“Fortiter et recta haec olim——”

The organ commenced a solemn chant and the vast interior, with an indescribably beautiful effect, palpitated with soft harmony. As I sat there, looking upward into the dim obscurity of the beautifully arched roof, the ghosts of centuries seemed to float before me and a feeling of awe possessed all my being.

Below my feet rested the ashes of generations of warriors and of saintly men of peace who had stood before that altar and administered the beautiful offices of the church. That floor had been trodden by kings and princes and potentates of high degree, and more than all, by an immeasurable mass of common humanity, that through the centuries had prayed, wept and rejoiced within those silent walls.

Ah! if they could only speak!

My reverie was interrupted by the return of my companions; then the professor bade us adieu.

Albert and I once more were out into the sunlight, when the thought of that mysterious door in that narrow street came back to me with sudden force.

“Albert,” said I, “I have an irresistible desire to see the interior of that queer old house, the professor told us was the home of Maugis, the sorcerer.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” replied he.

“Why not?”

“Because the professor told me, while we were visiting the organ, that the occupant of that house was a strange-acting old man, who becomes very violent when intruded upon. Some regard him as partly insane, and though he is said to be a very learned man, no one knows anything of his early history, except that he has occupied the house for many years. Tradition has it that the house was the home of Maugis, and it is believed to be haunted. It certainly is the most ancient house in Mouzon and has a remarkable fireplace, with a huge carved mantelpiece.”

“Will you come with me, Albert?” I insisted.

“Certainly,” replied he; “if you care to risk it.”

We rapped a long time upon the heavy oak door with no result, and were about to give up in despair when we heard a creaking of bolts and chains, and it swung partly open on its rusty hinges. A shock head of iron-gray hair and two wild gray eyes appeared in the opening.

“Monsieur!” said Albert, “this gentleman, who is my guest, is a foreigner and is much interested in antiquarian research. I have ventured to intrude upon you in the hopes that you would permit us to see the interior of this ancient house.”

No answer.

“Our object in coming here is not mere curiosity,” continued Albert; “we shall feel much concerned to know that we disturb you, or that you consider our visit an intrusion.”

Albert was certainly a born diplomatist.

“Did that sneaking schoolmaster send you here?” asked the old man.

“On the contrary, we came here without his knowledge and I may say against his advice.”

A bony, inkstained hand unfastened a chain; the door creaked open.

“Come in,” he said.

We were ushered into a small apartment, with a low, heavy-beamed ceiling, black with age. One side of the room was entirely taken up with an enormous fireplace of a size sufficient to roast an ox. Huge grotesque figures carved from stone, one on either side, supported a high mantel, and a great, cast-iron plate, bearing an almost obliterated coat-of-arms, formed its back. The uneven stone floor, worn into hollows by the feet of generations, was cluttered up by a bench and other débris, and a huge table, on which bundles of papers were piled in the utmost confusion; a small dust-begrimed window half-lighted the gloom.

The old man said not a word, while Albert and I examined the fireplace; but he regarded us with a keenness that we could almost feel.

“This small house,” said Albert to me, “was evidently the porter’s lodge or guard room of the great citadel, which centuries ago occupied this site. It has but two rooms, you will observe, this one and the one above.”

“You are right,” interrupted the old man; then going to the door he opened it wide and commanded, “now go!”

We silently bowed, and were about to pass out when he laid his hand on my arm and said:

“You will remain!”

There was an earnest look in his eyes, and I hesitated a moment; but an imperious gesture sent Albert without; the door closed, and I was alone with the hermit, half-madman, for such he seemed to be.

“What are you?” he demanded, turning to me.

“An Irishman.”

“When do you leave the country?”

“Next week.”

“Would you do a service for a man whose days on earth are numbered?” asked the old man in a tone almost of entreaty.

“Surely, if I can,” I answered; “in what way could I serve you?”

“In a thousand ways,” he almost shouted, jumping to his feet, his tall form erect, and his eyes gleaming.

