AN EGYPTIAN HORNET

AN EGYPTIAN HORNET

by

Algernon Blackwood

The word has an angry, malignant sound that brings the idea of attack vividly
into the mind. There is a vicious sting about it somewhere -- even a foreigner,
ignorant of the meaning, must feel it. A hornet is wicked; it darts and stabs;
it pierces, aiming without provocation for the face and eyes. The name suggests
a metallic droning of evil wings, fierce flight, and poisonous assault. Though
black and yellow, it sounds scarlet. There is blood in it. A striped tiger of
the air in concentrated form! There is no escape -- if it attacks.

In Egypt an ordinary bee is the size of an English hornet, but the Egyptian
hornet is enormous. It is truly monstrous -- an ominous, dying terror. It shares
that universal quality of the land of the Sphinx and Pyramids -- great size. It
is a formidable insect, worse than scorpion or tarantula. The Rev. James
Milligan, meeting one for the first time, realized the meaning of another word
as well, a word he used prolifically in his eloquent sermons -- devil.

One morning in April, when the heat began to bring the insects out, he rose as
usual betimes and went across the wide stone corridor to his bath. The desert
already glared in through the open windows. The heat would be afflicting later
in the day, but at this early hour the cool north wind blew pleasantly down the
hotel passages. It was Sunday, and at half-past eight o'clock he would appear to
conduct the morning service for the English visitors. The floor of the
passage-way was cold beneath his feet in their thin native slippers of bright
yellow. He was neither young nor old; his salary was comfortable; he had a
competency of his own, without wife or children to absorb it; the dry climate
had been recommended to him; and -- the big hotel took him in for next to
nothing. And he was thoroughly pleased with himself, for he was a sleek, vain,
pompous, well-advertised personality, but mean as a rat. No worries of any kind
were on his mind as, carrying sponge and towel, scented soap and a bottle of
Scrubb's ammonia, he travelled amiably across the deserted, shining corridor to
the bathroom. And nothing went wrong with the Rev. James Milligan until he
opened the door, and his eye fell upon a dark, suspicious-looking object
clinging to the window-pane in front of him.

And even then, at first, he felt no anxiety or alarm, but merely a natural
curiosity to know exactly what it was -- this little clot of an odd-shaped,
elongated thing that stuck there on the wooden framework six feet before his
aquiline nose. He went straight up to it to see -- then stopped dead. His heart
gave a distinct, unclerical leap. His lips formed themselves into unregenerate
shape. He gasped: "Good God! What is it?" For something unholy, something wicked
as a secret sin, stuck there before his eyes in the patch of blazing sunshine.
He caught his breath.

For a moment he was unable to move, as though the sight half fascinated him.
Then, cautiously and very slowly -- stealthily, in fact -- he withdrew towards
the door he had just entered. Fearful of making the smallest sound, he retraced
his steps on tiptoe. His yellow slippers shuffled. His dry sponge fell, and
bounded till it settled, rolling close beneath the horribly attractive object
facing him. From the safety of the open door, with ample space for retreat
behind him, he paused and stared. His entire being focussed itself in his eyes.
It was a hornet that he saw. It hung there, motionless and threatening, between
him and the bathroom door.

And at first he merely exclaimed -- below his breath -- "Good God! It's an
Egyptian hornet!"

Being a man with a reputation for decided action, however, he soon recovered
himself. He was well schooled in self-control. When people left his church at
the beginning of the sermon, no muscle of his face betrayed the wounded vanity
and annoyance that burned deep in his heart. But a hornet sitting directly in
his path was a very different matter. He realized in a flash that he was poorly
clothed -- in a word, that he was practically half naked.

From a distance he examined this intrusion of the devil. It was calm and very
still. It was wonderfully made, both before and behind. Its wings were folded
upon its terrible body. Long, sinuous things, pointed like temptation, barbed as
well, stuck out of it. There was poison, and yet grace, in its exquisite
presentment. Its shiny black was beautiful, and the yellow stripes upon its
sleek, curved abdomen were like the gleaming ornaments upon some feminine body
of the seductive world he preached against. Almost, he saw an abandoned dancer
on the stage. And then, swiftly in his impressionable soul, the simile changed,
and he saw instead more blunt and aggressive forms of destruction. The
well-filled body, tapering to a horrid point, reminded him of those perfect
engines of death that reduce hundreds to annihilation unawares -- torpedoes,
shells, projectiles, crammed with secret, desolating powers. Its wings, its
awful, quiet head, its delicate, slim waist, its stripes of brilliant saffron --
all these seemed the concentrated prototype of abominations made cleverly by the
brain of man, and beautifully painted to disguise their invisible freight of
cruel death.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, ashamed of his prolific imagination. "It's only a hornet
after all -- an insect!" And he contrived a hurried, careful plan. He aimed a
towel at it, rolled up into a ball -- but did not throw it. He might miss. He
remembered that his ankles were unprotected. Instead, he paused again, examining
the black and yellow object in safe retirement near the door, as one day he
hoped to watch the world in leisurely retirement in the country. It did not
move. It was fixed and terrible. It made no sound. Its wings were folded. Not
even the black antennae, blunt at the tips like clubs, showed the least stir or
tremble. It breathed, however. He watched the rise and fall of the evil body; it
breathed air in and out as he himself did. The creature, he realized, had lungs
and heart and organs. It had a brain! Its mind was active all this time. It knew
it was being watched. It merely waited. Any second, with a whiz of fury, and
with perfect accuracy of aim, it might dart at him and strike. If he threw the
towel and missed -- it certainly would.

There were other occupants of the corridor, however, and a sound of steps
approaching gave him the decision to act. He would lose his bath if he hesitated
much longer. He felt ashamed of his timidity, though "pusillanimity" was the
word thought selected owing to the pulpit vocabulary it was his habit to prefer.
He went with extreme caution towards the bathroom door, passing the point of
danger so close that his skin turned hot and cold. With one foot gingerly
extended, he recovered his sponge. The hornet did not move a muscle. But -- it
had seen him pass. It merely waited. All dangerous insects had that trick. It
knew quite well he was inside; it knew quite well he must come out a few minutes
later; it also knew quite well that he was -- naked.

Once inside the little room, he closed the door with exceeding gentleness, lest
the vibration might stir the fearful insect to attack. The bath was already
filled, and he plunged to his neck with a feeling of comparative security. A
window into the outside passage he also closed, so that nothing could possibly
come in. And steam soon charged the air and left its blurred deposit on the
glass. For ten minutes he could enjoy himself and pretend that he was safe. For
ten minutes he did so. He behaved carelessly, as though nothing mattered, and as
though all the courage in the world were his. He splashed and soaped and
sponged, making a lot of reckless noise. He got out and dried himself. Slowly
the steam subsided, the air grew clearer, he put on dressing-gown and slippers.
It was time to go out.

Unable to devise any further reason for delay, he opened the door softly half an
inch -- peeped out -- and instantly closed it again with a resounding bang. He
had heard a drone of wings. The insect had left its perch and now buzzed upon
the floor directly in his path. The air seemed full of stings; he felt stabs all
over him; his unprotected portions winced with the expectancy of pain. The beast
knew he was coming out, and was waiting for him. In that brief instant he had
felt its sting all over him, on his unprotected ankles, on his back, his neck,
his cheeks, in his eyes, and on the bald clearing that adorned his Anglican
head. Through the closed door he heard the ominous, dull murmur of his striped
adversary as it beat its angry wings. Its oiled and wicked sting shot in and out
with fury. Its deft legs worked. He saw its tiny waist already writhing with the
lust of battle. Ugh! That tiny waist! A moment's steady nerve and he could have
severed that cunning body from the directing brain with one swift, well-directed
thrust. But his nerve had utterly deserted him.

