The Place Called Dagon

doctor. They were strong men, broad-shouldered, browned by changing seasons, hard-sinewed and tight-lipped. Still Dreeme felt no fear, nothing but a righteous fury. A loud crash before him diverted his attention to the farmhouse. The right wall of the kitchen had fallen in. When, after observing the shower of flame and sparks, he resumed his observation of the self-conscious knot of men the white-haired Corey was walking slowly toward him. The grave old man continued his approach until he was within a yard of Dreeme and then he turned and surveyed the fire. The young doctor, trembling at the nearness of this man whom he had seen so shortly before in the grasp of a mystic delirium, said nothing although a flood of recriminatory words rose in his throat and quivered on his lips. He thought it peculiar that Walden Slater made no gesture of recognition, that he stood so easily with his attention apparently confined to the blazing building before him. Corey moved a single step sideways toward Dreeme and still keeping his eyes directed before him began to speak. He said:

“Doctor Dreeme, after a great madness comes a great sanity.”

Walden Slater, beside the young doctor, was listening, too, although his expressionless face did not shift from its steadfast inspection of the burning farmhouse. Dreeme made no answer to Corey. The old farmer spoke again. He said:

“You have evidently seen what you have seen. You can never see it again.”

He extended one hand as though he were discussing the fire. At a distance the little knot of farmers observed them fixedly. Corey said:

“There are no explanations. The chain is broken. I am an old man, Doctor Dreeme, and I know what I am talking about. I am speaking for a score of men who were lost and who, through a great shock, have found themselves. I cannot tell you what dominated us but the domination has ceased. The valley is cleansed. We are cleansed. We ask for silence.”

There was something behind his words that impressed Dreeme. He opened his mouth to speak but Walden Slater forestalled him. The farmer said:

“We lost our tongues in Nigger Swamp.”

Corey observed the fire fiercely.

“What’s done is done,” added Slater mildly.

“Let what’s done rot with the body by the stone,” said Corey softly.

After a moment he withdrew quietly and a second later Dreeme saw him back among the little knot of perturbed men. There was a brief conversation and then calm blank faces resumed their observation of the flame-wreathed Westcott farmhouse.

“What does this mean?” inquired Dreeme of Walden Slater.

The farmer shifted his feet.

“It means what it means,” he said. “Let that be enough for you, Doctor.”

Dreeme wondered if it meant no retribution for these men who were willing to connive at the destruction of a human being. He opened his mouth to say something to this effect when the farmer snatched at him. At the same time an exclamation of mingled surprise and horror rose from the group of people in the road. Dreeme turned hastily toward the burning house.

In one of the upper windows through which the thin snakes of curling smoke had crept stood a man. There was flame in that window now and he was silhouetted against the bright flare. He seemed just about to leap for one foot was on the sill of the window and one heavy arm was raised against the side of the house. Dreeme saw the fierce light play over a cloven skull and lowered forehead. He saw, in the man’s other hand, a black book clutched tightly. All this he saw in an instant for even as he looked the windowsill seemed to cave inward to crumbling fire and the figure, black against the light, fell backward, one hand snatching desperately at the air. The next instant a great puff of flame surged through the vacant window. There was nothing there, nothing but a roaring cauldron that devoured its own. The destroyed building seemed to emit a great sigh of relief, a hoarse gasp that soared upward and spread out over Marlborough. Dreeme imagined that sigh of relief permeating the air as far as Leeminster, sweeping through the moonlit heavens and driving the intangible mists of mystery before it, cleansing the valley of an old horror. He even pictured a calmness and relief on the attentive and wide-eyed faces that watched, as he did, this instantaneous tragedy. There seemed to be nothing left to say, nothing to do but watch or go home. Walden Slater, after his first instinctive grasp at the young doctor, had said nothing. He stood with his great shoulders bowed, his long lip dangling loose, his coat gaping and, through its opening, the revolver glistening. Dreeme suddenly felt exhausted, a complete exhaustion that was flesh-weariness and great relief mingled.

III

Humphrey Lathrop put his teacup down and wiped his huge pursing lips. He nodded slowly.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “Walden’s right. Walden’s a great fellow. He knows where justice is due.”

The bright sunlight of the early afternoon plucked at the curtains. A refreshed and neatly shaved Dreeme sat before the ancient oracle, toying with his cup of tea.

“Perhaps you’d like applejack, Daniel?” The old doctor was solicitous. Dreeme shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said. “I don’t understand it all.”

“You never will,” replied Humphrey Lathrop. “You are too young to understand anything.”

He said it pleasantly.

“And why shouldn’t the farmers get off scot-free?” asked Lathrop, pursuing the thread of the conversation. “They haven’t done anything.”

Dreeme opened his eyes very wide.

“No, they haven’t,” persisted the old doctor. “Corey was right. Corey is a good man. They’re all good men.”

Dreeme sat looking at him in amazement. Humphrey Lathrop chuckled wheezily, leaned over, and prodded the young doctor.

“Use your head, Daniel,” he said. “Use your head even if you have lost it.”

He wheezed again merrily at that.

“Do you hold a sick man accountable for what he does when he’s out of his head?” asked the old doctor.

Dreeme shook his head negatively.

“All right,” said Humphrey Lathrop