“You two will go into the Devil’s Croft,” he announced. “I’m going back to town once more.”
“Into the Devil’s Croft!” we almost shouted, both in the same shocked breath.
“Of course. Didn’t we just get through with the agreement all around that the lycanthrope can and must be met face to face? Offense is the best defense, as perhaps one hundred thousand athletic trainers have reiterated.”
“I’ve already faced the creature once,” I reminded him. “As for appearing dauntless, I doubt my own powers of deceit.”
“You shall have a weapon,” he said. “A fire gives light, and we know that such things must have darkness—such as it finds in the midst of that swampy wood. So fill your pockets with matches, both of you.”
“How about a gun?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“We don’t want the werewolf killed. That would leave the whole business in mystery, and yourself probably charged with another murder. He’d return to his human shape, you know, the moment he was hurt even slightly.”
Susan spoke, very calmly: “I’m ready to go into the Croft, Judge Pursuivant.”
He clapped his hands loudly, as if applauding in a theater. “Bravo, my dear, bravo! I see Mr. Wills sets his jaw. That means he’s ready to go with you. Very well, let us be off.”
He called to William, who at his orders brought three lanterns—sturdy old-fashioned affairs, protected by strong wire nettings—and filled them with oil. We each took one and set out. It had turned clear and frosty once more, and the moon shone too brightly for my comfort, at least. However, as we approached the grove, we saw no sentinels; they could hardly be blamed for deserting, after the fate of the younger O’Bryant.
We gained the shadow of the outer cedars unchallenged. Here Judge Pursuivant called a halt, produced a match from his overcoat pocket and lighted our lanterns all around. I remember that we struck a fresh light for Susan’s lantern; we agreed that, silly as the three-on-a-match superstition might be, this was no time or place to tempt Providence.
“Come on,” said Judge Pursuivant then, and led the way into the darkest part of the immense thicket.
XII
“We Are Here at His Mercy.”
We followed Judge Pursuivant, Susan and I, without much of a thought beyond an understandable dislike for being left alone on the brink of the timber. It was a slight struggle to get through the close-set cedar hedge, especially for Susan, but beyond it we soon caught up with the judge. He strode heavily and confidently among the trees, his lantern held high to shed light upon broad, polished leaves and thick, wet stems. The moist warmth of the grove’s interior made itself felt again, and the judge explained again and at greater length the hot springs that made possible this surprising condition. All the while he kept going. He seemed to know his way in that forbidden fastness—indeed, he must have explored it many times to go straight to his destination.
That destination was a clearing, in some degree like the one where I had met and fought with my hairy pursuer on the night before. This place had, however, a great tree in its center, with branches that shot out in all directions to hide away the sky completely. By straining the ears one could catch a faint murmur of water—my scalding stream, no doubt. Around us were the thickset trunks of the forest, filled in between with brush and vines, and underfoot grew velvety moss.
“This will be our headquarters position,” said the judge. “Wills, help me gather wood for a fire. Break dead branches from the standing trees—never mind picking up wood from the ground, it will be too damp.”
Together we collected a considerable heap and, crumpling a bit of paper in its midst, he kindled it.
“Now, then,” he went on, “I’m heading for town. You two will stay here and keep each other company.”
He took our lanterns, blew them out and ran his left arm through the loops of their handles.
“I’m sure that nothing will attack you in the light of the fire. You’re bound to attract whatever skulks hereabouts, however. When I come back, we ought to be prepared to go into the final act of our little melodrama.”
He touched my hand, bowed to Susan, and went tramping away into the timber. The thick leafage blotted his lantern-light from our view before his back had been turned twenty seconds.
Susan and I gazed at each other, and smiled rather uneasily.
“It’s warm,” she breathed, and took off her cloak. Dropping it upon one of the humped roots of the great central tree, she sat down on it with her back to the trunk. “What kind of a tree is this?”
I gazed up at the gnarled stem, or as much of it as I could see in the firelight. Finally I shook my head.
“I don’t know—I’m no expert,” I admitted. “At least it’s very big, and undoubtedly very old—the sort of tree that used to mark a place of sacrifice.”
At the word “sacrifice,” Susan lifted her shoulders as if in distaste. “You’re right, Talbot. It would be something grim and Druid-like.” She began to recite, half to herself:
That tree in whose dark shadow
The ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer
And shall himself be slain.
“Macaulay,” I said at once. Then, to get her mind off of morbid things, “I had to recite The Lays of Ancient Rome in school, when I was a boy. I wish you hadn’t mentioned it.”
“You mean, because it’s an evil omen?” She shook her head, and contrived a smile that lighted up her pale face. “It’s not that, if you analyze it. ‘Shall himself be slain’—it sounds as if the enemy’s fate is sealed.”
I nodded, then spun around sharply, for I fancied I heard a dull crashing at the edge of the clearing. Then I went here
