The wings of the moth on the floor began to quiver. I read on and on, my eyes blurring under the shifting candle flame. I read of battles and of saints, and I learned how the great Soldan
made his pact with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and
read how he seized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin's tents
and carried him away and cut off his head, first branding him on the
forehead. "And before he suffered," said the Chronicle, "he cursed the
Sieur de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely return
to St. Gildas. 'For the violence you do to me, I will do violence to
you. For the evil I suffer at your hands, I will work evil on you and
your descendants. Woe to your children, Sieur de Trevec!'" There was
a whirr, a beating of strong wings, and my candle flashed up as in a
sudden breeze. A humming filled the room; the great moth darted hither
and thither, beating, buzzing, on ceiling and wall. I flung down my
book and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the window sill,
and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing squeaked and
I shrank back. Then suddenly it darted across the candle flame; the
light flared and went out, and at the same moment a shadow moved in
the darkness outside. I raised my eyes to the window. A masked face was
peering in at me. Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every cartridge,
but the face advanced beyond the window, the glass melting away before
it like mist, and through the smoke of my revolver I saw something
creep swiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing was
at my throat, and I fell backward among the ashes of the hearth. *       *       *       *       *

When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head among the cold
ashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my way
to a chair. On the floor lay my revolver, shining in the pale light
of early morning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering,
at the window. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up
my revolver and opened the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired. Mechanically I closed the cylinder and placed the revolver in my
pocket. The book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table
beside me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It was
all splashed with rain, and the lettering had run, so that the page was
merely a confused blur of gold and red and black. As I stumbled toward
the door I cast a fearful glance over my shoulder. The death's-head
moth crawled shivering on the rug. IV. The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I was
aroused by the sudden gallop of horses under our window. People were
shouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and opened the sash. Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stood
beside him, polishing his glasses. Some gendarmes had just arrived
from Quimperlé, and I could hear them around the corner of the house,
stamping, and rattling their sabres and carbines, as they led their
horses into my stable. Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious questions. "I don't know," I answered. "I am going out to see what it means." "It is like the day they came to arrest you," Lys said, giving me a
troubled look. But I kissed her, and laughed at her until she smiled
too. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the stairs. The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand. "Hello!" said I, "have you come to arrest me again? What the devil is
all this fuss about, anyway?" "We were telegraphed for an hour ago," said Durand briskly, "and for a
sufficient reason, I think. Look there, Monsieur Darrel!" He pointed to the ground almost under my feet. "Good heavens!" I cried, "where did that puddle of blood come from?" "That's what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin found it at
daybreak. See, it's splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of it
leads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, the
one that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leading
from this spot across the road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit,
and thence across the moor to the forest of Kerselec. We are going to
mount in a minute and search the bosquets. Will you join us? Bon Dieu! but the fellow bled like an ox. Max Fortin says it's human blood, or I
should not have believed it." The little chemist of Quimperlé came up at that moment, rubbing his
glasses with a coloured handkerchief. "Yes, it is human blood," he said, "but one thing puzzles me: the
corpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood before with yellow
corpuscles. But your English Doctor Thompson asserts that he has----"

"Well, it's human blood, anyway--isn't it?" insisted Durand,
impatiently. "Ye-es," admitted Max Fortin. "Then it's my business to trail it," said the big gendarme, and he
called his men and gave the order to mount. "Did you hear anything last night?" asked Durand of me. "I heard the rain. I wonder the rain did not wash away these traces." "They must have come after the rain ceased. See this thick splash, how
it lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades. Pah!" It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, my
throat closing in disgust. "My theory," said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those Biribi
fishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac into
their hides and quarrelled on the road. Some of them were slashed, and
staggered to your house. But there is only one trail, and yet--and yet,
how could all that blood come from only one person? Well, the wounded
man, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, and
he wandered off, drunk and dying, God knows where. That's my theory." "A very good one," said I calmly. "And you are going to trail him?" "Yes." "When?" "At once. Will you come?" "Not now. I'll gallop over by-and-bye. You are going to the edge of the
Kerselec forest?" "Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, Le
Bihan? Good; take the dog-cart." The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presently
returned mounted on a strong gray horse; his sabre shone on his saddle;
his pale yellow and white facings were spotless. The little crowd of
white-coiffed women with their children fell back, as Durand touched
spurs and clattered away followed by his two troopers. Soon after Le
Bihan and Max Fortin also departed in the mayor's dingy dog-cart. "Are you coming?" piped Le Bihan shrilly. "In a quarter of an hour," I replied, and went back to the house. When I opened the door of the morning room the death's-head moth was
beating its strong wings against the window. For a second I hesitated,
then walked over and opened the sash. The creature fluttered out,
whirred over the flower beds a moment, then darted across the moorland
toward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them.