees, and, to the great destruction of my garments, I alighted on my feet and the ledge at the same moment—What anguish I suffered! I had come down in a second as many feet as it had taken me minutes to get up. But time is no measure of such effort. And then my garments! Luckily, at the rate I was progressing, it would be midnight before I reached the haunts of men. But what distressed me most was that I had broken my flask and dropped my match-box. After a little rest I set to work again, and this time I succeeded—that is, I climbed to within twenty feet of the top, and there found a perpendicular wall of sheer rock, utterly impossible to get up. I have since admired Alpine climbers much more. I thought they overrated themselves before; now I don’t think they can estimate themselves enough. I am an Alpine climber. And so I had to come down half-way again. I did this less rapidly than before, but with more comfort. I began to realise that speed is not everything among the Alps. I was much too hurried before. But it was getting late. The shadows behind were growing longer, even a purple shade seemed to have reached the blue lake below. And, worst of all, a mist was creeping over the top of the cliff. Vague shreds, as if of cotton-wool, were spreading overhead. I should be in a cheerful position if a thick fog came on. I couldn’t go down, I knew. It had taken me all I was capable of to get along that ledge when going up. It would be death to attempt it going down. A way must be found past that twenty feet of cliff between me and dinner. By warily hooking on to slight roughnesses in the sides of the gully, I managed to work my way so far to the right that I could see round the edge. There was a ledge beyond, which seemed to extend up to the top. Could I reach it? It was very ticklish work, but, thanks to my nails—I mean on my boots—I managed it. In another quarter of an hour I was a victor. I had gained the summit, but I was utterly ignorant of where I was. Almost at the same moment that I set foot on the edge of the cliff, drops of rain began to fall, and in an instant, as it were, I was in a shroud of mist. “This is what I expected,” I said; “it won’t last long. I've observed these fogs seldom do. Only I must be careful how I go.” And so I warily stepped out into the unknown. Somehow I felt like a sort of Jack who had climbed his Beanstalk and was setting out for the ogre’s castle. Presently I observed I was going down-hill. The descent became steeper. Once I nearly slipped. This would not do. I could see nothing ahead of me, and I knew that steep grass slopes like this often end in terrible precipices. I must be careful, I stopped and picked up a stone—a large one. I let it roll gently out of my hand. It bounded away in an instant. I heard one bump not far off, then absolute silence. This looked awkward. I hardly dared to move. It seemed little use going back; to go forward was very like walking to certain death. It was better to stand still, and hope for the mist to lift. After sitting shivering in the cold air, wet to the skin, for about half an hour, a yellow gleam rent the veil before me, and, almost like magic, a wonderful picture appeared. So dazzling was the sudden change, that I could not look at it at first. When I could bear the light, I saw that I had done well to stop. Far down below me were a few dots on a green patch. These were châlets; beyond wound a silver streak. Opposite rose a towering wall of rock, clothed half-way up with trees, mostly fir, and then ending in precipitous jagged cliffs. Through a gap in this wall a gleam of gold stretched far away. A grey line separated it from the sun, whose level rays were streaming over the saw-like edge of the cliffs before me, and lighting up the roof of purple mist which floated overhead. Far down on the right, the blue lake seemed to girdle a collection of boxes. This was a town on the edge of the water. The sense of height, of space, of distance, was so great, I seemed to be sitting in the car of a balloon, and looking down on the world below. Beautiful as it was, I could not help feeling giddy as I peered into the dim depths beneath, and thought how much safer the car of a balloon was than the slippery slope of that dizzy height. The clouds still clung to the mountain behind, but I saw enough to tell me I must go a little way back. The sickly light of the sunset, dazzling at it was, did not forebode a dry evening. I was already shivering with cold; how should I manage if I had to pass the night on this bleak peak? The snow lay in broad patches around, and the chill evening air cut through my tattered clothes. I hastened to find a way down. After walking across a pretty level patch of scrub, a steep slope fell away before me. Cautiously going down this, I had almost reached the edge, where it seemed I might find foothold down the cliff, when the sunlight disappeared, and like a pall the mist closed in again. But I could not stop now: I was too cold, and it was getting dark. I could