In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story,
connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments
were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of
which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case—in this haunted spot,
darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and
high above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me, and my
heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to
enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene. The old General’s eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his
hand upon the basement of a shattered monument. Under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demoniacal
grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old Gothic carving
delights, I saw very gladly the beautiful face and figure of Carmilla
enter the shadowy chapel. I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to
her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side
caught up the woodman’s hatchet, and started forward. On seeing him a
brutalized change came over her features. It was an instantaneous and
horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. Before
I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she
dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by
the wrist. He struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand
opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone. He staggered against the wall. His grey hair stood upon his head, and a
moisture shone over his face, as if he were at the point of death. The frightful scene had passed in a moment. The first thing I recollect
after, is Madame standing before me, and impatiently repeating again
and again, the question, “Where is Mademoiselle Carmilla?”

I answered at length, “I don’t know—I can’t tell—she went there,” and I
pointed to the door through which Madame had just entered; “only a
minute or two since.”

“But I have been standing there, in the passage, ever since
Mademoiselle Carmilla entered; and she did not return.”

She then began to call “Carmilla,” through every door and passage and
from the windows, but no answer came. “She called herself Carmilla?” asked the General, still agitated. “Carmilla, yes,” I answered. “Aye,” he said; “that is Millarca. That is the same person who long ago
was called Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. Depart from this accursed
ground, my poor child, as quickly as you can. Drive to the clergyman’s
house, and stay there till we come. Begone! May you never behold
Carmilla more; you will not find her here.”




XV. Ordeal and Execution


As he spoke one of the strangest looking men I ever beheld entered the
chapel at the door through which Carmilla had made her entrance and her
exit. He was tall, narrow-chested, stooping, with high shoulders, and
dressed in black. His face was brown and dried in with deep furrows; he
wore an oddly-shaped hat with a broad leaf. His hair, long and
grizzled, hung on his shoulders. He wore a pair of gold spectacles, and
walked slowly, with an odd shambling gait, with his face sometimes
turned up to the sky, and sometimes bowed down towards the ground,
seemed to wear a perpetual smile; his long thin arms were swinging, and
his lank hands, in old black gloves ever so much too wide for them,
waving and gesticulating in utter abstraction. “The very man!” exclaimed the General, advancing with manifest delight. “My dear Baron, how happy I am to see you, I had no hope of meeting you
so soon.” He signed to my father, who had by this time returned, and
leading the fantastic old gentleman, whom he called the Baron to meet
him. He introduced him formally, and they at once entered into earnest
conversation. The stranger took a roll of paper from his pocket, and
spread it on the worn surface of a tomb that stood by. He had a pencil
case in his fingers, with which he traced imaginary lines from point to
point on the paper, which from their often glancing from it, together,
at certain points of the building, I concluded to be a plan of the
chapel. He accompanied, what I may term, his lecture, with occasional
readings from a dirty little book, whose yellow leaves were closely
written over. They sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to the spot where
I was standing, conversing as they went; then they began measuring
distances by paces, and finally they all stood together, facing a piece
of the sidewall, which they began to examine with great minuteness;
pulling off the ivy that clung over it, and rapping the plaster with
the ends of their sticks, scraping here, and knocking there. At length
they ascertained the existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters
carved in relief upon it. With the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a monumental
inscription, and carved escutcheon, were disclosed. They proved to be
those of the long lost monument of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. The old General, though not I fear given to the praying mood, raised
his hands and eyes to heaven, in mute thanksgiving for some moments. “Tomorrow,” I heard him say; “the commissioner will be here, and the
Inquisition will be held according to law.”

Then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles, whom I have
described, he shook him warmly by both hands and said:

“Baron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you? You will have
delivered this region from a plague that has scourged its inhabitants
for more than a century. The horrible enemy, thank God, is at last
tracked.”

My father led the stranger aside, and the General followed. I know that
he had led them out of hearing, that he might relate my case, and I saw
them glance often quickly at me, as the discussion proceeded. My father came to me, kissed me again and again, and leading me from
the chapel, said:

“It is time to return, but before we go home, we must add to our party
the good priest, who lives but a little way from this; and persuade him
to accompany us to the schloss.”

In this quest we were successful: and I was glad, being unspeakably
fatigued when we reached home. But my satisfaction was changed to
dismay, on discovering that there were no tidings of Carmilla. Of the
scene that had occurred in the ruined chapel, no explanation was
offered to me, and it was clear that it was a secret which my father
for the present determined to keep from me. The sinister absence of Carmilla made the remembrance of the scene more
horrible to me. The arrangements for the night were singular. Two
servants, and Madame were to sit up in my room that night; and the
ecclesiastic with my father kept watch in the adjoining dressing room. The priest had performed certain solemn rites that night, the purport
of which I did not understand any more than I comprehended the reason
of this extraordinary precaution taken for my safety during sleep. I saw all clearly a few days later.