The Viking's Skull

by John R. Carling

"His lordship is taking the air on the western terrace," was the reply.

The viscount rose and moved off in the direction of the said terrace accompanied by his wife, while the footman stared curiously after them.

Lorelie had come to Ravenhall for the purpose of verifying, if possible, the strange suspicion she had of late begun to entertain that the present Earl of Ormsby was none other than Eric Marville. If this surmise were correct, it behoved her to make known to him the truth concerning the murder of Duchesne. But of what avail was it to clear the character of Eric Marville from the guilt of the long-past crime, if her other suspicion should prove true that he was the slayer of her father? She was precluded from denouncing him for this latter deed by reason of her position as his daughter-in-law, and by the thought that Captain Rochefort, in falling by the hand of the man whom he had wronged, had met with a justly merited doom.

If the earl were really Eric Marville, it followed that Idris, as his elder son, was being unjustly deprived of his rights by the younger half-brother Ivar.

Ignorant of the causes that had contributed to render Idris an object of aversion to the earl, Lorelie, nevertheless, determined to compel the earl to acknowledge him. Thus much justice should at least be done. And in coming to this resolve Lorelie tried to persuade herself that she was actuated simply by the desire for justice, whereas her heart more truly told her that secret love for Idris was her controlling motive.

On reaching the western terrace they found the earl standing at one end of it with his back towards them. He had just come from the library after a long spell of study, and was now refreshing his tired eyes by a contemplation of the lawns and the woods that surrounded his castellated mansion.

On hearing footsteps he turned, and his cold grey eyes lighted upon Lorelie: not, however, for the first time, since her pew in St. Oswald's Church faced his own; but beyond the fact that she was called Mademoiselle Rivière he knew nothing whatever respecting her, and, it may be added, had no desire to know more.

He supposed that Ivar had been showing her over his historic mansion, portions of which were open to the public on certain days. But this western terrace was private ground, reserved for the family. What did Ivar mean by bringing this young lady to him, who had no desire for an introduction? With something like a frown upon his face he awaited their approach.

Could this cold and dignified peer of the realm, thought Lorelie, be the man who, twenty-three years before, had escaped from a felon's cell in Brittany? Was this really the father of Idris? It seemed too strange to be true. Was his the face that Beatrice in her hypnotic trance had seen peering into the Viking's tomb? A chilling sensation seized her as Ivar escorted her towards the presence of the man whom she believed to be her father's murderer.