see the face of the precipice, and a little ledge seemed to give hopes of a footing. The descent was not so sheer as had been that of the cliff up which I had climbed. For some little distance I managed famously, when suddenly I missed my footing, and well, I don’t know what happened for the following hour or so. The next thing I can remember is that I was lying on my side, very cold and wet, and rather stiff. My head seemed aching a good deal, and I could not make out where I was, I turned over and sat up. It was quite dark. Gradually recollection came back, and I cautiously tried to get up. As I succeeded, I felt tolerably certain no bones were broken; but my head felt strange. I sat down again to collect my thoughts. I seemed to have fallen on a grassy patch. As I sat, a church bell, far below, sounded. I counted the strokes. It was ten o'clock. How bitterly cold it was! The mist had cleared away and the stars were shining. All was absolutely still. A black object loomed up before me, on either side was grey obscurity. The shape of the thing looked like a house. What luck! I should now get some milk and be put on the right road. “What a fortunate tumble!” I thought; “I should never have hit upon this had I not come down that short cut.” I got up. I felt very dizzy. Everything I had on was dripping wet. Never mind. With a fire such as is always quickly kindled in a châlet, and with hot milk, I should soon be warm again. With much caution I groped my way through the long grass, avoiding the stones which lay all about as well as I could. I had hardly taken three steps, when to my further relief I noticed the châlet was lighted up. A pale light streamed out from some opening on the side away from me. All doubt was at an end now. I stepped through the long wet grass more confidently. In a few minutes I had reached the angle of the wall. I noticed that the ground dropped directly from the edge of the further side of the building. It behoved me to be very careful. I had no wish for another descent. The light still threw its pale beam across the darkness. In another moment I stood before a black patch in the grey mass in front. The light had disappeared. I thought it odd; but concluded that, alarmed by the steps of some unknown person, the occupant had concealed the light. I took the dark patch before me for a door. I tapped at it with my stick; but it touched nothing. The door must be open. I called out. No answer. There was absolute silence, as there had been since the church clock boomed far down below in the valley. Not a sound in that quiet ledge, surrounded by precipices above and below, broke the utter stillness of the solemn gloom. “They are very cautious,” I thought. “I had better be on my guard too.” Thoughts of coiners of base money, contrebandiers, thieves, passed across my mind. But, after all, was I sure it was a châlet? It was not very dark, but the light of the stars cast only a shimmering pallor over the grey vague mass before me. I could distinguish a long low wall. Two openings in it, the dark patch before me, and one to my right. Above, a low-pitched roof spread in one gable from end to end of the building. A rank smell seemed to come from the place, and the whole effect was to produce a sense of absolute desertion and solitude. I was so cold, however, and so sure of having seen a light, that I determined to enter. The door was open, or rather, as I afterwards found, there was no door. The rank smell was more pungent as I passed over the threshold, leaving the starlight and the sweet cold air of night behind me. All was utter absolute silence. I paused, after taking a few steps in. I could just make out, as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, that there were some stalls for cattle, and as I turned I thought I saw a dark figure behind me; but I found it was only an upright post which came between me and an opening in the wall on the other side. There was a creepy dampness about the place which caused me to shiver. It was ghostly enough by itself. But the light which had been extinguished as I actually stood before the open door added a curious mystery to the place. As I stood shivering and irresolute, peering into the darkness, a cold breath passed over my face, and something touched me. I twitched involuntarily, and uttered a startled exclamation. A low muffled voice seemed to repeat my voice in a mocking tone three times, fainter and fainter each time. “It was a bat,” I said aloud; “and there is an echo here.” A hollow parody of the sounds of my voice came back three times. There was clearly an echo here. But no echo could cause a light. Noises and even touches could be accounted for by animals; but I never heard of any animal, except a human being, which could light a candle and put it out on the approach of strangers. There are glow-worms, fire-flies, phosphorescent eels, and suchlike. But even ten million glow-worms, all doing their best, and collected in a mass, could hardly have produced the light I