Human motives, even in the professedly holy, are an involved affair at any time.
Just now, in the Rev. James Milligan, they were inextricably mixed. He claims
this explanation, at any rate, in excuse of his abominable subsequent behaviour.
For, exactly at this moment, when he had decided to admit cowardice by ringing
for the Arab servant, a step was audible in the corridor outside, and courage
came with it into his disreputable heart. It was the step of the man he
cordially "disapproved of," using the pulpit version of "hated and despised." He
had overstayed his time, and the bath was in demand by Mr. Mullins. Mr. Mullins
invariably followed him at seven-thirty; it was now a quarter to eight. And Mr.
Mullins was a wretched drinking man -- "a sot."

In a flash the plan was conceived and put into execution. The temptation, of
course, was of the devil. Mr. Milligan hid the motive from himself, pretending
he hardly recognized it. The plan was what men call a dirty trick; it was also
irresistibly seductive. He opened the door, stepped boldly, nose in the air,
right over the hideous insect on the floor, and fairly pranced into the outer
passage. The brief transit brought a hundred horrible sensations -- that the
hornet would rise and sting his leg, that it would cling to his dressing-gown
and stab his spine, that he would step upon it and die, like Achilles, of a heel
exposed. But with these, and conquering them, was one other stronger emotion
that robbed the lesser terrors of their potency -- that Mr. Mullins would run
precisely the same risks five seconds later, unprepared. He heard the gloating
insect buzz and scratch the oilcloth. But it was behind him. He was safe!

"Good morning to you, Mr. Mullins," he observed with a gracious smile. "I trust
I have not kept you waiting."

"Mornin'!" grunted Mullins sourly in reply, as he passed him with a distinctly
hostile and contemptuous air. For Mullins, though depraved, perhaps, was an
honest man, abhorring parsons and making no secret of his opinions -- whence the
bitter feeling.

All men, except those very big ones who are supermen, have something
astonishingly despicable in them. The despicable thing in Milligan came
uppermost now. He fairly chuckled. He met the snub with a calm, forgiving smile,
and continued his shambling gait with what dignity he could towards his bedroom
opposite. Then he turned his head to see. His enemy would meet an infuriated
hornet -- an Egyptian hornet! -- and might not notice it. He might step on it.
He might not. But he was bound to disturb it, and rouse it to attack. The
chances were enormously on the clerical side. And its sting meant death.

"May God forgive me!" ran subconsciously through his mind. And side by side with
the repentant prayer ran also a recognition of the tempter's eternal skill: "I
hope the devil it will sting him!"

It happened very quickly. The Rev. James Milligan lingered a moment by his door
to watch. He saw Mullins, the disgusting Mullins, step blithely into the
bathroom passage; he saw him pause, shrink back, and raise his arm to protect
his face. He heard him swear aloud: "What's the d_____d thing doing here? Have I
really got 'em again?" And then he heard him laugh -- a hearty, guffawing laugh
of genuine relief -- "It's real!"

The moment of revulsion was overwhelming. It filled the churchly heart with
anguish and bitter disappointment. For a space he hated the whole race of men.

For the instant Mr. Mullins realized that the insect was not a fiery illusion of
his disordered nerves, he went forward without the smallest hesitation. With his
towel he knocked down the flying terror. Then he stooped. He gathered up the
venomous thing his well-aimed blow had stricken so easily to the floor. He
advanced with it, held at arm's length, to the window. He tossed it out
carelessly. The Egyptian hornet flew away uninjured, and Mr. Mullins -- the Mr.
Mullins who drank, gave nothing to the church, attended no services, hated
parsons, and proclaimed the fact with enthusiasm -- this same Mr. Mullins went
to his unearned bath without a scratch. But first he saw his enemy standing in
the doorway across the passage, watching him -- and understood. That was the
awful part of it. Mullins would make a story of it, and the story would go the
round of the hotel.

The Rev. James Milligan, however, proved that his reputation for self-control
was not undeserved. He conducted morning service half an hour later with an
expression of peace upon his handsome face. He conquered all outward sign of
inward spiritual vexation; the wicked, he consoled himself, ever flourished like
green bay trees. It was notorious that the righteous never have any luck at all!
That was bad enough. But what was worse -- and the Rev. James Milligan
remembered for very long -- was the superior ease with which Mullins had
relegated both himself and hornet to the same level of comparative
insignificance. Mullins ignored them both -- which proved that he thought
himself superior. Infinitely worse than the sting of any hornet in the world: he
really was superior.

