Martha,” said the wife.
She drew back the latch, letting in a rush of wind and rain which made the candle gutter. A small, aged woman was blown in out of the night, her grey hair straggling in wisps from beneath her shawl.
“Come in, Martha, and rest yourself. It is a bad night. The parcel is ready—oh, yes. Dominique brought it from the town this morning. You must take a cup of wine or milk before you go back.”
The old woman thanked her and sat down, panting.
“And how goes all at the house? The doctor is well?”
“He is well.”
“And she?”
The daughter put the question in a whisper, and the landlord shook his head at her with a frown.
“As always at this time of the year. It is but a month now to the Day of the Dead. Jesu-Maria! it is a grievous affliction for the poor gentleman, but he is patient, patient.”
“He is a good man,” said Dominique, “and a skilful doctor, but an evil like that is beyond his power to cure. You are not afraid, Martha?”
“Why should I be afraid? The Evil One cannot harm me . I have no beauty, no wits, no strength for him to envy. And the Holy Relic will protect me.”
Her wrinkled fingers touched something in the bosom of her dress.
“You come from the house yonder?” asked Langley.
She eyed him suspiciously.
“The señor is not of our country?”
“The gentleman is a guest, Martha,” said the landlord hurriedly. “A learned English gentleman. He knows our country and speaks our language as you hear. He is a great traveller, like the American doctor, your master.”
“What is your master’s name?” asked Langley. It occurred to him that an American doctor who had buried himself in this remote corner of Europe must have something unusual about him. Perhaps he also was an ethnologist. If so, they might find something in common.
“He is called Wetherall.” She pronounced the name several times before he was sure of it.
“Wetherall? Not Standish Wetherall?”
He was filled with extraordinary excitement.
The landlord came to his assistance.
“This parcel is for him,” he said. “No doubt the name will be written there.”
It was a small package, neatly sealed, bearing the label of a firm of London chemists and addressed to “Standish Wetherall, Esq., M.D.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Langley. “But this is strange. Almost a miracle. I know this man. I knew his wife, too—”
He stopped. Again the company made the sign of the cross.
“Tell me,” he said in great agitation, and forgetting his caution, “you say his wife is bewitched—afflicted—how is this? Is she the same woman I know? Describe her. She was tall, beautiful, with gold hair and blue eyes like the Madonna. Is this she?”
There was a silence. The old woman shook her head and muttered something inaudible, but the daughter whispered:
“True—it is true. Once we saw her thus, as the gentleman says—”
“Be quiet,” said her father.
“Sir,” said Martha, “we are in the hand of God.”
She rose, and wrapped her shawl about her.
“One moment,” said Langley. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few lines. “Will you take this letter to your master the doctor? It is to say that I am here, his friend whom he once knew, and to ask if I may come and visit him. That is all.”
“You would not go to that house, excellence?” whispered the old man fearfully.
“If he will not have me, maybe he will come to me here.” He added a word or two and drew a piece of money from his pocket. “You will carry my note for me?”
“Willingly, willingly. But the señor will be careful? Perhaps, though a foreigner, you are of the Faith?”
“I am a Christian,” said Langley.
This seemed to satisfy her. She took the letter and the money, and secured them, together with the parcel, in a remote pocket. Then she walked to the door, strongly and rapidly for all her bent shoulders and appearance of great age.
Langley remained lost in thought. Nothing could have