saw. Eels don’t live in the mountains, and fire-flies I did not think frequented Switzerland. I felt I must at least be philosophical, or I should give way to the effects of the tumble, the wet, the cold, and the hunger, which was beginning to make itself felt. “Is there any one here?” I called out in French; and “mon malheureux accent” was never more forcibly brought home to me, as I had to listen to that detestable echo while it repeated the words three times. Disgusted at getting no other answer, and irritated at the mocking sound, I groped further into the darkness. My foot kicked against a bundle. I put down my hand; it felt like a loose sack. I kicked it again to see if it were hard. Something cracked inside. “It’s full of dry twigs no doubt. If only I had a match to make a fire!” But as I hadn’t, I sat down on the bundle, for I was tired and disheartened. It was very empty that bundle, and the twigs were very hard, and brittle, and sharp. They cracked and broke inside, and gave way under my weight. I got up again, more disgusted than ever. How very nasty the place was! The reek of the pungent dampness rose fouler on the chilly air. I stepped over the bundle, and in doing so bumped my head against a beam. The touch was very light, but the pain was considerable, and I felt something warm trickle down my cheek. I put up my hand. It seemed sticky and wet. I must have cut my head. I did not know till the next morning that I received a severe scalp-wound in my fall, and that the slight knock of the beam had caused the wound to bleed afresh. It is curious how the consciousness that you are bleeding affects the nerves. I must have lost a great deal of blood before; but as I was quite ignorant of it, I merely put down my weariness to fatigue, and thought little of it. Now I felt alarmed. I leant against the side of the stall, and tied my head up with my handkerchief. Hurt and tired as I was, I resolved to spend the rest of the night in that châlet. The floor seemed dry and littered with fir-twigs. I scraped a few together, put them against the stall, and sat down. As I did so my boot kicked against the bundle. Something rattled inside. The foul atmosphere seemed to grow clammier; but I was too weary to pay attention to this. In a few minutes I should have been asleep. I was leaning with my back against the stall, one hand was in my coat-pocket, the other lay beside me. I had sprinkled a few twigs over me, in the idea of getting some warmth out of them. Whether they really did produce any heat I don’t know; anyhow I felt as if I were covered up a little, and was just nodding off to sleep when something cold grasped my hand,—something which held it tight as if with a hand of ice. A thrill of horror shot all through me, and in an instant I was wide awake. What was it? There was no sound. Could it be a snake? I shuddered with terror. Involuntarily I put out my other hand and felt cautiously all round. There was nothing there! But my hand was held. Was it paralysis? was it numbness from the cold and injuries I had received? I should have thought so, and should think so now, only for a strange circumstance. A low, unearthly, far-away laugh—a laugh so full of blood-curdling, heartless, cruel, mocking devilry, such as I never heard before, and I hope never to hear again—broke the dead silence. At the same time a shadow seemed to pass between me and the pale light which marked the other window. As I had not moved this time, it could not be a post. Somebody must have come in, or more likely have been concealed in the châlet all the time. It was a horrible position. I had no weapon with me, and the utter silence with which my hand had been seized—it was my right—as well as the nature of the laugh, assured me I had to do with no friendly people. I tried to move my hand. I could not stir it. What strength the other must be possessed of! But what was the other? How could I be held without feeling the means by which I was held? Could my hand be paralysed by an electric shock? I could think of no other power, So sudden, powerful, and intangible, as well as noiseless. Such an agency as the supernatural does not readily occur to an everyday, practical mind. I had always felt that what is called supernatural is only another name for the unknown in science. Here was the unknown. Possibly the phenomenon might presently be classed with the supernatural. But it was anything but pleasant. The silence was horribly oppressive. When I moved the twigs crackled. Even the old stall against which I was leaning creaked as I breathed. But these others could move about, and actually grasp my hand without making a sound. As I gazed fixedly into the darkness, it seemed as if the place became lighted with a pale, indefinite sickly light. The door and the window, which had been before the only lighter patches in the darkness, now became dark. I could see the old tumble-down walls, the grey beams over my head with fir-twigs and wisps of bay hanging down between, the worm-eaten and rickety