THE STRANGER

THE STRANGER
by Ambrose Bierce

A MAN stepped out of the darkness into the little illuminated circle
about our failing camp-fire and seated himself upon a rock.
'You are not the first to explore this region,' he said gravely.
Nobody controverted his statement; he was him- self proof of its
truth, for he was not of our party and must have been somewhere near
when we camped. Moreover, he must have companions not far away; it was
not a place where one would be living or trav- elling alone. For more
than a week we had seen, be- sides ourselves and our animals, only such
living things as rattlesnakes and horned toads. In an Ari- zona desert
one does not long coexist with only such creatures as these: one must
have pack animals, sup- plies, arms--'an outfit.' And all these imply
com- rades. It was perhaps a doubt as to what manner of men this
unceremonious stranger's comrades might be, together with something in
his words in- terpretable as a challenge that caused every man of our
half-dozen 'gentlemen adventurers' to rise to a sitting posture and lay
his hand upon a weapon --an act signifying, in that time and place, a
policy of expectation. The stranger gave the matter no attention and
began again to speak in the same deliberate, uninflected monotone in
which he had delivered his first sentence:
'Thirty years ago Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent, and
Berry Davis, all of Tucson, crossed the Santa Catalina mountains and
travelled due west, as nearly as the configuration of the coun- try
permitted. We were prospecting and it was our intention, if we found
nothing, to push through to the Gila river at some point near Big Bend,
where we understood there was a settlement. We had a good outfit, but no
guide--just Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry
Davis.'
The man repeated the names slowly and distinctly, as if to fix them
in the memories of his audience, every member of which was now
attentively observ- ing him, but with a slackened apprehension regard-
ing his possible companions somewhere in the dark- ness that seemed to
enclose us like a black wall; in the manner of this volunteer historian
was no sug- gestion of an unfriendly purpose. His act was rather that of
a harmless lunatic than an enemy. We were not so new to the country as
not to know that the solitary life of many a plainsman had a tendency to
develop eccentricities of conduct and character not always easily
distinguishable from mental aber- ration. A man is like a tree: in a
forest of his fellows he will grow as straight as his generic and
individual nature permits; alone in the open, he yields to the deforming
stresses and tortions that environ him. Some such thoughts were in my
mind as I watched the man from the shadow of my hat, pulled low to shut
out the firelight. A witless fellow, no doubt, but what could he be
doing there in the heart of a desert?
Having undertaken to tell this story, I wish that I could describe
the man's appearance; that would be a natural thing to do.
Unfortunately, and some- what strangely, I find myself unable to do so
with any degree of confidence, for afterward no two of us agreed as to
what he wore and how he looked; and when I try to set down my own
impressions they elude me. Anyone can tell some kind of story; narration
is one of the elemental powers of the race. But the talent for
description is a gift.
Nobody having broken silence the visitor went on to say:
'This country was not then what it is now. There was not a ranch
between the Gila and the Gulf. There was a little game here and there in
the moun- tains, and near the infrequent water-holes grass enough to
keep our animals from starvation. If we should be so fortunate as to
encounter no Indians we might get through. But within a week the purpose
of the expedition had altered from discovery of wealth to preservation
of life. We had gone too far to go back, for what was ahead could be no
worse than what was behind; so we pushed on, riding by night to avoid
Indians and the intolerable heat, and con- cealing ourselves by day as
best we could. Some- times, having exhausted our supply of wild meat and
emptied our casks, we were days without food or drink; then a water-hole
or a shallow pool in the bottom of an arroyo so restored our strength
and sanity that we were able to shoot some of the wild animals that
sought it also. Sometimes it was a bear, sometimes an antelope, a
coyote, a cougar-- that was as God pleased; all were food.
'One morning as we skirted a mountain range, seeking a practicable
pass, we were attacked by a band of Apaches who had followed our trail
up a gulch--it is not far from here. Knowing that they outnumbered us
ten to one, they took none of their usual cowardly precautions, but
dashed upon us at a gallop, firing and yelling. Fighting was out of the
question: we urged our feeble animals up the gulch as far as there was
footing for a hoof, then threw ourselves out of our saddles and took to
the chaparral on one of the slopes, abandoning our en- tire outfit to
the enemy. But we retained our rifles, every man--Ramon Gallegos,
William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry Davis.'
'Same old crowd,' said the humorist of our party. He was an Eastern
man, unfamiliar with the decent observances of social intercourse. A
gesture of dis- approval from our leader silenced him, and the stranger
proceeded with his tale:
'The savages dismounted also, and some of them ran up the gulch
beyond the point at which we had left it, cutting off further retreat in
that direction and forcing us on up the side. Unfortunately the chapar-
ral extended only a short distance up the slope, and as we came into the
open ground above we took the fire of a dozen rifles; but Apaches shoot
badly when in a hurry, and God so willed it that none of us fell. Twenty
yards up the slope, beyond the edge of the brush, were vertical cliffs,
in which, directly in front of us, was a narrow opening. Into that we
ran, finding ourselves in a cavern about as large as an ordinary room in
a house. Here for a time we were safe: a single man with a repeating
rifle could defend the entrance against all the Apaches in the land. But
against hunger and thirst we had no defence. Courage we still had, but
hope was a memory.
'Not one of those Indians did we afterward see, but by the smoke and
glare of their fires in the gulch we knew that by day and by night they
watched with ready rifles in the edge of the bush--knew that if we made
a sortie not a man of us would live to take three steps into the open.
For three days, watch- ing in turn, we held out before our suffering
became insupportable. Then--It was the morning of the fourth day--Ramon
Gallegos said:
'"Senores, I know not well of the good God and what please Him. I
have live without religion, and I am not acquaint with that of you.
Pardon, senores, if I shock you, but for me the time is come to beat the
game of the Apache."
'He knelt upon the rock floor of the cave and pressed his pistol
against his temple. "Madre de Dios," he said, "comes now the soul of
Ramon Gallegos."
'And so he left us--William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry Davis.
'I was the leader: it was for me to speak.
'"He was a brave man," I said--"he knew when to die, and how. It is
foolish to go mad from thirst and fall by Apache bullets, or be skinned
alive--it is in bad taste. Let us join Ramon Gallegos."
'"That is right," said William Shaw.
'"That is right," said George W. Kent.
'I straightened the limbs of Ramon Gallegos and put a handkerchief
over his face. Then William Shaw said: "I should like to look like
that--a little while."
'And George W. Kent said that he felt that way, too.
'"It shall be so," I said: "the red devils will wait a week. William
Shaw and George W. Kent, draw and kneel."
'They did so and I stood before them.
'" Almighty God, our Father," said I.
'"Almighty God, our Father," said William Shaw.
'"Almighty God, our Father," said George W. Kent.
'"Forgive us our sins," said I.
'"Forgive us our sins," said they.
'"And receive our souls."
'"And receive our souls."
'"Amen!"
'"Amen!"
'I laid them beside Ramon Gallegos and covered their faces.'
There was a quick commotion on the opposite side of the camp-fire:
one of our party had sprung to his feet, pistol in hand.
'And you!' he shouted--'you dared to escape? --you dare to be alive?
You cowardly hound, I'll send you to join them if I hang for it!'
But with the leap of a panther the captain was upon him, grasping
his wrist. 'Hold it in, Sam Yountsey, hold it in!'
We were now all upon our feet--except the stranger, who sat
motionless and apparently inat- tentive. Some one seized Yountsey's
other arm.
'Captain,' I said, 'there is something wrong here. This fellow is
either a lunatic or merely a liar--just a plain, everyday liar whom
Yountsey has no call to kill. If this man was of that party it had five
members, one of whom--probably himself--he has not named.'
'Yes,' said the captain, releasing the insur- gent, who sat down,
'there is something--unusual. Years ago four dead bodies of white men,
scalped and shamefully mutilated, were found about the mouth of that
cave. They are buried there; I have seen the graves--we shall all see
them to- morrow.'
The stranger rose, standing tall in the light of the expiring fire,
which in our breathless attention to his story we had neglected to keep
going.
'There were four,' he said--'Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W.
Kent, and Berry Davis.'
With this reiterated roll-call of the dead he walked into the
darkness and we saw him no more. At that moment one of our party, who
had been on guard, strode in among us, rifle in hand and somewhat
excited.
'Captain,' he said, 'for the last half-hour three men have been
standing out there on the mesa.' He pointed in the direction taken by
the stranger. 'I could see them distinctly, for the moon is up, but as
they had no guns and I had them covered with mine I thought it was their
move. They have made none, but damn it! they have got on to my nerves.'
'Go back to your post, and stay till you see them again,' said the
captain. 'The rest of you lie down again, or I'll kick you all into the
fire.'
The sentinel obediently withdrew, swearing, and did not return. As
we were arranging our blankets the fiery Yountsey said: 'I beg your
pardon, Cap- tain, but who the devil do you take them to be? '
'Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, and George W. Kent.'
'But how about Berry Davis? I ought to have shot him.'
'Quite needless; you couldn't have made him any deader. Go to
sleep.'


[*End*]

STALEY FLEMING'S HALLUCINATION

STALEY FLEMING'S HALLUCINATION
by Ambrose Bierce

OF two men who were talking one was a physician.
'I sent for you, Doctor,' said the other, 'but I don't think you can
do me any good. Maybe you can recommend a specialist in psychopathy. I
fancy I'm a bit loony.'
'You look all right,' the physician said.
'You shall judge--I have hallucinations. I wake every night and see
in my room, intently watching me, a big black Newfoundland dog with a
white forefoot.'
'You say you wake; are you sure about that? "Hallucinations" are
sometimes only dreams.'
'Oh, I wake all right. Sometimes I lie still a long time, looking at
the dog as earnestly as the dog looks at me--I always leave the light
going. When I can't endure it any longer I sit up in bed--and nothing is
there!
''M, 'm--what is the beast's expression?'
'It seems to me sinister. Of course I know that, except in art, an
animal's face in repose has always the same expression. But this is not
a real animal. Newfoundland dogs are pretty mild looking, you know;
what's the matter with this one?"
'Really, my diagnosis would have no value: I am not going to treat
the dog.'
The physician laughed at his own pleasantry, but narrowly watched
his patient from the corner of his eye. Presently he said: 'Fleming,
your description of the beast fits the dog of the late Atwell Barton.'
Fleming half rose from his chair, sat again and made a visible
attempt at indifference. 'I remember Barton,' he said; 'I believe he
was--it was re- ported that--wasn't there something suspicious in his
death?'
Looking squarely now into the eyes of his patient, the physician
said: 'Three years ago the body of your old enemy, Atwell Barton, was
found in the woods near his house and yours. He had been stabbed to
death. There have been no arrests; there was no clue. Some of us had
"theories." I had one. Have you?"
'I? Why, bless your soul, what could I know about it? You remember
that I left for Europe almost immediately afterward--a considerable time
after- ward. In the few weeks since my return you could not expect me to
construct a "theory." In fact, I have not given the matter a thought.
What about his dog?"
'It was first to find the body. It died of starva- tion on his
grave.'
We do not know the inexorable law underlying coincidences. Staley
Fleming did not, or he would perhaps not have sprung to his feet as the
night wind brought in through the open window the long wailing howl of a
distant dog. He strode several times across the room in the steadfast
gaze of the physician; then, abruptly confronting him, almost shouted:
'What has all this to do with my trouble, Dr. Halderman? You forget why
you were sent for.' Rising, the physician laid his hand upon his pa-
tient's arm and said, gently: 'Pardon me. I cannot diagnose your
disorder offhand--to-morrow, per- haps. Please go to bed, leaving your
door unlocked; I will pass the night here with your books. Can you call
me without rising?"
'Yes, there is an electric bell.'
'Good. If anything disturbs you push the button without sitting up.
Good night.'
Comfortably installed in an arm-chair the man of medicine stared
into the glowing coals and thought deeply and long, but apparently to
little purpose, for he frequently rose and opening a door leading to the
staircase, listened intently; then resumed his seat. Presently, however,
he fell asleep, and when he woke it was past midnight. He stirred the
failing fire, lifted a book from the table at his side and looked at the
title. It was Denneker's Meditations. He opened it at random and began
to read:
'Forasmuch as it is ordained of God that all flesh hath spirit and
thereby taketh on spiritual powers, so, also, the spirit hath powers of
the flesh, even when it is gone out of the flesh and liveth as a thing
apart, as many a violence performed by wraith and lemure sheweth. And
there be who say that man is not single in this, but the beasts have the
like evil inducement, and--'
The reading was interrupted by a shaking of the house, as by the
fall of a heavy object. The reader flung down the book, rushed from the
room and mounted the stairs to Fleming's bed-chamber. He tried the door,
but contrary to his instructions it was locked. He set his shoulder
against it with such force that it gave way. On the floor near the
disor- dered bed, in his night-clothes, lay Fleming, gasping away his
life.
The physician raised the dying man's head from the floor and
observed a wound in the throat. 'I should have thought of this,' he
said, believing it suicide.
When the man was dead an examination disclosed the unmistakable
marks of an animal's fangs deeply sunken into the jugular vein.
But there was no animal.

