“Let’s try it on Miss Cressage,” said Morchard, suddenly, and he moved forward as he spoke. The case had a plain sheet of glass immediately in front of the jewel, through which it could be examined, whilst at either side was a glass door kept secured by a tiny handle. As Morchard put out his hand, Rollo Dangerfield stopped him with a gesture.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s one of our family customs never to take the Talisman out of its case—never even to lift the shade from it.”
He smiled, faintly apologetic, but evidently unbending in defence of his traditions.
“These ideas grow up somehow, in ways that are difficult to trace back to their births; but as time goes on, they gain a sort of sanctity from tradition, and speaking for myself, I should be sorry if I were the first of us to break this particular custom. There are so few of the old things left in this twentieth century world, and perhaps you young people won’t grudge me this one, if I keep it.”
The touch of wistfulness had come back into his voice, robbing his refusal of the faintest trace of offence. Eileen, afraid that some of the others might embarrass the old man by pressing him to let them handle the jewel, hastened to put in a word before Morchard could open his mouth.
“I’d love to try it on; but what Mr. Dangerfield says is quite right. And now, I’d like to hear its story—the legend, I mean.”
Rollo Dangerfield silently invited them to seat themselves. Then, leaning against the case containing the Talisman, he turned to face his audience and began to speak. At first he seemed nervous of his effect; but as the tale went on, his voice changed into a monotone, as though he were reciting some well-remembered ritual.
“You must bear in mind that this is a very old tale, far older than any written document that we have. True enough, it fits the geography of Friocksheim; but for all we know, the legend may be far older than Friocksheim and may deal with some Pool which none of us has ever seen. You know that we Dangerfields came into England from the North, away back in the troubled days before the Conquest. Friocksheim, I’m told, is a corruption of Fricca’s Heim, Frea’s Heim, the dwelling of Frea, the wife of Odin. There is no doubt about us as a race.”
He lifted his old head proudly, and the Viking resemblance stood out undeniably in his features. Then, with a smile that showed the strong white teeth, he added:
“I needn’t emphasise the final stage in the corruption of the name as you find it in the village: our Friocksheim has changed to Frogsholme, on the lips of these godless aborigines.”