stalls, and In a far corner a huge tub. At my feet was the sack I had stumbled over, and a dark pool of stagnant water close beside it. Why did I see all this? There was no light visible. I mean there was no means to produce this light. The pale luminous atmosphere was of equal tone nearly everywhere in that tumble-down, ruinous, old châlet, except that over the sack it seemed a little more brilliant. The sack appeared to give out the light, so to speak, for it had no shadow round it: only its dull dirty brown seemed to be set in a pale phosphorescent glow, like a huge glow-worm. Surely I was not imagining all this? I had never seen the châlet before, how could I picture its interior so minutely? One chalet is much like another it is true, and I had kicked against the sack. But I could not have imagined that great tub in the corner. No châlet I had ever seen had that. Why should my imagination have suggested that? There it was, and I must be conscious. The strange thing was, that the light, instead of cheering me, made me feel more creepy. I could see everything now. Nothing seemed to conceal anything. All objects were clearly, though faintly, distinct. There were no deep shadows, as there would have been had the light emanated from a candle or a lamp. Everything seemed permeated, so to say, and luminous. But what a ghastly luminosity it was! It was pale-blue in tone, and sickly. What produced it? I looked at the sack. It fascinated me with a horrible curiosity. I noticed its shape. I remembered how hollow it was, and how the twigs had cracked and broken inside. I remembered how they had clattered as I kicked it. There was a smooth round knob or projection in the coarse cloth close to my hand: three long twigs seemed to be lying almost across it. I looked down closer. Were they twigs! They were long and brown and curiously knotted. The old rag covered the rest. I looked closer still: horror of horrors! they were the emaciated fingers of what was almost a skeleton! As I sprang up in disgust, my foot kicked once more against the sack. The old wornout gave way, and a ghastly skull fell through the rent. Was it all a horrible dream? The result of my fall? Who knows? All I know is, I felt sure I was awake, that it was no delirium. With the sudden realisation of the horror, my hand had recovered its natural force. I started up, and would have rushed from the hut. . . . “Good heavens! what is that?” I gasped, as instead of stepping forward, I shrank back in greater horror. A figure was entering the hut. A wizened decrepit figure, staggering under a heavy load. It made no sound as it came in. I could not see its face. The load on its back seemed to be alive. It stirred and writhed as it lay across the shoulders of its bearer. The figure came close to me. As it stepped over the sack, the same horrible, blood-curdling, cruel low laugh or chuckle grated on the silence. It paused and looked up. Can any words describe that face, the expression, I wonder? Malignant gratified hate, the cruel smile of a dangerous lunatic, cunning and diabolical; the ferocity of a brutal murderer, were all in that awful face. The face of a man long dead, grinning, dry, black, and repulsive, like the mummies in the morgue of the Hospice of St Bernard. The figure passed on. It went towards the huge tub in the corner. The burden still convulsively writhed at intervals. I now noticed, for the first time, that a vapour seemed to curl up and float over the great caldron. The figure, with its still feebly moving burden, had reached the corner. Silently it came up to the tub. The burden twitched convulsively. There was a heave. The vapour seemed suddenly agitated, and the figure remained alone, intently watching the interior of the tub. The vibrating of the huge vessel and the twisting vapour told of some frightful contortions within. But all was silent as the grave. I could stand it no longer. I rushed to the door. The cool air of the mountain could not revive me. I was shivering from head to foot. Icy cold and hot by turns, I knew I must have caught a feverish attack. But how could I face that horrible hut? Was I really dreaming? A sound broke the solemn silence. The church clock in the valley far down below was striking one. Should I have heard that in my dreams? No! I know I was awake! Far away a line of light was twinkling under the dark mass of the distant mountains on the opposite shore of the lake. It was Montreux. How curiously the sight of that pre-eminently artificial settlement contrasted with the mysterious châlet behind me, with its dreadful unreality and ghastly tenants! There opposite to me were the electric lights of the new hotel at Territet. Behind me was the dim ruin with its fearful secrets. How cold it was! The stars were shining, and a pale light over the north-east showed where the sun was travelling. Three hours more and I should be able to find my way down. At least there was this comfort, that if there was a châlet there must be a path to it. Unless, indeed, the