I was too much moved to speak. I saw him beckon to the fellow, who stood apart, and speak to him in the patois, and he must have told him we were friends, for some sort of light broke in the man's face and he withdrew. I went on standing by the trestle bed, with Victor's hand in mine.
'How long have you been like this?' I asked at length.
'Nearly five days,' he said. 'Touch of pleurisy; I've had it before. Rather worse this time. I'm getting old.'
Once again he smiled, and although I guessed him to be desperately ill he was little changed, he was the same Victor still.
'You seem to have prospered,' he said to me, still smiling, 'you have all the sleek appearance of success.'
I asked him why he had never written, and what he had been doing with himself for twenty years.
'I cut myself adrift,' he said. 'I gather you did the same, but in a different way. I haven't been back to England since I left. What is it that you're holding there?'
I showed him the bottle of aspirin.
'I'm afraid that's no use to you,' I said. 'The best thing I can suggest is for me to stay here tonight, and then first thing in the morning get the chap here, and one or two others, to help me carry you down to the valley.'
He shook his head. 'Waste of time,' he said. 'I'm done for. I know that.'
'Nonsense. You need a doctor, proper nursing. That's impossible in this place.' I looked around the primitive living-room, dark and airless.
'Never mind about me,' he said. 'Someone else is more important.'
'Who?'
'Anna,' he said, and then as I answered nothing, at a loss for words, he added, 'She's still here, you know, on Monte Verita.'
'You mean,' I said, 'that she's in that place, enclosed, she's never left it?'
'That's why I'm here,' said Victor. 'I come every year, and have done, since the beginning. I wrote and told you, surely, after the war? I live in a little fishing port all the year round, very isolated and quiet, and then come here once in twelve months. I left it later this year, because I had been ill.'
It was incredible. What an existence, all these years, without friends, without interests, enduring the long months until the time came for this hopeless annual pilgrimage.
'Have you ever seen her?' I asked.
'Never.'
'Do you write to her?'
'I bring a letter every year. I take it up with me and leave it beneath the wall, and then return the following day.'
'The letter gets taken?'
'Always. And in its place there is a slab of stone, with writing scrawled upon it. Never more than a few words. I take the stones away with me. I have them all down on the coast, where I live.'
It was heart-rending, his faith in her, his fidelity through the years.
'I've tried to study it,' he said, 'this religion, belief. It's very ancient, way back before Christianity. There are old books that hint at it. I've picked them up from time to time, and I've spoken to people, scholars, who have made a study of mysticism and the old rites of ancient Gaul, and the Druids; there's a strong link between all mountain folk of those times. In every instance that I have read there is this insistence on the power of the moon and the belief that the followers stay young and beautiful.'
'You talk, Victor, as if you believe that too,' I said.
'I do,' he answered. 'The children believe it, here in the village, the few that remain.'
Talking to me had tired him. He reached out for a pitcher of water that stood beside the bed.
'Look here,' I said, 'these aspirins can't hurt you, they can only help, if you have fever. And you might get some sleep.'
I made him swallow three, and drew the blankets closer round him.
'Are there any women in the house?' I asked.
'No,' he said, 'I've been puzzled about that, since I've been here this time. The village is pretty much deserted. All the women and children have shifted to the valley. There are about twenty men and boys left, all told.'
'Do you know when the women and children went?'
'I gather they left a few days before I came. This fellow here — he's the son of the old man who used to live here, who died many years ago — is such a fool that he never knows anything. He just looks vague if you question him. But he's competent, in his own way. He'll give you food, and find bedding for you, and the little chap is bright enough.'
Victor closed his eyes, and I hoped that he might sleep. I thought I knew why the women and children had left the village. It was since the girl from the valley had disappeared. They had been warned that trouble might come to Monte Verita. I did not dare tell Victor this. I wished I could persuade him to be carried down into the valley.
By this time it was quite dark, and I was hungry. I went through a sort of recess to the back. There was no one there but the boy. I asked him for something to eat and drink, and he understood. He brought me bread, and meat, and cheese, and I ate it in the living-room, with the boy watching me. Victor's eyes were still closed and I believed he slept.
'Will he get better?' asked the boy. He did not speak in patois.
'I think so,' I answered, 'if I can get help to carry him to a doctor in the valley.'
'I will help you,' said the boy, 'and two of my companions. We should go tomorrow. After that, it will be difficult.'
'Why?'
'There will be coming and going the day after. Men from the valley, much excitement, and my companions and I will join them.'
'What is going to happen?'
He hesitated. He looked at me with quick bright eyes.
'I do not know,' he said. He slipped away, back to the recess.
Victor's voice came from the trestle bed.
'What did the boy say?' he asked. 'Who is coming from the valley?'
'I don't know,' I said casually, 'some expedition, perhaps. But he has offered to help take you down the mountain tomorrow.'
'No expeditions ever come here,' said Victor, 'there must be some mistake.' He called to the boy, and when the lad reappeared spoke to him in the patois. The boy was ill at ease, and diffident; he seemed reluctant now to answer questions. Several times I heard the words Monte Verita repeated, both by him and Victor. Presently he went back to the inner room and left us alone.
'Did you understand any of that? ' asked Victor.
'No,' I replied.
'I don't like it,' he said, 'there's something queer. I've felt it, since I've lain here these last few days. The men look furtive, odd. He tells me there's been some disturbance in the valley, and the people there are very angry. Did you hear anything about it?'
I did not know what to say. He was watching me closely.
'The fellow in the inn was not very forthcoming,' I said, 'but he did advise against coming to Monte Verita.'
'What reason did he give?'
'No particular reason. He just said there might be trouble.'
Victor was silent. I could feel him thinking there beside me.
'Have any of the women disappeared from the valley?' he said.
It was useless to lie. 'I heard something about a missing girl,' I told him, 'but I don't know if it's true.'
'It will be true. That is it, then.'
He said nothing for a long while, and I could not see his face — it was in shadow. The room was lit by a
