I

When Dreeme awoke late in the morning he heard the heavy roar of rain on the roof, and, hurrying through his morning ablutions, he proceeded downstairs to his breakfast, finding the covered dishes on the table in the little study. Mrs. Slater had been there and had not waited, and he was thankful for this. He did not care to see her standing beside him, her eyes fluttering with excitement, and a repressed rancor in her pursed mouth. She resented his interference on Deborah’s behalf, and a strong distaste for her had grown in the young doctor’s mind. A regular New England aunt. A narrow-minded, overly-righteous, cold-hearted descendant of icy-natured forebears. The devil take her! Dreeme raced through his breakfast, not minding that the eggs were cold and coagulated on the heavy china plate, that the coffee was insipid and luke-warm. He would probably never get good service again from Mrs. Slater. Well, he would not need her services long. He would not be here in this small two-storied, two-room building that whined in the strong winds and drew in all the unpleasant heat of the summer. He would be in some large city, Boston or New York, and Deborah would be with him. There were lots of places where a young doctor could find a refuge. Finishing his meal he rose from the table and strode through the hall to the door and thrust it open. A wind-blown gust of rain dashed in his face, and he drew back from it. The weather had changed all right. Last night the largest moon he had ever seen had poured its silver light over Marlborough, but some time in the night it had disappeared, devoured by angry storm-clouds, and now the community lay prone beneath a furious down-pour. The farmers would not complain at this. Here was fecundation enough. Reaching for his rubber-slicker Dreeme adjusted it about his shoulders and stepped out into the storm. The heavy drops snapped against his face and drummed on his hat. The trees across the road were mere misty shadows. It was dark, too. Dreeme noticed that the lamps were lighted in the Slater house.

A New England rain-storm was a desolate phenomenon. It turned the entire vista gray and sodden green. Great puddles widened in the road, and the unceasing whir of falling water made a monotonous sound in the ears. Dreeme supposed that he should have put on boots, but he did not feel inclined to turn back into the house. He desired too much to go on and to finish up the business that was in his mind. He was going to face Humphrey Lathrop, and stay with the huge old doctor until he had made everything clear to him. He would tell Lathrop everything that had happened. Lathrop would help him, for, after all, Lathrop was a wise man. Even if he did look like a swelling frog at times. Dreeme sloshed through the puddles and mud on his way to the old doctor’s cottage, his mind a chaotic mixture of problems and unasked questions. He had all the facts now, but he could not put them together until he possessed the key. With the key he could unlock the last secret door, and when he did this everything would fall into order, and his curiosity about Marlborough would be satisfied. He crossed the square and saw nobody but the tall spare figure of Bidwell standing in the shelter of the porch of the post office and general store. Bidwell did not return his greeting, but stood immovable watching the young doctor who proceeded on his way, head down against the driving rain and wind. Dreeme smiled sarcastically to himself. He was certainly a popular man in Marlborough. The rain dripped in an unceasing stream from the front brim of his hat and got into his eyes. It flowed into the back of his neck. It was in his shoes now. Every time he stepped he made a sucking sound. But it was cool and not altogether unpleasant. It quenched the restless fire of his body, and soothed his torn nerves. He felt as though he could walk for miles with this heavy down-pour beating upon him and that he would be all the better for it. The front of Humphrey Lathrop’s cottage, small and gray in the rain, loomed before him, and he opened the rickety gate and walked up the path. He would find out everything now, and he would not leave Humphrey until he did.

II

Dreeme pushed the untasted tumbler of apple-jack away with an expression of disgust, and stood up and pointed a questioning finger at the old doctor. He demanded:

“Where is the place called Dagon?”

There was a finality in his voice that rang through the room. Humphrey Lathrop’s jaw dropped and his three chins quivered like jelly. He pushed back his reinforced chair from the table with a mighty effort and an enormous scraping sound. For an instant Dreeme feared that the old man’s eyes would pop out of his head. There was amazement in them, consternation, something very like terror. For the first time since Dreeme had known him the old doctor was completely taken off his guard, surprised, and routed.

“Where did ... where did....”

Lathrop fumbled for speech unsuccessfully, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He glanced cautiously about the room as though he expected invisible foes to spring up on all sides. Dreeme, amazed at Lathrop’s reaction, stood with outstretched hand and pointing finger, awaiting his answer with an obvious determination that no beating about the bush might distract. The rain dripped from the bottom of his trousers, and made a dark pool about him on the round rag carpet. The clock ticked desolately as he waited. Lathrop spoke slowly and with evident reluctance. He said:

“Where the bones were buried.”