whole thing were a ghastly dream. I turned to look at the old building. I had to force myself to do it. I expected to see that fearful figure standing in the door. All was dark and still. Was it really all a dream? It was very cold out there. Three hours is a long time to wait. My clothes were torn, and the long grass was dripping wet. I could not lie down in it. I could hardly stand for three hours. I was very tired. Should I be frightened by a nightmare, however dreadful? My head was light from my fall. I would be more sensible. I would go in again. It was still far too dark to think of trying to find any way down. As I approached the old tumble-down building, I could not help shuddering. I never knew a dream so vivid. However, it must be a dream. There are the electric lights of that grand hotel at Territet. No mysteries can exist in the face of the triumphs of our civilisation. But in spite of my trying to bluster out my fears, I did not at all like getting nearer to that dark door. I looked furtively in. All was black and silent. The damp, nasty, unwholesome odour was there. But it was warmer than outside, where a cold north wind was beginning to whisper among the crevices of the cliffs behind me and the fir-tree tops below. I went in; but I kept very near the door, and did not trouble about dry twigs any more. I sat down, and in a few minutes I was sound asleep. When I awoke, the sunlight was streaming over the steep slope opposite. The jagged outline of the cliffs behind was thrown in clear profile on the fir-woods and crags in front. The châlet was still dim, but I could make out objects distinctly. Involuntarily the horrible dream of the night before came back. I looked at the stall where I had sat. There at the exact place where I had seen it was the torn and crumbling sack. There were the ghastly hand and grinning skull. It was no dream then. I got up and walked out of the hut. How exquisite was the morning! For a moment I forgot everything. A grey patch of mist floated below me, hiding the valley. But above the streaming sunlight was bringing into sharp distinctness every peak and crag of the mountains opposite. Deep purply grey, the cliffs behind towered against the warm, clear, rosy haze; while opposite the orange-tinged crags cut the cold blue of the western sky. The tinkle of a few bells far down under the mist told me that the cows were already busy at their morning meal. I wished I were a cow. My thoughts turned naturally to the easiest means of finding like occupation. How was I to get down? The grass all round the châlet was long and rank. Evidently no cattle had browsed there this year. The little patch of pasture was hemmed in by beetling cliffs on three sides. The grass grew to the edge on the fourth side, and then seemed to drop in a sheer precipice. I went to the edge and looked over. The top of a tall fir-tree was just below me. A few stones, worn and moss-covered, appeared to offer a way of escape. I could see there was a forest of fir-trees further down. If only I could reach these I should be sure to find a way down into the valley. Before I attempted to descend I took one more look at the old crumbling châlet. It stood in the deepest recess of the gloomy plateau. Entirely protected from the south, west, and east by precipitous cliffs above, the sunlight had never fallen on its sombre moss-covered stones. I thought over the dream of the night before. If it was a dream, how could I have seen all I did see? I had certainly never entered the châlet before. It was pitch-dark when I went in. How could I tell that sack contained a mouldering skeleton? How could I know there was a tub in the corner? Could a feverish imagination create the actual presentment of hidden surroundings? The ghastly figure might be the result of a heated over-wrought brain and the want of food. There was nothing left to prove that it had entered. That strange laugh might have been the cry of some night-bird distorted in my half-conscious torpor. But the tub? I would go in and see if that great tub were actually there. As I entered, the sickening stale atmosphere struck me as peculiarly repulsive. I stood at the door and looked in. With a sense of horror upon me I looked towards the corner where I had seen in my dream the great tub. It was there. A vast wooden tub, capable of holding many hundreds of gallons. It was now in decay. The iron hoops had rusted out, and one or two of the staves had slipped out of their position. I remembered the incidents of the dream distinctly—far too distinctly. I felt I should never forget them. That fearfully malignant, wizened, dead figure. The awful heavings of the suggestive burden. The vapour. The plunge. The dispersion of the steam above the caldron. The vibrating of the huge vessel. The ghastly creepy laugh. I forced myself to go up to the corner. I climbed up on some bulks of timber rotting there. I looked in. It was so dark inside I could at first make out no details. By degrees, as I looked closer, and