To pass the time, I took from my pocket the transcript of the old record, and reread it from beginning to end. I made a note of various books to obtain in the reading-room of the British Museum, in order to verify the statements both regarding the doings of the Borgias and the events in Galloway in the middle of the sixteenth century, as recorded by the old chronicles. My own antiquarian tastes told me that, in order to properly pursue this investigation, we must be armed with historical facts and data; and that in all probability this might be obtained either at the British Museum or at the record office. In the history of the Borgias I had been interested for years, and had read many works dealing with that celebrated family of prelates and poisoners; but of the history of Galloway I confess that I was in almost total ignorance.
True, I had been in Galloway, shooting with my old friend Fred Fenwicke of Crailloch, when my eyesight was better than it now is, and had admired the wild beauties of the country—a land of hills, streams, and lochs, and full of charming spots as beautiful as any in Scotland. I had crossed the purple heather of Lochenbreck, had traversed the giant solitudes of Carsphaim and the boulder-strewn plains of Dromore; and had shot grouse at Shirmer’s—the locale of my friend Mr Crockett’s charming story, “The Lilac Sunbonnet,”—and fished the Dee for salmon at Tongland Bridge and in the murmuring Garpal where it runs over its grey rocks through the deep wooded glen in front of Fred Fenwicke’s fine old mansion of Crailloch; yet with its historic associations I had never before had occasion to trouble myself.
I knew the titles of several books which, however, I thought might assist me, and put these down for reference.
But through it all—indeed, through all the day—thoughts of Judith Gordon, that beautiful yet tragic figure that had stood beside me on that cliff beside the summer sea, haunted me continually.
Sitting there, impatiently awaiting Walter’s return, I reflected upon her attitude towards me, and saw that she held me more in terror than in abhorrence.
You may dub me a fool for this piece of folly of the heart. Nevertheless, I tell you that this was no mere idle fancy based upon a sudden admiration, but a deep and genuine attraction, such as men experience only once in their lives.
I had never lived before that hour. Though she had shown no sign of tenderness to me, she was woman in all that could render woman adorable to man. All my days, those long weary youthful days of work and worry in London, and those years of lazy, idle lotus-eating by the Mediterranean, had been passed in striving and in longing, and my ideal had ever fled from my grasp, leaving me tantalised, athirst, unblessed. But everything had now altered. Here, in the midst of this storm and stress of mystery, one woman had suddenly come to me, and I had stood by her side enchanted. I was not sorry now that the plenitude of happiness had so long been denied me; I was glad that fate had kept me unsated.
But these pages are simply pages of record, not of argument.
When Walter re-entered the room, his clothes dusty and his face perspiring, I saw from his countenance that something curious had occurred.
“I’ve watched them the whole time,” he said breathlessly, as he closed the door behind him. “They’ve put up at the ‘White Hart,’ opposite the old bridge, and have been over the fields round about the ruins with a plan drawn on tracing-paper. They evidently know what they are about, for they haven’t been in the ruins proper at all, fortunately perhaps for me, for I concealed myself there and watched all their movements. The old hunchback speaks English quite well.”