He appeared to have given up all hope of dissuading Dreeme from the subject.

“Bones? What bones? What does that mean?” cried Dreeme.

Lathrop’s voice was monotonous.

“The bones of the Salem witches.”

A great light seemed to flood Dreeme’s mind, that light that had once been so far away, but it was too dazzling for him as yet. A voice deep inside him was talking feverishly, saying things, explaining, indicating. He could not catch the sound of the words. The voice was talking too fast. The words ran together. They were a febrile blur of sound.

“You must explain everything, Humphrey,” he said in a calm voice as he sat down. “I’m in this thing too deep now. Somebody I know ... is affected.”

The old doctor nodded, and then, reaching for his tumbler of apple-jack, drank the entire potion down in a single draught. He choked and wheezed for a moment.

“You hit me amidships then,” he remarked soberly. “Where did you hear of the place called Dagon?”

“Never mind,” returned Dreeme. “Don’t stave me off with questions. Tell me things.”

“I’m going to,” answered Lathrop mildly. “I’m going to tell you things. You’re going to have it all now, and much good may it do you.”

His eyes roved about the room. Then they reverted to Dreeme.

“Suppose you tell me everything first,” he said in a wheedling voice. “I want to know what you’ve found out. There is no use duplicating the few facts and suspicions that I possess.”

Dreeme eyed him impatiently.

“All right,” he said shortly, and plunged immediately into his tale. In a rapid condensed form he told Lathrop of the first visit he had paid to Westcott’s house, of the two conversations with Martha Westcott, of the death of Wagner, of the strange fright of Deborah, and of the goat’s head. He strove to reinterpret the theory of will which Jeffrey Westcott had put forward in the burned mill. He explained his suspicions of the Reverend George Burroughs. Lathrop listened attentively, his head on one side, and his great lips pursed so that they thrust out like the snout of a pig. Occasionally he would nod. Once or twice his eyes opened very wide. In one instance he emitted a triumphant cluck as though some suspicion he had carried in his mind for years were verified.

“Will you fetch me down that big black book?” he said softly when Dreeme concluded his tale, indicating the little shelf that was nailed high on the wall behind him. Dreeme strode over and drew forth a bulky volume that was covered with dust, blew it off, and brought it to the table where he placed it. He deliberately read the title on the back of the tome as he laid it down. The name “Cotton Mather” was printed there in faded gilt letters. Lathrop smiled, a smile with no humor in it, and drew the book toward him. Then he adjusted his spectacles and leaned back very much like a judge about to give a decision.

“I tried to keep you away from this,” he said, “for good and sufficient reasons, and chief among them was the peace of your own mind and the degree of your success in Marlborough. Well, you have lost the peace of your mind, and there is no longer any reason to suppose that you will ever have any success in Marlborough. There is no reason, therefore, why you should not know as much as I know. I will tell you, Daniel, that what you have told me has made some dark places clear to me, and verified certain suspicions which I have wisely kept to myself. Therefore, in making plain to you what I know I shall adjust some of your own information into the scheme of things.”

After this preamble he cleared his throat loudly, searched through the huge volume before him until he found a certain place, closed the book upon a pudgy finger that retained the page, and glanced soberly at Dreeme.

“It’s witchcraft we have to deal with,” he said mildly. “It’s a cursed madness that has ruled this valley since 1692.”

Dreeme nodded without surprise. He suspected this, indeed, he knew it.

“Yes, sir, witchcraft,” repeated the old doctor. “You probably don’t believe in it. No more do I. But the outward forms of it exist just as surely as the outward forms of the Christian religion exist. It has its established hierarchy, although I believe today that it is the weapon of madmen, charlatans, and fanatics.”

He sighed loudly.

“This is a mad world, Daniel,” he said. “We are all more or less insane. Well, I’m getting nowhere. As I age I grow more discursive.”

Dreeme moved restlessly and the old doctor lifted a hand.

“Let me tell you this in my own way,” he said. “You’ll have it all before I am done.”

Lathrop cleared his throat and fastened his eyes upon Dreeme.

