One or two cases there were of men who
had occupied lands which encroached on the lord’s domain, and whose
houses had been mysteriously burnt on a winter’s night, with the whole
family inside. But what seemed to dwell on the innkeeper’s mind
most—for he returned to the subject more than once—was that the Count
had been on the Black Pilgrimage, and had brought something or someone
back with him. You will naturally inquire, as Mr Wraxall did, what the Black
Pilgrimage may have been. But your curiosity on the point must remain
unsatisfied for the time being, just as his did. The landlord was
evidently unwilling to give a full answer, or indeed any answer, on the
point, and, being called out for a moment, trotted out with obvious
alacrity, only putting his head in at the door a few minutes afterwards
to say that he was called away to Skara, and should not be back till
evening. So Mr Wraxall had to go unsatisfied to his day’s work at the
manor-house. The papers on which he was just then engaged soon put his
thoughts into another channel, for he had to occupy himself with
glancing over the correspondence between Sophia Albertina in Stockholm
and her married cousin Ulrica Leonora at Råbäck in the years 1705-1710. The letters were of exceptional interest from the light they threw upon
the culture of that period in Sweden, as anyone can testify who has
read the full edition of them in the publications of the Swedish
Historical Manuscripts Commission. In the afternoon he had done with these, and after returning the boxes
in which they were kept to their places on the shelf, he proceeded,
very naturally, to take down some of the volumes nearest to them, in
order to determine which of them had best be his principal subject of
investigation next day. The shelf he had hit upon was occupied mostly
by a collection of account-books in the writing of the first Count
Magnus. But one among them was not an account-book, but a book of
alchemical and other tracts in another sixteenth-century hand. Not
being very familiar with alchemical literature, Mr Wraxall spends much
space which he might have spared in setting out the names and
beginnings of the various treatises: The book of the Phœnix, book of
the Thirty Words, book of the Toad, book of Miriam, Turba
philosophorum, and so forth; and then he announces with a good deal of
circumstance his delight at finding, on a leaf originally left blank
near the middle of the book, some writing of Count Magnus himself
headed “Liber nigræ peregrinationis”. It is true that only a few lines
were written, but there was quite enough to show that the landlord had
that morning been referring to a belief at least as old as the time of
Count Magnus, and probably shared by him. This is the English of what
was written:

“If any man desires to obtain a long life, if he would obtain a
faithful messenger and see the blood of his enemies, it is necessary
that he should first go into the city of Chorazin, and there salute the
prince….” Here there was an erasure of one word, not very thoroughly
done, so that Mr Wraxall felt pretty sure that he was right in reading
it as _aëris_ (“of the air”). But there was no more of the text copied,
only a line in Latin: _Quære reliqua hujus materiei inter secretiora_. (See the rest of this matter among the more private things.) It could not be denied that this threw a rather lurid light upon the
tastes and beliefs of the Count; but to Mr Wraxall, separated from him
by nearly three centuries, the thought that he might have added to his
general forcefulness alchemy, and to alchemy something like magic, only
made him a more picturesque figure; and when, after a rather prolonged
contemplation of his picture in the hall, Mr Wraxall set out on his
homeward way, his mind was full of the thought of Count Magnus. He had
no eyes for his surroundings, no perception of the evening scents of
the woods or the evening light on the lake; and when all of a sudden he
pulled up short, he was astonished to find himself already at the gate
of the churchyard, and within a few minutes of his dinner. His eyes
fell on the mausoleum. “Ah,” he said, “Count Magnus, there you are. I should dearly like to
see you.”

“Like many solitary men,” he writes, “I have a habit of talking to
myself aloud; and, unlike some of the Greek and Latin particles, I do
not expect an answer. Certainly, and perhaps fortunately in this case,
there was neither voice nor any that regarded: only the woman who, I
suppose, was cleaning up the church, dropped some metallic object on
the floor, whose clang startled me. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps sound
enough.”

That same evening the landlord of the inn, who had heard Mr Wraxall say
that he wished to see the clerk or deacon (as he would be called in
Sweden) of the parish, introduced him to that official in the inn
parlour. A visit to the De la Gardie tomb-house was soon arranged for
the next day, and a little general conversation ensued. Mr Wraxall, remembering that one function of Scandinavian deacons is to
teach candidates for Confirmation, thought he would refresh his own
memory on a Biblical point. “Can you tell me,” he said, “anything about Chorazin?”

The deacon seemed startled, but readily reminded him how that village
had once been denounced. “To be sure,” said Mr Wraxall; “it is, I suppose, quite a ruin now?”

“So I expect,” replied the deacon. “I have heard some of our old
priests say that Antichrist is to be born there; and there are tales—”

“Ah! what tales are those?” Mr Wraxall put in. “Tales, I was going to say, which I have forgotten,” said the deacon;
and soon after that he said good night. The landlord was now alone, and at Mr Wraxall’s mercy; and that
inquirer was not inclined to spare him. “Herr Nielsen,” he said, “I have found out something about the Black
Pilgrimage. You may as well tell me what you know. What did the Count
bring back with him?”

Swedes are habitually slow, perhaps, in answering, or perhaps the
landlord was an exception. I am not sure; but Mr Wraxall notes that the
landlord spent at least one minute in looking at him before he said
anything at all. Then he came close up to his guest, and with a good
deal of effort he spoke:

“Mr Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more—not any
more. You must not ask anything when I have done. In my grandfather’s
time—that is, ninety-two years ago—there were two men who said: ‘The
Count is dead; we do not care for him. We will go tonight and have a
free hunt in his wood’—the long wood on the hill that you have seen
behind Råbäck. Well, those that heard them say this, they said: ‘No, do
not go; we are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not
be walking. They should be resting, not walking.’ These men laughed. There were no forestmen to keep the wood, because no one wished to live
there. The family were not here at the house. These men could do what
they wished. “Very well, they go to the wood that night.