helped by a chink of light which fell through a crack in the tub, I was able to make out a heap of rubbish in the bottom. I poked it with my stick: a musty fetid smell arose, and my stick struck a hard round substance. There was the same horribly suggestive outline which had attracted my attention to the sack. The rubbish had a ghastly similitude to a huddled-up skeleton. As I examined it more attentively, I could see that there was no doubt. The head had fallen off, and was lying at the side of the heap of mouldering bones. I had seen enough. I hurried away. I never stopped again until I had climbed down to the nearest fir-tree, There I paused. Before entering the dark shade of the forest I turned back to look up. The long grass grew rank against the sky-line; a grey peak of the highest cliff just topped the ragged growth. I was too far down to see anything of the plateau. Was it fancy, or a memory of my dream? But as I looked, a figure seemed to emerge among the grass at the edge of the little pasture, and stagger up against the blue sky with a long burden on its shoulders. The dark wood behind me seemed to echo a cruel shivering laugh, and the figure disappeared. “Mere fancy!” I said to myself. “Imagination will do anything!” and I turned to find my way through the gloom. After an hour’s difficult descent, the rude track I was following suddenly ended on the brink of a vast ravine. I examined the smooth surface of this highroad for the avalanches. Up and up it went, in a straight, ever-diminishing line, to the narrow gorge between two of the highest peaks. Down, down, it cut its plunging track right to the narrow belt of walnut and chestnut on the edge of the lake below. I must get across this somehow. Below me the forest ended in a series of precipitous cliffs. The path led me here, and I could see the continuation of it on the other side. It was getting hot. I longed to be down in the village, whose red and grey roofs I could see peeping out among the dark-green masses below. I looked at my mangled clothes. I felt the parts I could not see were infinitely worse than those I could. My hands were stained with blood. I knew my face must be streaked with it too. My head was bound up with my handkerchief. It was not pleasant to enter a decent village like that in broad daylight. I must get down before many people were about. Prodding the face of the ravine with my stick, I found that if I planted my foot firmly I could make a fairly safe footing on its treacherous surface. After a hazardous ten minutes, I reached the other side. Henceforth the track was easy. In another half-hour I passed some goats. A startled cow-boy next stood gaping at my appearance. In a few minutes more I had reached a châlet, where an old woman was attending to the cows. She was a sensible old thing, and took in the situation at a glance. She wasted few words, but soon gave me some hot milk, eggs, and bread-and-butter. I allowed her to bathe my head, and although she had no clean rag, she washed my handkerchief and tied it neatly over my cut. My garments took longer mending, but she succeeded at last, and I went on my way a reformed character. During the time she was attending to me a man had come in. A long-haired, unshaven, tangled man. We talked, and when I told him where I had passed the night, he uttered an exclamation. Incredulity was the chief ingredient in his surprise. When I told him, however, of the great tub in the corner, he appeared convinced. Both he and the old woman seemed to take a greater interest in me, They asked me questions; they exchanged significant glances. At last the man could restrain his curiosity no longer. He asked me point-blank if I had not been disturbed by les revenants. It was haunted, then. My dream was not a dream, or if it was, it was curious it should have taken so definite a form. I answered evasively, and then asked him to tell me the story connected with the châlet, why such excellent pasture was left to grow in rank waste? Why there was no path up there? Why, above all, was there that awful tub? It was a long tale, and much of the story was incomprehensible. The châlet belonged to a fairly well-to-do peasant: of course there was a woman in the case. The wife of the peasant was admired by a douanier. As far as I can make out, these douaniers never do have anything else to do but to admire all the village belles. The husband’s life was wretched. The douanier was young, big, brutal. The husband was small, old, cunning. It was when the cattle had gone to the mountains. There was a very good path up there then. Pierroch and his wife had gone up to their châlet with their cows. “It was just such a night as last night, and it was—Why, it is the Feast of St John today!” and the two peasants looked at each other and nodded significantly. The douanier was seen climbing the mountain path. He never was seen again. Nor were Pierroch or his wife ever heard of after. The châlet was visited a week later, but nothing was found. The huge