The Greatest Works of Arthur B. Reeve - 60 Titles in One Edition - Arthur B. Reeve

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huge reproduction in plaster of one of the most sardonic of Notre Dame's gargoyles seemed to preside over everything--a terrible figure in such an atmosphere.

      As we entered, we were struck by the blinding glare of the light, in contrast with the darkened room in which we had passed our brief novitiate, if it might be called such.

      Suddenly the lights were extinguished.

      The great gargoyle shone with an infernal light of its own!

      "Phosphorescent paint," whispered Kennedy to me.

      Still, it did not detract from the weird effect to know what caused it.

      There was a startling noise in the general hush.

      "Sata!" cried one of the devotees.

      A door opened and there appeared the veritable priest of the Devil--pale of face, nose sharp, mouth bitter, eyes glassy.

      "That is Rapport," Vaughn whispered to me.

      The worshipers crowded forward.

      Without a word, he raised his long, lean forefinger and began to single them out impressively. As he did so, each spoke, as if imploring aid.

      He came to Mrs. Langhorne.

      "I have tried the charm," she cried earnestly, "and the one whom I love still hates me, while the one I hate loves me!"

      "Concentrate!" replied the priest, "concentrate! Think always 'I love him. He must love me. I want him to love me. I love him. He must love me.' Over and over again you must think it. Then the other side, 'I hate him. He must leave me. I want him to leave me. I hate him--hate him.'"

      Around the circle he went.

      At last his lean finger was outstretched at Veda. It seemed as if some imp of the perverse were compelling her unwilling tongue to unlock its secrets.

      "Sometimes," she cried in a low, tremulous voice, "something seems to seize me, as if by the hand and urge me onward. I cannot flee from it."

      "Defend yourself!" answered the priest subtly. "When you know that some one is trying to kill you mentally, defend yourself! Work against it by every means in your power. Discourage! Intimidate! Destroy!"

      I marveled at these cryptic utterances. They shadowed a modern Black Art, of which I had had no conception--a recrudescence in other language of the age-old dualism of good and evil. It was a sort of mental malpractice.

      "Over and over again," he went on speaking to her, "the same thought is to be repeated against an enemy. 'You know you are going to die! You know you are going to die!' Do it an hour, two hours, at a time. Others can help you, all thinking in unison the same thought."

      What was this, I asked myself breathlessly--a new transcendental toxicology?

      Slowly, a strange mephitic vapor seemed to exhale into the room-- or was it my heightened imagination?

      Chapter XXIII

      The Psychic Curse

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      There came a sudden noise--nameless--striking terror, low, rattling. I stood rooted to the spot. What was it that held me? Was it an atavistic joy in the horrible or was it merely a blasphemous curiosity?

      I scarcely dared to look.

      At last I raised my eyes. There was a live snake, upraised, his fangs striking out viciously--a rattler!

      I would have drawn back and fled, but Craig caught my arm.

      "Caged," he whispered monosyllabically.

      I shuddered. This, at least, was no drawing-room diablerie.

      "It is Ophis," intoned Rapport, "the Serpent--the one active form in Nature that cannot be ungraceful!"

      The appearance of the basilisk seemed to heighten the tension.

      At last it broke loose and then followed the most terrible blasphemies. The disciples, now all frenzied, surrounded closer the priest, the gargoyle and the serpent.

      They worshiped with howls and obscenities. Mad laughter mingled with pale fear and wild scorn in turns were written on the hectic faces about me.

      They had risen--it became a dance, a reel.

      The votaries seemed to spin about on their axes, as it were, uttering a low, moaning chant as they whirled. It was a mania, the spirit of demonism. Something unseen seemed to urge them on.

      Disgusted and stifled at the surcharged atmosphere, I would have tried to leave, but I seemed frozen to the spot. I could think of nothing except Poe's Masque of the Red Death.

      Above all the rest whirled Seward Blair himself. The laugh of the fiend, for the moment, was in his mouth. An instant he stood--the oracle of the Demon--devil-possessed. Around whirled the frantic devotees, howling.

      Shrilly he cried, "The Devil is in me!"

      Forward staggered the devil dancer--tall, haggard, with deep sunken eyes and matted hair, face now smeared with dirt and blood- red with the reflection of the strange, unearthly phosphorescence.

      He reeled slowly through the crowd, crooning a quatrain, in a low, monotonous voice, his eyelids drooping and his head forward on his breast:

      If the Red Slayer think he slays, Or the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep and pass and turn again!

      Entranced the whirling crowd paused and watched. One of their number had received the "power."

      He was swaying slowly to and fro.

      "Look!" whispered Kennedy.

      His fingers twitched, his head wagged uncannily. Perspiration seemed to ooze from every pore. His breast heaved.

      He gave a sudden yell--ear-piercing. Then followed a screech of hellish laughter.

      The dance had ended, the dancers spellbound at the sight.

      He was whirling slowly, eyes protruding now, mouth foaming, chest rising and falling like a bellows, muscles quivering.

      Cries, vows, imprecations, prayers, all blended in an infernal hubbub.

      With a burst of ghastly, guttural laughter, he shrieked, "I AM the Devil!"

      His arms waved--cutting, sawing, hacking the air.

      The votaries, trembling, scarcely moved, breathed, as he danced.

      Suddenly he gave a great leap into the air--then fell, motionless. They crowded around him. The fiendish look was gone--the demoniac laughter stilled.

      It was over.

      The tension of the orgy had been too much for us. We parted, with scarcely a word, and yet I could feel that among the rest there was a sort of unholy companionship.

      Silently, Kennedy and I drove away in the darkened cab, this time with Seward and Veda Blair and Mrs. Langhorne.

      For several minutes not a word was said. I was, however, much occupied in watching the two women. It was not because of anything they said or did. That was not necessary. But I felt that there was a feud, something that set them against each other.

      "How would Rapport use the death thought, I wonder?" asked Craig speculatively, breaking the silence.

      Blair answered quickly. "Suppose some one tried to break away, to renounce the Lodge, expose its secrets. They would treat him so as to make him harmless--perhaps insane, confused, afraid to talk, paralyzed, or even to commit suicide or be killed in an accident. They would put the death thought on him!"

      Even in the prosaic jolting of the cab, away from the terrible mysteries of the Red Lodge, one could feel the spell.

      The cab stopped. Seward was on his feet in a moment and handing Mrs. Langhorne

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