Watson, I am going out to take that man!"
The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been
forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an
unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We
were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back
where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others
would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for
example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and
it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen
upon the adventure.
"I will come," said I.
"Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start
the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off."
In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our
expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull
moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The
night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again
the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the
face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain
began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front.
"Are you armed?" I asked.
"I have a hunting-crop."
"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy
before he can resist."
"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this?
How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is
exalted?"
As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast
gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the
borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the
silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and
then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded,
the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The
baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the
darkness.
"My God, what's that, Watson?"
"I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once
before."
It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
straining our ears, but nothing came.
"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."
My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.
"What do they call this sound?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The folk on the country-side."
"Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call
it?"
"Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"
I hesitated but could not escape the question.
"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."
He groaned and was silent for a few moments.
"A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it seemed to come from miles
away, over yonder, I think."
"It was hard to say whence it came."
"It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the
great Grimpen Mire?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself
that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear
to speak the truth."
"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be
the calling of a strange bird."
"No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these
stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a
cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"
"No, no."
"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is
another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear
such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the
hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that
I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood.
Feel my hand!"
It was as cold as a block of marble.
"You'll be all right to-morrow."
"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise
that we do now?"
"Shall we turn back?"
"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it.
We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us.
Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose
upon the moor."
We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the
craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a
light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be
far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a
few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we
knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in
a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep
the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in
the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our
approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal
light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the
middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one
straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.
"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.
"Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
glimpse of him."
The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust
out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and
scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard,
and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of
those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The
light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which
peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a crafty
and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.
Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or
the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was
not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any
instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I
sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same
moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which
splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught
one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly-built figure as he sprang
to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance
the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the
hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other
side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a
mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled
him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and not
to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.
We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon
found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly
among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran
until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever
wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we
watched him disappearing in the distance.
And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go
home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the
right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony
statue on that shining back-ground, I saw the figure of a man upon
the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you
that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I
could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with
his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if
he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite
which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that
terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the
place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller
man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in
the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was
gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower
edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and
motionless figure.
I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was
some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from
that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not
in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man
upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence
and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt,"
said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow
escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I
should like to have some further proof of it. To-day we mean to
communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their
missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the
triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the
adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes,
that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of
what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that
it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to
select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in
helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some
progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of
their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But
the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as
inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some
light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down
to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the
next few days.
CHAPTER X
Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I
have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to
abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided
by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter
will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every
detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which
followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange
experiences upon the moor.
October 16th.--A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house
is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the
dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of
the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes
upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is
in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am
conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending
danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am
unable to define it.
And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence
of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which
is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the
Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and
there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a
strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard
the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is
incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary
laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and
fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of.
Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also;
but if I have one quality upon earth it is common-sense, and nothing
will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to
descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with
a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting
from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and
I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