tub was full of water as usual. For there was no water up there, and that made the pasture less useful than it would have been. All the water for the cattle had to be accumulated in that large tub, either from the snow or the rain. All was in fairly good order. A sackful of hay lay on the floor of the stall. The few cows Pierroch possessed had all disappeared, and the door stood wide open. Nothing more was ever heard of any one of the three. Since then the place bore an evil name. It was called the “Revenants,” and no one ever went there now. Only on St John’s Eve a light was always seen. A pale light like the gleam of a glow-worm. No one had ever been bold enough to try and get there to find out the explanation. In fact, what further explanation was wanted? Did not Holy Scripture say there were spirits? Did not Monsieur le Curé tell them of Samuel and the witch? They were not so ignorant there on that mountain as monsieur might think. But monsieur has actually passed the night there on St John’s Eve? he must have been there, since he had seen the great tub. Old Nannette remembered the making of that tub. It was built up there. There was a feast given, and the red wine was the first liquid it ever contained. Ah, it was good, that red wine as it flowed from the wooden spigot! I could not repress a shudder as I thought of the mouldering skeleton, and the frightful death that seemed shadowed out by that ghastly mute phantasma. The convulsions, the plunges I could not see. The groans I could not hear. The awful sickening death. I answered all their questions briefly, and went on my way. In a short time I was down the mountain. I had reached the village on the edge of the lake. In half an hour the steamer would be here. As I sat outside the clean simple little hotel sipping my coffee, I thought over the strange experiences of the night. Had I really seen a ghost? It seemed so odd. In the broad daylight, with the blue lake before me, with the large bird-like barques airing their sails in that quiet bay beside me; in the presence of the trim gendarme, magnificent in all the rigid dignity of his padded uniform and pasteboard hat, leaning against the rails of the landing-stage,—it seemed so impossible. Why should ghosts exist? How could they be? It was so much more easy to say it was a dream. And a dream I should still say it was, were it not for that tub. Can it be that we can antedate a dream? That we hear and see certain things, dream of them, and then, forgetting when we dreamt it, believe the dream took place before the events? As I pondered over it all, I could hardly accept this. I had entered the hut in the dark. I knew there was a tub there, and a skeleton before I looked for them. The skeleton in the sack I saw almost as soon as I opened my eyes; but I had gone out and taken a walk in the cool air of the morning, found a path down, and was perfectly calm and collected before I remembered the tub. I went back purposely to look for it. I knew exactly where it was, what it looked like, and fully expected to find something horrible in it. I must have seen this then. The châlet must have been lighted up somehow. Attribute what I would to imagination, it was impossible to say this was a dream, unless a singularly prophetic one. It seemed as easy to believe in a spiritual manifestation as to believe in so marvellously circumstantial a dream. But here was the steamer. A throng of happy merry boys, with tin boxes and knapsacks on their backs, were trooping over the gangway. Two Englishmen, in tweed suits and straw hats, were occupying with dignified grandeur the whole of the first-class deck. In another minute I was on board. I tried to hide my tattered appearance as well as I could; but it was useless. I had to confess to my sufferings, and all the compassion I got was that I was a most utter idiot to go up the mountains without a guide. However, no guide would have led me to “les Revenants”; and if I should have slept comfortably in my bed at Vevey, I should have gone without the marvellous experience which I cannot help confessing goes far to convince me there must be ghosts. Two things I have learned from my adventure. One is to regard with a profound respect all Alpine climbers. The other is to receive with reverence the researches and lucubrations of the Psychological Society, There is also a third conclusion I have sadly come to. Vaseline and plaster are very useful adjuncts to a tourist equipment. If, also, you could induce your tailor to part with several pieces of the stuff of which your suit is made, you would find it come in very useful: it is so difficult to match your things abroad. I shall be happy to tell any one the exact situation of the châlet. It lies in that little plateau quite hidden from the lake. It is difficult to find. The ascent to it is very arduous, and, owing to that awkward ravine, is really dangerous. But the descent to it is easy and rapid. One has only to slip off the cliff above, and you are soon there. Frank Cowper.