THE SECRET OF MACARGER'S GULCH

THE SECRET OF MACARGER'S GULCH
by Ambrose Bierce


NORTHWESTWARDLY from Indian Hill, about nine miles as the crow flies, is Macarger's Gulch. It is not much of a gulch--a mere depression between two wooded ridges of inconsiderable height. From its mouth up to its head--for gulches, like rivers, have an anatomy of their own--the distance does not exceed two miles, and the width at bottom is at only one place more than a dozen yards; for most of the distance on either side of the little brook which drains it in winter, and goes dry in the early spring, there is no level ground at all; the steep slopes of the hills, covered with an almost inpenetrable growth of manzanita and chemisal, are parted by nothing but the width of the watercourse. No one but an occa- sional enterprising hunter of the vicinity ever goes into Macarger's Gulch, and five miles away it is un- known, even by name. Within that distance in any direction are far more conspicuous topographical features without names, and one might try in vain to ascertain by local inquiry the origin of the name of this one.
About midway between the head and the mouth of Macarger's Gulch, the hill on the right as you ascend is cloven by another gulch, a short dry one, and at the junction of the two is a level space of two or three acres, and there a few years ago stood an old board house containing one small room. How the component parts of the house, few and simple as they were, had been assembled at that almost inac- cessible point is a problem in the solution of which there would be greater satisfaction than advantage. Possibly the creek bed is a reformed road. It is certain that the gulch was at one time pretty thor- oughly prospected by miners, who must have had some means of getting in with at least pack animals carrying tools and supplies; their profits, apparently, were not such as would have justified any consider- able outlay to connect Macarger's Gulch with any centre of civilization enjoying the distinction of a sawmill. The house, however, was there, most of it. It lacked a door and a window frame, and the chimney of mud and stones had fallen into an un- lovely heap, overgrown with rank weeds. Such humble furniture as there may once have been and much of the lower weather-boarding, had served as fuel in the camp fires of hunters; as had also, prob- ably, the kerbing of an old well, which at the time I write of existed in the form of a rather wide but not very deep depression near by.
One afternoon in the summer of 1874, I passed up Macarger's Gulch from the narrow valley into which it opens, by following the dry bed of the brook. I was quail-shooting and had made a bag of about a dozen birds by the time I had reached the house described, of whose existence I was until then un- aware. After rather carelessly inspecting the ruin I resumed my sport, and having fairly good success prolonged it until near sunset, when it occurred to me that I was a long way from any human habita- tion--too far to reach one by nightfall. But in my game bag was food, and the old house would afford shelter, if shelter were needed on a warm and dew- less night in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, where one may sleep in comfort on the pine needles, without covering. I am fond of solitude and love the night, so my resolution to 'camp out' was soon taken, and by the time that it was dark I had made my bed of boughs and grasses in a corner of the room and was roasting a quail at a fire that I had kindled on the hearth. The smoke escaped out of the ruined chimney, the light illuminated the room with a kindly glow, and as I ate my simple meal of plain bird and drank the remains of a bottle of red wine which had served me all the afternoon in place of the water, which the region did not supply, I ex- perienced a sense of comfort which better fare and accommodations do not always give.
Nevertheless, there was something lacking. I had a sense of comfort, but not of security. I detected myself staring more frequently at the open doorway and blank window than I could find warrant for doing. Outside these apertures all was black, and I was unable to repress a certain feeling of apprehen- sion as my fancy pictured the outer world and filled it with unfriendly entities, natural and supernatural --chief among which, in their respective classes were the grizzly bear, which I knew was occasionally still seen in that region, and the ghost, which I had reason to think was not. Unfortunately, our feelings do not always respect the law of probabilities, and to me that evening, the possible and the impossible were equally disquieting.
Every one who has had experience in the matter must have observed that one confronts the actual and imaginary perils of the night with far less appre- hension in the open air than in a house with an open doorway. I felt this now as I lay on my leafy couch in a corner of the room next to the chimney and per- mitted my fire to die out. So strong became my sense of the presence of something malign and men- acing in the place, that I found myself almost un- able to withdraw my eyes from the opening, as in the deepening darkness it became more and more indistinct. And when the last little flame flickered and went out I grasped the shotgun which I had laid at my side and actually turned the muzzle in the direction of the now invisible entrance, my thumb on one of the hammers, ready to cock the piece, my breath suspended, my muscles rigid and tense. But later I laid down the weapon with a sense of shame and mortification. What did I fear, and why?--I, to whom the night had been

