The Viking's Skull

by John R. Carling

She again fixed her eyes upon the book, endeavouring to ignore the real terror by a forced attention to an imaginary one, a literary homæopathy that was scarcely likely to be successful.

One of the powers possessed by the Fair Orientalist was that of enduing inanimate objects with her own magnetism by virtue of which they became gifted for the time being with sentience and motion.

The fancy now seized Beatrice, so deeply had she fallen under the spell of the weird romance, that the restless casement above was moved by similar means, and that its flapping was designed to call her attention to—she knew not what. A strange idea! But it grew upon her, and increased till it filled her mind to the exclusion of everything else. The book, neglected, slid from her knees, and she sat listening to the swinging of the casement. And as it is possible to tell the mood of a musician by the notes he plays, so Beatrice fancied she could detect a meaning in each variation of sound.

First, there was a sharp slam intended primarily to arrest attention, like the ting-ting of the telegraph operator: next, a low plaintive swing beseeching her to ascend the stairs and come to the rescue, followed by a remonstratory flap censuring her for delaying. Then ensued a slow solemn sound suggestive of the gravity of the situation: finally, there came a loud rattle that echoed through the house as if threatening penalties for her negligence.

The geologist will read history in a cliff: Beatrice read a whole tragedy in the varying tones of that casement.

And now, a mysterious influence, emanating from the latticed window, seemed to steal silently down the staircase like a ghost, and entering the apartment where she sat and enwrapping her with an unseen pall of horror, whispered a thought that swept all the warmth from her body and left her icy-cold.

The Viking's skull!

At the head of the staircase, on the ledge of the embrasured window, was the grim memorial, taken at midnight from the sepulchral mound. Beatrice's mind became impressed with the belief that the casement was flapping in sympathy with the skull, was its mouthpiece, so to speak—nay more, that the dread relic itself was moaning to be taken back to its ancient resting-place. Her quickening fancy drew a picture of the skull, whispering, nodding, grinning, its hollow orbs illumined with blue, phosphorescent light.

Gazing fearfully at the door she saw that it was open. She must close it ere the horrid object should come gliding down the staircase into the room.

Summoning up her small amount of remaining courage Beatrice rose, and with timid, staccato steps, approached the door, attended by Leo. Mute as a statue she stood in the attitude of listening, her fingers on the door-handle.