I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the gray
gulls squealed as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tide
was creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the
seaweed floating on the beach, and the _lançons_ springing from the
foam, silvery thread-like flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying up
the river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the
moors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In
every hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together, twittering
restlessly. When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenched
hands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean miles
away, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphore
on the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a little
the thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightning
unravelled across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my
feet the surf rushed foaming over the shore, and the _lançons_ jumped
and skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections of
the meshed lightning. I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining at
Sainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore. High in the storm
whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils of rain in its
wake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed. As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, and
another, and yet another on my face. I gave a last glance at the sea,
where the waves were bursting into strange white shapes that seemed to
fling out menacing arms toward me. Then something moved on the cliff,
something black as the black rock it clutched--a filthy cormorant,
craning its hideous head at the sky. Slowly I plodded homeward across the sombre moorland, where the
gorse stems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the heather,
no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and dun-coloured among
the dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the
black-thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow. Over all lay
a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled across
the landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb with the cold. In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out
across the endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such
a pace. Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me to
hasten; and then for the first time I became conscious that I was
soaked to the skin. "How ever in the world did you come to stay out when such a storm
threatened?" she said. "Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly and change; I
have laid your warm underwear on the bed, Dick." I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes for
something more comfortable. When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on the
hearth, and Lys sat in the chimney corner embroidering. "Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out. Do you
think they are in danger, dear?" asked Lys, raising her blue eyes to
mine as I entered. "There is no wind, and there will be no sea," said I, looking out of
the window. Far across the moor I could see the black cliffs looming in
the mist. "How it rains!" murmured Lys; "come to the fire, Dick." I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys's
knees. "Tell me a story," I said. "I feel like a boy of ten." Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips. I always waited for her to do
that. "Will you be very still, then?" she said. "Still as death." "Death," echoed a voice, very softly. "Did you speak, Lys?" I asked, turning so that I could see her face. "No; did you, Dick?" "Who said 'death'?" I asked, startled. "Death," echoed a voice, softly. I sprang up and looked about. Lys rose too, her needles and embroidery
falling to the floor. She seemed about to faint, leaning heavily on me,
and I led her to the window and opened it a little way to give her air. As I did so the chain lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed,
and a sheet of rain swept into the room, driving with it something that
fluttered--something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rug
with soft, moist wings. We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was a
death's-head moth drenched with rain. The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand,
her head against my breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death. For Lys believed that there were things on earth that none might
understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God
rolls up the scroll of life and all is ended. We spoke of hope and fear
and faith, and the mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and
the end, of the shadow of sin, of omens, and of love. The moth still
lay on the floor, quivering its sombre wings in the warmth of the fire,
the skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body. "If it is a messenger of death to this house," I said, "why should we
fear, Lys?" "Death should be welcome to those who love God," murmured Lys, and she
drew the cross from her breast and kissed it. "The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm," I said after a
silence. "Let it remain," sighed Lys. Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and read
in the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grew
restless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, where
the ashes of the fire rustled and whitened on the hearth. The death's-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had left
it. At first I thought it was dead, but, when I looked closer I saw
a lambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight white shadow it cast
across the floor wavered as the candle flickered. The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; the
illuminated gold and blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt where
my hand brushed them. "It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment," I said to myself;
and I held the discoloured page close to the candle flame and read,
translating laboriously:

"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Mass
celebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said by
the Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly sin the apostate priest
was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned
to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and
fly to its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt
of Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, and
carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin. And I, Jacques Sorgue, travelling afterward by sea, beheld with my own
eyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the
air upon a vast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan. And
this was seen also by two men of the crew." I turned the page.