      a more familiar face
      Than that of man--

I, in whom that element of hereditary superstition from which none of us is altogether free had given to solitude and darkness and silence only a more alluring interest and charm! I was unable to com- prehend my folly, and losing in the conjecture the thing conjectured of, I fell asleep. And then I dreamed.
I was in a great city in a foreign land--a city whose people were of my own race, with minor differences of speech and costume; yet precisely what these were I could not say; my sense of them was indistinct. The city was dominated by a great castle upon an overlooking height whose name I knew, but could not speak. I walked through many streets, some broad and straight with high, modern buildings, some narrow, gloomy, and tortuous, be- tween the gables of quaint old houses whose over- hanging stories, elaborately ornamented with carv- ings in wood and stone, almost met above my head.
I sought some one whom I had never seen, yet knew that I should recognize when found. My quest was not aimless and fortuitous; it had a definite method. I turned from one street into another with- out hesitation and threaded a maze of intricate passages, devoid of the fear of losing my way.
Presently I stopped before a low door in a plain stone house which might have been the dwelling of an artisan of the better sort, and without announc- ing myself, entered. The room, rather sparely fur- nished, and lighted by a single window with small diamond-shaped panes, had but two occupants. a man and a woman. They took no notice of my intrusion, a circumstance which, in the manner of dreams, appeared entirely natural. They were not conversing; they sat apart, unoccupied and sullen.
The woman was young and rather stout, with fine large eyes and a certain grave beauty; my memory of her expression is exceedingly vivid, but in dreams one does not observe the details of faces. About her shoulders was a plaid shawl. The man was older, dark, with an evil face made more forbidding by a long scar extending from near the left temple di- agonally downward into the black moustache; though in my dreams it seemed rather to haunt the face as a thing apart--I can express it no other- wise--than to belong to it. The moment that I found the man and woman I knew them to be hus- band and wife.
What followed, I remember indistinctly; all was confused and inconsistent--made so, I think, by gleams of consciousness. It was as if two pictures, the scene of my dream, and my actual surroundings, had been blended, one overlying the other, until the former, gradually fading, disappeared, and I was broad awake in the deserted cabin, entirely and tranquilly conscious of my situation.
My foolish fear was gone, and opening my eyes I saw that my fire, not altogether burned out, had revived by the falling of a stick and was again lighting the room. I had probably slept only a few minutes, but my commonplace dream had somehow so strongly impressed me that I was no longer drowsy; and after a little while I rose, pushed the embers of my fire together, and lighting my pipe pro- ceeded in a rather ludicrously methodical way to meditate upon my vision.
It would have puzzled me then to say in what re- spect it was worth attention. In the first moment of serious thought that I gave to the matter I recog- nized the city of my dream as Edinburgh, where I had never been; so if the dream was a memory it was a memory of pictures and description. The recognition somehow deeply impressed me; it was as if something in my mind insisted rebelliously against will and reason on the importance of all this. And that faculty, whatever it was, asserted also a control of my speech. 'Surely,' I said aloud, quite involuntarily, 'the MacGregors must have come here from Edinburgh.'
At the moment, neither the substance of this re- mark nor the fact of my making it surprised me in the least; it seemed entirely natural that I should know the name of my dreamfolk and something of their history. But the absurdity of it all soon dawned upon me: I laughed aloud, knocked the ashes from my pipe and again stretched myself upon my bed of boughs and grass, where I lay staring absently into my failing fire, with no further thought of either my dream or my surroundings. Suddenly the single remaining flame crouched for a moment, then, springing upward, lifted itself clear of its embers and expired in air. The darkness was absolute.
At that instant--almost, it seemed, before the gleam of the blaze had faded from my eyes--there was a dull, dead sound, as of some heavy body fall- ing upon the floor, which shook beneath me as I lay. I sprang to a sitting posture and groped at my side for my gun; my notion was that some wild beast had leaped in through the open window. While the flimsy structure was still shaking from the impact I heard the sound of blows, the scuffling of feet upon the floor, and then--it seemed to come from almost within reach of my hand, the sharp shrieking of a woman in mortal agony. So horrible a cry I had never heard nor conceived; it utterly unnerved me; I was conscious for a moment of nothing but my own terror! Fortunately my hand now found the weapon of which it was in search, and the familiar touch somewhat restored me. I leaped to my feet, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness. The violent sounds had ceased, but more terrible than these, I heard, at what seemed long intervals, the faint intermittent gasping of some living, dying thing!
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the coals in the fireplace, I saw first the shapes of the door and window looking blacker than the black of the walls. Next, the distinction between wall and floor became discernible, and at last I was sensible to the form and full expanse of the floor from end to end and side to side. Nothing was visible and the silence was unbroken.
With a hand that shook a little, the other still grasping my gun, I restored my fire and made a critical examination of the place. There was nowhere any sign that the cabin had been entered. My own tracks were visible in the dust covering the floor, but there were no others. I relit my pipe, provided fresh fuel by ripping a thin board or two from the inside of the house--I did not care to go into the darkness out of doors--and passed the rest of the night smoking and thinking, and feeding my fire; not for added years of life would I have permitted that little flame to expire again.
Some years afterward I met in Sacramento a man named Morgan, to whom I had a note of introduc- tion from a friend in San Francisco. Dining with him one evening at his home I observed various 'trophies' upon the wall, indicating that he was fond of shooting. It turned out that he was, and in re- lating some of his feats he mentioned having been in the region of my adventure.
'Mr. Morgan,' I asked abruptly, 'do you know a place up there called Macarger's Gulch? '
'I have good reason to,' he replied; 'it was I who gave to the newspapers, last year, the accounts of the finding of the skeleton there."
I had not heard of it; the accounts had been pub- lished, it appeared, while I was absent in the East.
'By the way,' said Morgan, 'the name of the gulch is a corruption; it should have been called "MacGregor's." My dear,' he added, speaking to his wife, 'Mr. Elderson has upset his wine.'
That was hardly accurate--I had simply dropped it, glass and all.
'There was an old shanty once in the gulch,' Mor- gan resumed when the ruin wrought by my awk- wardness had been repaired, 'but just previously to my visit it had been blown down, or rather blown away, for its debris was scattered all about, the very floor being parted, plank from plank. Between two of the sleepers still in position I and my companion observed the remnant of a plaid shawl, and examin- ing it found that it was wrapped about the shoulders of the body of a woman; of course but little re- mained besides the bones, partly covered with frag- ments of clothing, and brown dry skin. But we will spare Mrs. Morgan,' he added with a smile. The lady had indeed exhibited signs of disgust rather than sympathy.
'It is necessary to say, however,' he went on, 'that the skull was fractured in several places, as by blows of some blunt instrument; and that instru- ment itself--a pick-handle, still stained with blood --lay under the boards near by.'
Mr. Morgan turned to his wife. 'Pardon me, my dear,' he said with affected solemnity, 'for men- tioning these disagreeable particulars, the natural though regrettable incidents of a conjugal quarrel-- resulting, doubtless, from the luckless wife's insub- ordination.'
'I ought to be able to overlook it,' the lady re- plied with composure; 'you have so many times asked me to in those very words.'
I thought he seemed rather glad to go on with his story.
'From these and other circumstances,' he said, 'the coroner's jury found that the deceased, Janet MacGregor, came to her death from blows inflicted by some person to the jury unknown; but it was added that the evidence pointed strongly to her hus- band, Thomas MacGregor, as the guilty person. But Thomas MacGregor has never been found nor heard of. It was learned that the couple came from Edin- burgh, but not--my dear, do you not observe that Mr. Elderson's bone-plate has water in it?'
I had deposited a chicken bone in my finger bowl.
'In a little cupboard I found a photograph of MacGregor, but it did not lead to his capture.'
'Will you let me see it?' I said.
The picture showed a dark man with an evil face made more forbidding by a long scar extending from near the temple diagonally downward into the black moustache.
'By the way, Mr. Elderson,' said my affable host, 'may I know why you asked about "Macarger's Gulch"?'
'I lost a mule near there once,' I replied, 'and the mischance has--has quite--upset me.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Morgan, with the mechanical intonation of an interpreter translating, 'the loss of Mr. Elderson's mule has peppered his coffee.'

