accustomed, and the harsh red wine of the country. His hosts chattered to him freely enough in that strange Basque language which has no fellow in the world, and is said by some to be the very speech of our first fathers in Paradise. They spoke of the bad winter, and young Esteban Arramandy, so strong and swift at the pelota, who had been lamed by a falling rock and now halted on two sticks; of three valuable goats carried off by a bear; of the torrential rains that, after a dry summer, had scoured the bare ribs of the mountains. It was raining now, and the wind was howling unpleasantly. This did not trouble Langley; he knew and loved this haunted and impenetrable country at all times and seasons. Sitting in that rude peasant inn, he thought of the oak-panelled hall of his Cambridge college and smiled, and his eyes gleamed happily behind his scholarly pince-nez. He was a young man, in spite of his professorship and the string of letters after his name. To his university colleagues it seemed strange that this man, so trim, so prim, so early old, should spend his vacations eating garlic, and scrambling on mule-back along precipitous mountain-tracks. You would never think it, they said, to look at him.
There was a knock at the door.
'That is Martha,' said the wife.
She drew back the latch, letting in a rush of wind and rain which made the candle gutter. A small, aged woman was blown in out of the night, her grey hair straggling in wisps from beneath her shawl.
'Come in, Martha, and rest yourself. It is a bad night. The parcel is ready--oh, yes. Dominique brought it from the town this morning. You must take a cup of wine or milk before you go back.'
The old woman thanked her and sat down, panting.
'And how goes all at the house? The doctor is well?'
'He is well.'
'And she?'
The daughter put the question in a whisper, and the landlord shook his head at her with a frown.
'As always at this time of the year. It is but a month now to the Day of the Dead. Jesu-Maria! it is a grievous affliction for the poor gentleman, but he is patient, patient.'
'He is a good man,' said Dominique, 'and a skilful doctor, but an evil like that is beyond his power to cure. You are not afraid, Martha?'
'Why should I be afraid? The Evil One cannot harm me. I have no beauty, no wits, no strength for him to envy. And the Holy Relic will protect me.'
Her wrinkled fingers touched something in the bosom of her dress.
'You come from the house yonder?' asked Langley.
She eyed him suspiciously.
'The senor is not of our country?'
'The gentleman is a guest, Martha,' said the landlord hurriedly. 'A learned English gentleman. He knows our country and speaks our language as you hear. He is a great traveller, like the American doctor, your master.'
'What is your master's name?' asked Langley. It occurred to him that an American doctor who had buried himself in this remote corner of Europe must have something unusual about him. Perhaps he also was an ethnologist. If so, they might find something in common.
'He is called Wetherall.' She pronounced the name several times before he was sure of it.
'Wetherell? Not Standish Wetherall?'
He was filled with extraordinary excitement.
The landlord came to his assistance.
'This parcel is for him,' he said. 'No doubt the name will be written there.'
It was a small package, neatly sealed, bearing the label of a firm of London chemists and addressed to 'Standish Wetherall, Esq., M.D.'
'Good Heavens!' exclaimed Langley. 'But this is strange. Almost a miracle. I know this man. I knew his wife, too--'
He stopped. Again the company made the sign of the cross.
'Tell me,' he said in great agitation, and forgetting his caution, 'you say his wife is bewitched--afflicted-- how is this? Is she the same woman I know? Describe her. She was tall, beautiful, with gold hair and blue eyes like the Madonna. Is this she?'
There was a silence. The old woman shook her head and muttered something inaudible, but the daughter whispered:
'True--it is true. Once we saw her thus, as the gentleman says--'
'Be quiet,' said her father.
'Sir,' said Martha, 'we are in the hand of God.'
She rose, and wrapped her shawl about her.
'One moment,' said Langley. He pulled out his note-book and scribbled a few lines. 'Will you take this letter to your master the doctor? It is to say that I am here, his friend whom he once knew, and to ask if I may come and visit him. That is all.'
'You would not go to that house, excellence?' whispered the old man fearfully.
'If he will not have me, maybe he will come to me here.' He added a word or two and drew a piece of money from his pocket. 'You will carry my note for me?'
'Willingly, willingly. But the senor will be careful? Perhaps, though a foreigner, you are of the Faith?'
'I am a Christian,' said Langley.
This seemed to satisfy her. She took the letter and the money, and secured them, together with the parcel, in a remote pocket. Then she walked to the door, strongly and rapidly for all her bent shoulders and appearance of great age.
Langley remained lost in thought. Nothing could have astonished him more than to meet the name of Standish Wetherall in this place. He had thought that episode finished and done with over three years ago. Of all people! The brilliant surgeon in the prime of life and reputation, and Alice Wetherall, that delicate piece of golden womanhood--exiled in this forlorn corner of the world! His heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing her again. Three years ago, he had decided that it would be wiser if he did not see too much of that porcelain loveliness. That folly was past now--but still he could not visualise her except against the background of the great white house in Riverside Drive, with the peacocks and the swimming-pool and the gilded tower with the roof- garden. Wetherall was a rich man, the son of old Hiram Wetherall the automobile magnate. What was Wetherall doing here?
He tried to remember. Hiram Wetherall, he knew, was dead, and all the money belonged to Standish, for there were no other children. There had been trouble when the only son had married a girl without parents or history. He had brought her from 'somewhere out west'. There had been some story of his having found her, years before, as a neglected orphan, and saved her from something or cured her of something and paid for her education, when he was still scarcely more than a student. Then, when he was a man over forty and she a girl of seventeen, he had brought her home and married her.
And now he had left his house and his money and one of the finest specialist practices in New York to come to live in the Basque country--in a spot so out of the way that men still believed in Black Magic, and could barely splutter more than a few words of bastard French or Spanish--a spot that was uncivilised even by comparison with the primitive civilisation surrounding it. Langley began to be sorry that he had written to Wetherell. It might be resented.
The landlord and his wife had gone out to see to their cattle. The daughter sat close to the fire, mending a garment. She did not look at him, but he had the feeling that she would be glad to speak.
'Tell me, child,' he said gently, 'what is the trouble which afflicts these people who may be friends of mine?'
'Oh!' she glanced up quickly and leaned across to him, her arms stretched out over the sewing in her lap. 'Sir, be advised. Do not go up there. No one will stay in that house at this time of the year, except Tomaso, who has not all his wits, and old Martha, who is--'
'What?'
'A saint--or something else,' she said hurriedly.
'Child,' said Langley again, 'this lady when I knew--'
'I will tell you,' she said, 'but my father must not know. The good doctor brought her here three years ago
