A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

It was a long, steep ascent, hewn out of the solid rock; but at last Paul stood before the great gates of the castle, and paused to take breath. Hundreds of feet below him his yacht was riding at anchor, looking like a toy vessel upon a painted sea, and a little group of scattered lights showed him where the hamlet lay. Before him was the stern, massive front of the castle, wrapped in profound gloom, but standing out in clear, ponderous outline against the starlit sky. There seemed to be no light from any part of it, and the great iron gates leading into the courtyard were closed. Nor was there any sound at all, not even the barking of a dog. It was like a dwelling of the dead.

A great, rusty bell-chain hung by the side of the gate, and as there seemed to be no other means of communication with the interior, Paul pulled it vigorously. Its hoarse echoes had scarcely died away before several rough-looking islanders, carrying flaring oil lamps, trooped into the courtyard from the rear of the building, and one of them, drawing the bolts, threw open the gates.

"I have come to see the Count," Paul said, addressing the nearest of them. "Will you conduct me to him?"

The man replied energetically, but in a patois utterly unintelligible. He led the way across the courtyard towards the castle, however, and Paul followed close behind. They did not enter by the front, but by a low, nail-studded door at the extreme corner of the tower, which the man immediately closed and locked behind him.

Paul looked around him curiously, but in the semi-darkness there was little to see. He was in a corridor, of which the walls were simply whitewashed, and the floor bare stone; but as they passed onward, down several passages, and up more than one flight of steps, the proportions of the place expanded. The ceilings grew loftier, and the corridors wider. Yet there was no attempt anywhere at decoration or furniture of any sort. The place was like an early-day prison—huge, bare, and damp. Once, crossing a balustraded corridor, there was a view of a huge hall down below, bare save for a few huge skins thrown carelessly around, and a great stack of firearms and other weapons which lined the walls on either side. It was the only sign of habitation that Paul had seen.

Suddenly his guide paused, and held up his finger. Paul, too, listened; and close at hand he heard, to his surprise, the muffled sound of voices chanting some sad hymn in a deep minor key. The rise and fall of those mournful voices was wonderfully impressive. What could it mean? It was a dirge, a funeral hymn! Its every note seemed to breathe of death.

"What is that?" Paul asked. "Is any one ill—dying?"

The man shook his head. He could not understand. He only motioned to Paul to move silently, and hurried on. They were in a wide corridor, with disused doors on either side, but their feet fell no longer upon the bare stone. A rough sort of drugget had been hastily thrown down in the centre of the passage, and their movements roused no more strange echoes between the bare walls and the vaulted roof. At every step forward they took the chanting grew more distinct, and at last the man stopped at the end of the passage before a door, softly tapped at it. It was opened at once, and Paul found himself ushered into a great, dimly lit bedchamber.

He glanced around him with keen interest. If the interior of the room was a little dilapidated, it was full of the remains of past magnificence. The walls were still covered with fine tapestry, of which the design was almost obliterated, although the texture and colouring still remained. The furniture was huge, and of the fashion of days gone by, and the bedstead was elaborately carved and surmounted by a coat of arms. Further Paul had but little opportunity to discover, for as soon as his presence became known in the room, a black-cowled monk left the bedside and approached him.