THE REALM OF THE UNREAL

THE REALM OF THE UNREAL
by Ambrose Bierce

1

FOR a part of the distance between Auburn and Newcastle the road--first on one side of a creek and then on the other--occupies the whole bottom of the ravine, being partly cut out of the steep hillside, and partly built up with boulders removed from the creek-bed by the miners. The hills are wooded, the course of the ravine is sinuous. In a dark night care- ful driving is required in order not to go off into the water. The night that I have in memory was dark, the creek a torrent, swollen by a recent storm. I had driven up from Newcastle and was within about a mile of Auburn in the darkest and narrowest part of the ravine, looking intently ahead of my horse for the roadway. Suddenly I saw a man almost under the animal's nose, and reined in with a jerk that came near setting the creature upon its haunches.
'I beg your pardon,' I said; 'I did not see you, sir.'
'You could hardly be expected to see me,' the man replied civilly, approaching the side of the vehicle; 'and the noise of the creek prevented my hearing you.'
I at once recognized the voice, although five years had passed since I had heard it. I was not particu- larly well pleased to hear it now.
'You are Dr. Dorrimore, I think,' said I.
'Yes; and you are my good friend Mr. Manrich. I am more than glad to see you--the excess,' he added, with a light laugh, 'being due to the fact that I am going your way, and naturally expect an invitation to ride with you.'
'Which I extend with all my heart.'
That was not altogether true.
Dr. Dorrimore thanked me as he seated himself beside me, and I drove cautiously forward, as before. Doubtless it is fancy, but it seems to me now that the remaining distance was made in a chill fog; that I was uncomfortably cold; that the way was longer than ever before, and the town, when we reached it, cheerless, forbidding, and desolate. It must have been early in the evening, yet I do not recollect a light in any of the houses nor a living thing in the streets. Dorrimore explained at some length how he hap- pened to be there, and where he had been during the years that had elapsed since I had seen him. I recall the fact of the narrative, but none of the facts narrated. He had been in foreign countries and had returned--this is all that my memory retains, and this I already knew. As to myself I cannot remember that I spoke a word, though doubtless I did.
Of one thing I am distinctly conscious: the man's presence at my side was strangely distasteful and disquieting--so much so that when I at last pulled up under the lights of the Putnam House I experi- enced a sense of having escaped some spiritual peril of a nature peculiarly forbidding. This sense of relief was somewhat modified by the discovery that Dr. Dorrimore was living at the same hotel.
     2
In partial explanation of my feelings regarding Dr. Dorrimore I will relate briefly the circumstances under which I had met him some years before. One evening a half-dozen men of whom I was one were sitting in the library of the Bohemian Club in San Francisco. The conversation had turned to the sub- ject of sleight-of-hand and the feats of the prestidigi- tateurs, one of whom was then exhibiting at a local theatre.
'These fellows are pretenders in a double sense,' said one of the party; 'they can do nothing which it is worth one's while to be made a dupe by. The humblest wayside juggler in India could mystify them to the verge of lunacy.'
'For example, how?' asked another, lighting a cigar.
'For example, by all their common and familiar performances--throwing large objects into the air which never come down; causing plants to sprout, grow visibly and blossom, in bare ground chosen by spectators; putting a man into a wicker basket, piercing him through and through with a sword while he shrieks and bleeds, and then--the basket being opened nothing is there; tossing the free end of a silken ladder into the air, mounting it and disappearing.'
'Nonsense!' I said, rather uncivilly, I fear. 'You surely do not believe such things?'
'Certainly not: I have seen them too often.'
'But I do,' said a journalist of considerable local fame as a picturesque reporter. 'I have so frequently related them that nothing but observation could shake my conviction. Why, gentlemen, I have my own word for it.'
Nobody laughed--all were looking at something behind me. Turning in my seat I saw a man in evening dress who had just entered the room. He was exceedingly dark, almost swarthy, with a thin face, black-bearded to the lips, an abundance of coarse black hair in some disorder, a high nose and eyes that glittered with as soulless an expression as those of a cobra. One of the group rose and introduced him as Dr. Dorrimore, of Calcutta. As each of us was presented in turn he acknowledged the fact with a profound bow in the Oriental manner, but with nothing of Oriental gravity. His smile impressed me as cynical and a trifle contemptuous. His whole demeanour I can describe only as disagreeably engaging.
His presence led the conversation into other chan- nels. He said little--I do not recall anything of what he did say. I thought his voice singularly rich and melodious, but it affected me in the same way as his eyes and smile. In a few minutes I rose to go. He also rose and put on his overcoat.
'Mr. Manrich,' he said, 'I am going your way.'
'The devil you are!' I thought. 'How do you know which way I am going?' Then I said, 'I shall be pleased to have your company.'
We left the building together. No cabs were in sight, the street cars had gone to bed, there was a full moon and the cool night air was delightful; we walked up the California Street Hill. I took that direction thinking he would naturally wish to take another, toward one of the hotels.
'You do not believe what is told of the Hindu jugglers,' he said abruptly.
'How do you know that?' I asked.
Without replying he laid his hand lightly upon my arm and with the other pointed to the stone side- walk directly in front. There, almost at our feet, lay the dead body of a man, the face upturned and white in the moonlight! A sword whose hilt sparkled with gems stood fixed and upright in the breast; a pool of blood had collected on the stones of the sidewalk.
I was startled and terrified--not only by what I saw, but by the circumstances under which I saw it. Repeatedly during our ascent of the hill my eyes, I thought, had traversed the whole reach of that sidewalk, from street to street. How could they have been insensible to this dreadful object now so con- spicuous in the white moonlight.
As my dazed faculties cleared I observed that the body was in evening dress; the overcoat thrown wide open revealed the dress-coat, the white tie, the broad expanse of shirt front pierced by the sword. And--horrible revelation!--the face, except for its pallor, was that of my companion! It was to the minutest detail of dress and feature Dr. Dorri- more himself. Bewildered and horrified, I turned to look for the living man. He was nowhere visible, and with an added terror I retired from the place, down the hill in the direction whence I had come. I had taken but a few strides when a strong grasp upon my shoulder arrested me. I came near crying out with terror: the dead man, the sword still fixed in his breast, stood beside me! Pulling out the sword with his disengaged hand, he flung it from him, the moonlight glinting upon the jewels of its hilt and the unsullied steel of its blade. It fell with a clang upon the sidewalk ahead and--vanished! The man, swarthy as before, relaxed his grasp upon my shoul- der and looked at me with the same cynical regard that I had observed on first meeting him. The dead have not that look--it partly restored me, and turn- ing my head backward, I saw the smooth white expanse of sidewalk, unbroken from street to street.
'What is all this nonsense, you devil?' I de- manded, fiercely enough, though weak and trembling in every limb.
'It is what some are pleased to call jugglery,' he answered, with a light, hard laugh.
He turned down Dupont Street and I saw him no more until we met in the Auburn ravine.
     3
On the day after my second meeting with Dr. Dorrimore I did not see him: the clerk in the Put- nam House explained that a slight illness confined him to his rooms. That afternoon at the railway station I was surprised and made happy by the unexpected arrival of Miss Margaret Corray and her mother, from Oakland.
This is not a love story. I am no story-teller, and love as it is cannot be portrayed in a literature domi- nated and enthralled by the debasing tyranny which 'sentences letters' in the name of the Young Girl. Under the Young Girl's blighting reign--or rather under the rule of those false Ministers of the Censure who have appointed themselves to the custody of her welfare--Love
         veils her sacred fires,
 And, unaware, Morality expires,

famished upon the sifted meal and distilled water of a prudish purveyance.
Let it suffice that Miss Corray and I were engaged in marriage. She and her mother went to the hotel at which I lived, and for two weeks I saw her daily. That I was happy needs hardly be said; the only bar to my perfect enjoyment of those golden days was the presence of Dr. Dorrimore, whom I had felt compelled to introduce to the ladies.
By them he was evidently held in favour. What could I say? I knew absolutely nothing to his dis- credit. His manners were those of a cultivated and considerate gentleman; and to women a man's man- ner is the man. On one or two occasions when I saw Miss Corray walking with him I was furious, and once had the indiscretion to protest. Asked for rea- sons, I had none to give, and fancied I saw in her expression a shade of contempt for the vagaries of a jealous mind. In time I grew morose and con- sciously disagreeable, and resolved in my madness to return to San Francisco the next day. Of this, however, I said nothing.
     4
There was at Auburn an old, abandoned cemetery. It was nearly in the heart of the town, yet by night it was as gruesome a place as the most dismal of human moods could crave. The railings about the plots were prostrate, decayed, or altogether gone. Many of the graves were sunken, from others grew sturdy pines, whose roots had committed unspeak- able sin. The headstones were fallen and broken across; brambles overran the ground; the fence was mostly gone, and cows and pigs wandered there at will; the place was a dishonour to the living, a calumny on the dead, a blasphemy against God.
The evening of the day on which I had taken my madman's resolution to depart in anger from all that was dear to me found me in that congenial spot. The light of the half moon fell ghostly through the foliage of trees in spots and patches, revealing much that was unsightly, and the black shadows seemed conspiracies withholding to the proper time revelations of darker import. Passing along what had been a gravel path, I saw emerging from shadow the figure of Dr. Dorrimore. I was myself in shadow, and stood still with clenched hands and set teeth, trying to control the impulse to leap upon and stran- gle him. A moment later a second figure joined him and clung to his arm. It was Margaret Corray!
I cannot rightly relate what occurred. I know that I sprang forward, bent upon murder; I know that I was found in the grey of the morning, bruised and bloody, with finger marks upon my throat. I was taken to the Putnam House, where for days I lay in a delirium. All this I know, for I have been told. And of my own knowledge I know that when consciousness returned with convalescence I sent for the clerk of the hotel.
'Are Mrs. Corray and her daughter still here?' I asked.
'What name did you say?'
'Corray.'
'Nobody of that name has been here.'
'I beg you will not trifle with me,' I said petu- lantly. 'You see that I am all right now; tell me the truth.'
'I give you my word,' he replied with evident sin- cerity, 'we have had no guests of that name.'
His words stupefied me. I lay for a few moments in silence; then I asked: 'Where is Dr. Dorrimore?'
'He left on the morning of your fight and has not been heard of since. It was a rough deal he gave you.'
     5
Such are the facts of this case. Margaret Corray is now my wife. She has never seen Auburn, and dur- ing the weeks whose history as it shaped itself in my brain I have endeavoured to relate, was living at her home in Oakland, wondering where her lover was and why he did not write. The other day I saw in the Baltimore Sun the following paragraph:
'Professor Valentine Dorrimore, the hypnotist, had a large audience last night. The lecturer, who has lived most of his life in India, gave some mar- vellous exhibitions of his power, hypnotizing anyone who chose to submit himself to the experiment, by merely looking at him. In fact, he twice hypnotized the entire audience (reporters alone exempted), making all entertain the most extraordinary illusions. The most valuable feature of the lecture was the disclosure of the methods of the Hindu jugglers in their famous performances, familiar in the mouths of travellers. The professor declares that these thaumaturgists have acquired such skill in the art which he learned at their feet that they perform their miracles by simply throwing the "spectators" into a state of hypnosis and telling them what to see and hear. His assertion that a peculiarly susceptible subject may be kept in the realm of the unreal for weeks, months, and even years, dominated by what- ever delusions and hallucinations the operator may from time to time suggest, is a trifle disquieting.'