“Listen,” continued he, “for thirty years I have not known a moment’s peace. Though this place is haunted, I cannot, dare not leave—I had so much to do. I had so much to do,” he moaned, passing his bony hand over his forehead, and after a few moments’ pause, he continued:

“It was thirty odd years ago the curse fell upon me. I was a schoolmaster at Pau, in southern France, and I was a passionate antiquarian. One day I read a paper before the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy, of which I was then a member, on an ancient document I had unearthed, concerning the warrior sorcerer Maugis. This manuscript I had discovered in the ruins of an old castle. It was a short document, but to decipher its cryptogramic characters cost me infinite labor. It merely told the hiding place, in the north of France, of sundry writings concerning the history of Maugis and the four sons of the Duc d’Aymon, historic characters of the reign of Charlemagne. What think you was my reception from them? They laughed me to scorn, those savants. They said Maugis was apochryphal, was a myth. Then in the intensity of my mortification and rage I defied them to their teeth and told them I would find the papers; but France never should see them, I would burn them first.

“They only laughed the more, and when I cursed them they expelled me in disgrace. That did not end my persecution,” explained the old man excitedly. “Very soon afterward they took from me my position. I was said to be insane, and I left the south broken-hearted and came here; that was many years ago. Aided by the directions given me in the ancient writing, I found a vast number of documents of the greatest historical value. Their hiding place was right here in this ancient home of Maugis. I found them stored in a recess back of yonder iron plate of the fireplace. Since then I have read what I could and I have deciphered what I could, for many were written in mysterious and magical characters, and burned them.”

“You burned them?”

“Yes, I burned them, every one.”

“Man, you are surely mad!”

“No! no!” cried he, “I am not mad, I only have my revenge, but then”—and here his voice sank to a whisper—“it told me to do it.”

“Who?”

“The vision—the vision that visits this room every night—I but do its bidding,” he replied, shuddering.

I then saw that I was dealing with a paranoiac, yet I could not resist the impression that there was a certain reason in his madness.

“Have you many of those papers left?” I asked.

“They are nearly finished, and when they are done I must die.”

“Listen!” he continued, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Every night a ghostly company sits about that table, and what they say I know not; but most awful! a decapitated head stands on its dripping neck on the corner of that mantel up there and presides. It is the head of Lothaire. Its dreadful eyes search my very soul. Its very bidding I feel I must obey. It hurries me on to read! burn! read! burn! and yet I now know very well that every paper I give to the flames in that fireplace is a step toward death. It commands, I obey, and after all it is better so; I am content.

“Worse than all,” continued he after a moment’s pause, “that society at Nancy learned in some way that I was right. They searched France for me, and they finally found me here. They have written me time and time again, but I took no notice. Then they put spies upon me—they have even tried to poison me, and failing in that they have tried to steal in upon me. That schoolmaster is one of them. So far they have failed, but they are now waiting for my death, thinking then to gain the precious writings.

“It told me that a stranger would come from a far-off land, and that I should give the result of my labor to him.

“You are the man,” he exclaimed, “I will trust you!

“Listen! while I have read and deciphered and destroyed, I have written. See,” said he, producing a roll of closely written manuscript, “this is a synopsis of it all, it is a history of the life of Maugis, the sorcerer, who was not in league with the devil, as supposed, but acted under the commands of God.

“This must never be shown to France,” cried the old man earnestly. “Will you accept the trust and take oath to do my behest regarding it?”

“I will, providing I can,” I replied.

“Then swear it!” with a sudden force that startled me, thrusting an ancient breviary in my face for me to kiss. “Repeat after me! swear,” he shouted.

“+OATH.+

“I, Frederick, Lord Gilhooley, do now swear, on my hope of eternal salvation that I accept the manuscript, notes of Maugis, from Charles Voudran as a solemn trust. I will never show it in France. I will keep its contents from the world until the knowledge of the death of Voudran releases me from this, my oath; that I will then publish it with a dedication as follows: ‘To the fools who compose the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy!’ So help me, God, and all the saints.”