ONE SUMMER NIGHT

ONE SUMMER NIGHT
by Ambrose Bierce

THE fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to prove
that he was dead: he had al- ways been a hard man to convince. That he
really was buried, the testimony of his senses compelled him to admit.
His posture--flat upon his back, with his hands crossed upon his stomach
and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably altering
the situation--the strict confinement of his entire person, the black
darkness and profound silence, made a body of evidence impossible to
controvert and he accepted it without cavil.
But dead--no; he was only very, very ill. He had, withal, the
invalid's apathy and did not greatly con- cern himself about the
uncommon fate that had been allotted to him. No philosopher was he--just
a plain, commonplace person gifted, for the time be- ing, with a
pathological indifference: the organ that he feared consequences with
was torpid. So, with no particular apprehension for his immediate fu-
ture, he fell asleep and all was peace with Henry Armstrong.
But something was going on overhead. It was a dark summer night,
shot through with infrequent shimmers of lightning silently firing a
cloud lying low in the west and portending a storm. These brief,
stammering illuminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the
monuments and headstones of the cemetery and seemed to set them dancing.
It was not a night in which any credible witness was likely to be
straying about a cemetery, so the three men who were there, digging into
the grave of Henry Armstrong, felt reasonably secure.
Two of them were young students from a medi- cal college a few miles
away; the third was a gigan- tic negro known as Jess. For many years
Jess had been employed about the cemetery as a man-of-all- work and it
was his favourite pleasantry that he knew 'every soul in the place.'
From the nature of what he was now doing it was inferable that the place
was not so populous as its register may have shown it to be.
Outside the wall, at the part of the grounds farthest from the
public road, were a horse and a light wagon, waiting.
The work of excavation was not difficult: the earth with which the
grave had been loosely filled a few hours before offered little
resistance and was soon thrown out. Removal of the casket from its box
was less easy, but it was taken out, for it was a perquisite of Jess,
who carefully unscrewed the cover and laid it aside, exposing the body
in black trousers and white shirt. At that instant the air sprang to
flame, a cracking shock of thunder shook the stunned world and Henry
Armstrong tranquilly sat up. With inarticulate cries the men fled in
terror, each in a different direction. For nothing on earth could two of
them have been persuaded to return. But Jess was of another breed.
In the grey of the morning the two students, pallid and haggard from
anxiety and with the terror of their adventure still beating
tumultuously in their blood, met at the medical college.
'You saw it?' cried one.
'God! yes--what are we to do?'
They went around to the rear of the building, where they saw a
horse, attached to a light wagon, hitched to a gatepost near the door of
the dissecting- room. Mechanically they entered the room. On a bench in
the obscurity sat the negro Jess. He rose, grinning, all eyes and teeth.
'I'm waiting for my pay,' he said.
Stretched naked on a long table lay the body of Henry Armstrong, the
head defiled with blood and clay from a blow with a spade.

ONE OF TWINS

ONE OF TWINS
by Ambrose Bierce

A Letter found among the Papers of the late Mortimer Barr

YOU ask me if in my experience as one of a pair of twins I ever observed
anything unaccountable by the natural laws with which we have
acquaintance. As to that you shall judge; perhaps we have not all ac-
quaintance with the same natural laws. You may know some that I do not,
and what is to me unac- countable may be very clear to you.
You knew my brother John--that is, you knew him when you knew that I
was not present; but neither you nor, I believe, any human being could
distinguish between him and me if we chose to seem alike. Our parents
could not; ours is the only in- stance of which I have any knowledge of
so close resemblance as that. I speak of my brother John, but I am not
at all sure that his name was not Henry and mine John. We were regularly
christened, but after- ward, in the very act of tattooing us with small
dis- tinguishing marks, the operator lost his reckoning; and although I
bear upon my forearm a small 'H' and he bore a 'J,' it is by no means
certain that the letters ought not to have been transposed. During our
boyhood our parents tried to distinguish us more obviously by our
clothing and other simple devices, but we would so frequently exchange
suits and other- wise circumvent the enemy that they abandoned all such
ineffectual attempts, and during all the years that we lived together at
home everybody recognized the difficulty of the situation and made the
best of it by calling us both 'Jehnry.' I have often won- dered at my
father's forbearance in not branding us conspicuously upon our unworthy
brows, but as we were tolerably good boys and used our power of
embarrassment and annoyance with commendable moderation, we escaped the
iron. My father was, in fact, a singularly good-natured man, and I think
quietly enjoyed Nature's practical joke.
Soon after we had come to California, and settled at San Jose (where
the only good fortune that awaited us was our meeting with so kind a
friend as you), the family, as you know, was broken up by the death of
both my parents in the same week. My father died insolvent, and the
homestead was sacri- ficed to pay his debts. My sisters returned to
rela- tives in the East, but owing to your kindness John and I, then
twenty-two years of age, obtained em- ployment in San Francisco, in
different quarters of the town. Circumstances did not permit us to live
together, and we saw each other infrequently, some- times not oftener
than once a week. As we had few acquaintances in common, the fact of our
extraor- dinary likeness was little known. I come now to the matter of
your inquiry.
One day soon after we had come to this city I was walking down
Market Street late in the afternoon, when I was accosted by a
well-dressed man of mid- dle age, who after greeting me cordially said:
'Ste- vens, I know, of course, that you do not go out much, but I have
told my wife about you, and she would be glad to see you at the house. I
have a no- tion, too, that my girls are worth knowing. Suppose you come
out to-morrow at six and dine with us, en famille; and then if the
ladies can't amuse you after- ward I'll stand in with a few games of
billiards.'
This was said with so bright a smile and so en- gaging a manner that
I had not the heart to refuse, and although I had never seen the man in
my life I promptly replied: 'You are very good, sir, and it will give me
great pleasure to accept the invitation. Please present my compliments
to Mrs. Margovan and ask her to expect me.'
With a shake of the hand and a pleasant parting word the man passed
on. That he had mistaken me for my brother was plain enough. That was an
error to which I was accustomed and which it was not my habit to rectify
unless the matter seemed important. But how had I known that this man's
name was Margovan? It certainly is not a name that one would apply to a
man at random, with a probability that it would be right. In point of
fact, the name was as strange to me as the man.
The next morning I hastened to where my brother was employed and met
him coming out of the office with a number of bills that he was to
collect. I told him how I had 'committed' him and added that if he
didn't care to keep the engagement I should be delighted to continue the
impersonation.
'That's queer,' he said thoughtfully. 'Margovan is the only man in
the office here whom I know well and like. When he came in this morning
and we had passed the usual greetings some singular impulse prompted me
to say: "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Margovan, but I neglected to ask
your address." I got the address, but what under the sun I was to do
with it, I did not know until now. It's good of you to offer to take the
consequence of your impudence, but I'll eat that dinner myself, if you
please.'
He ate a number of dinners at the same place-- more than were good
for him, I may add without disparaging their quality; for he fell in
love with Miss Margovan, proposed marriage to her and was heartlessly
accepted.
Several weeks after I had been informed of the engagement, but
before it had been convenient for me to make the acquaintance of the
young woman and her family, I met one day on Kearney Street a handsome
but somewhat dissipated-looking man whom something prompted me to follow
and watch, which I did without any scruple whatever. He turned up Geary
Street and followed it until he came to Union Square. There he looked at
his watch, then entered the square. He loitered about the paths for some
time, evidently waiting for some one. Presently he was joined by a
fashionably dressed and beauti- ful young woman and the two walked away
up Stockton Street, I following. I now felt the necessity of extreme
caution, for although the girl was a stranger it seemed to me that she
would recognize me at a glance. They made several turns from one street
to another and finally, after both had taken a hasty look all
about--which I narrowly evaded by stepping into a doorway--they entered
a house of which I do not care to state the location. Its location was
better than its character.
I protest that my action in playing the spy upon these two strangers
was without assignable motive. It was one of which I might or might not
be ashamed, according to my estimate of the character of the person
finding it out. As an essential part of a narrative educed by your
question it is related here without hesitancy or shame.
A week later John took me to the house of his prospective
father-in-law, and in Miss Margovan, as you have already surmised, but
to my profound as- tonishment, I recognized the heroine of that discred-
itable adventure. A gloriously beautiful heroine of a discreditable
adventure I must in justice admit that she was; but that fact has only
this importance: her beauty was such a surprise to me that it cast a
doubt upon her identity with the young woman I had seen before; how
could the marvellous fascina- tion of her face have failed to strike me
at that time? But no--there was no possibility of error; the difference
was due to costume, light and general surroundings.
John and I passed the evening at the house, endur- ing, with the
fortitude of long experience, such deli- cate enough banter as our
likeness naturally sug- gested. When the young lady and I were left
alone for a few minutes I looked her squarely in the face and said with
sudden gravity:
'You, too, Miss Margovan, have a double: I saw her last Tuesday
afternoon in Union Square.'
She trained her great grey eyes upon me for a moment, but her glance
was a trifle less steady than my own and she withdrew it, fixing it on
the tip of her shoe.
'Was she very like me?' she asked, with an in- difference which I
thought a little overdone.
'So like,' said I, 'that I greatly admired her, and being unwilling
to lose sight of her I confess that I followed her until--Miss Margovan,
are you sure that you understand?'
She was now pale, but entirely calm. She again raised her eyes to
mine, with a look that did not falter.
'What do you wish me to do?' she asked. 'You need not fear to name
your terms. I accept them.'
It was plain, even in the brief time given me for reflection, that
in dealing with this girl ordinary methods would not do, and ordinary
exactions were needless.
'Miss Margovan,' I said, doubtless with some- thing of the
compassion in my voice that I had in my heart,' it is impossible not to
think you the victim of some horrible compulsion. Rather than impose new
embarrassments upon you I would prefer to aid you to regain your
freedom.'
She shook her head, sadly and hopelessly, and I continued, with
agitation:
'Your beauty unnerves me. I am disarmed by your frankness and your
distress. If you are free to act upon conscience you will, I believe, do
what you conceive to be best; if you are not--well, Heaven help us all!
You have nothing to fear from me but such opposition to this marriage as
I can try to justify on--on other grounds.'
These were not my exact words, but that was the sense of them, as
nearly as my sudden and conflict- ing emotions permitted me to express
it. I rose and left her without another look at her, met the others as
they re-entered the room and said, as calmly as I could: 'I have been
bidding Miss Margovan good evening; it is later than I thought.'
John decided to go with me. In the street he asked if I had observed
anything singular in Julia's manner.
'I thought her ill,' I replied; 'that is why I left.' Nothing more
was said.
The next evening I came late to my lodgings. The events of the
previous evening had made me nervous and ill; I had tried to cure myself
and attain to clear thinking by walking in the open air, but I was op-
pressed with a horrible presentiment of evil--a pre- sentiment which I
could not formulate. It was a chill, foggy night; my clothing and hair
were damp and I shook with cold. In my dressing-gown and slippers before
a blazing grate of coals I was even more un- comfortable. I no longer
shivered but shuddered-- there is a difference. The dread of some
impending calamity was so strong and dispiriting that I tried to drive
it away by inviting a real sorrow--tried to dispel the conception of a
terrible future by substi- tuting the memory of a painful past. I
recalled the death of my parents and endeavoured to fix my mind upon the
last sad scenes at their bedsides and their graves. It all seemed vague
and unreal, as hav- ing occurred ages ago and to another person. Sud-
denly, striking through my thought and parting it as a tense cord is
parted by the stroke of steel--I can think of no other comparison--I
heard a sharp cry as of one in mortal agony! The voice was that of my
brother and seemed to come from the street out- side my window. I sprang
to the window and threw it open. A street lamp directly opposite threw a
wan and ghastly light upon the wet pavement and the fronts of the
houses. A single policeman, with upturned collar, was leaning against a
gatepost, quietly smoking a cigar. No one else was in sight. I closed
the window and pulled down the shade, seated myself before the fire and
tried to fix my mind upon my surroundings. By way of assisting, by per-
formance of some familiar act, I looked at my watch; it marked half-past
eleven. Again I heard that aw- ful cry! It seemed in the room--at my
side. I was frightened and for some moments had not the power to move. A
few minutes later--I have no recollec- tion of the intermediate time--I
found myself hur- rying along an unfamiliar street as fast as I could
walk. I did not know where I was, nor whither I was going, but presently
sprang up the steps of a house before which were two or three carriages
and in which were moving lights and a subdued confusion of voices. It
was the house of Mr. Margovan.
You know, good friend, what had occurred there. In one chamber lay
Julia Margovan, hours dead by poison; in another John Stevens, bleeding
from a pistol wound in the chest, inflicted by his own hand. As I burst
into the room; pushed aside the phy- sicians and laid my hand upon his
forehead he un- closed his eyes, stared blankly, closed them slowly and
died without a sign.
I knew no more until six weeks afterwards, when I had been nursed
back to life by your own saintly wife in your own beautiful home. All of
that you know, but what you do not know is this--which, however, has no
bearing upon the subject of your psychological researches--at least not
upon that branch of them in which, with a delicacy and consid- eration
all your own, you have asked for less as- sistance than I think I have
given you:
One moonlight night several years afterward I was passing through
Union Square. The hour was late and the square deserted. Certain
memories of the past naturally came into my mind as I came to the spot
where I had once witnessed that fateful assignation, and with that
unaccountable perversity which prompts us to dwell upon thoughts of the
most painful character I seated myself upon one of the benches to
indulge them. A man entered the square and came along the walk toward
me. His hands were clasped behind him, his head was bowed; he seemed to
observe nothing. As he approached the shadow in which I sat I recognized
him as the man whom I had seen meet Julia Margovan years before at that
spot. But he was terribly altered--grey, worn and haggard. Dissipation
and vice were in evidence in every look; illness was no less apparent.
His cloth- ing was in disorder, his hair fell across his forehead in a
derangement which was at once uncanny, and picturesque. He looked fitter
for restraint than lib- erty--the restraint of a hospital.
With no defined purpose I rose and confronted him. He raised his
head and looked me full in the face. I have no words to describe the
ghastly change that came over his own; it was a look of unspeakable
terror--he thought himself eye to eye with a ghost. But he was a
courageous man. 'Damn you, John Stevens!' he cried, and lifting his
trembling arm he dashed his fist feebly at my face and fell headlong
upon the gravel as I walked away.
Somebody found him there, stone-dead. Nothing more is known of him,
not even his name. To know of a man that he is dead should be enough.