“In 1692,” he said, “the little town of Salem went insane. You’ve read your history and you know all about the witch scares and the hangings on Gallows Hill. You know how the children cried out that they were possessed, and gave testimony against various men and women in the community, and how the judges and preachers strove to battle with this strange outbreak of insanity. I don’t have to give you a resumé of that history. It is enough to remind you of it. It is the common conclusion of most scholars that all this was a form of religious mania, and that the people who were hanged were not professed witches but victims of hallucinations and enmity. I don’t believe it. I believe those people belonged to a secret and blasphemous order that met all over the world, that they were divided into covens or parishes, that they each had their leader in the shape of a Black Man who represented the Devil, that they worshipped Satan, and that they attempted to practise magic. I believe that they were unhinged to such a degree that they could imagine themselves flying through the air, that they were addicted to hallucinations and delusions and visions, that, like the whirling dervishes, they could fling themselves into hysteric trances and dwell in the domain of their sick imaginations. They believed those things, Daniel. They had faith in Satan. And they attained a malevolent strength through their faith. They could superimpose their will on innocent people and make those people sick by the power of suggestion. There is nothing supernatural in that, after all. It is supernormal, perhaps, but you know my views on these things. The trappings and the ceremonies and the results might seem supernatural, but that was because the people in those days did not know about such things as thought-transference, auto-suggestion, and the impulsion of the will. In a measure, these people were liberating themselves from time, moving beyond the limitations of their days, subsisting in an arcane of their own manufacture through the full strength of those fanatical beliefs, which, after all, is saying no more than that they liberated their wills and believed in the strength of their wills. Well, in 1692 all this was brought to a halt by the hangings and the persecutions of the witch-judges. The Salem coven was demolished and scattered. Do not think, however, that all the witches were strung up on Gallows Hill. Others fled into the woods and sought far places where they might conduct their orgies and ceremonies in their own way. The larger group, and now, Daniel, I am telling you something I read in a book of which you have heard, hovered in the wilderness about Salem for some weeks, living on roots and berries and what the Indians might give them, for the Indians, too, believed in witchcraft. By night they ventured to the desolate graves of their hanged companions and dug up those bodies and bore them away with them into the thick forest. They pushed westward, avoiding the little settlements in the clearing, passing north of Springfield, crossing the Connecticut River, and eventually they came to a valley and discovered it to be a lost cul-de-sac in the hills, and there they settled down. With them they had the black book of the order, a book filled with ceremonies and liturgies, and in which a scribe set down the account of their wanderings. Can you guess where they settled, Daniel?”

Dreeme nodded.

“Here,” he said. “They settled in this valley. These farmers are their descendants. The black book they carried with them was the black book of old Uriah Carrier.”

Lathrop wagged his head up and down.

“That’s right,” he said. “As a boy I looked into that book and was frightened out of my wits. Yes, Daniel, they settled here, still carrying on their frightful ceremonies, still calling upon the devil by night and meeting in the secret forest clearings to dance in the light of the moon. One place they kept sacred. It was a hidden place, known only to the adepts. It was there that they buried the bones of the hanged witches, those poor bodies that they had carried for two hundred miles through the thick wilderness. There, too, they raised the Devil Stone upon which the Black Man stood during the great ceremonies. They called the place Dagon and strewed it with ashes. I can picture that place lighted by torches at midnight. I can picture the rapt faces of the witches and the compelling eyes of the Black Man as he stood above them and called on Satan, on Beelzebub, on Asmodeus, the fiends that he imagined served his purpose. I can hear the laughter of the women and see their glistening eyes as the madness took them. By day they were taciturn people, carrying on the quiet masquerade of pioneers, building up homes in the clearing, pushing the forest farther and farther back; but when the moon rose the madness that was in their blood swept them out of themselves and they became other creatures employing pagan symbols and ancient phallic ceremonials. They existed in a domain out of place and time, then, a land of hallucinations and dreams and primitive urges. It was a land where they celebrated the Black Mass and the Witches’ Sabaoth, and gave full rein to the frenzies of the blood and brain. I’ve never seen the place called Dagon, Daniel, and I never hope to see it, but I suspect where it is. I suspect that the Devil Stone is still there, and if one dug deep enough one would come to crumbled bones, if, indeed, bones last that long.”

The old doctor drew a long breath and paused. He reached for the apple-jack bottle and poured himself a drink.

“I’m developing into an old drunkard,” he remarked. “Imagine it. At my age!”

He drank half the tumbler of amber liquor and set it down on the table. The roar of the rain filled the room and Dreeme, gazing toward the window, could perceive nothing but a silver opaqueness that ran and glittered. He waited for Lathrop to go on, knowing that the old doctor could tell his story best in his own way.

“Now then,” said Lathrop, wiping his mouth with a fat hand. “Where was I? Where, for that matter, are any of us? That’s philosophy, Daniel.”

He summoned up a smile, but it was lost in the earnest attention of the young doctor. He said slowly:

“I didn’t actually lie to you, Daniel, but I did conveniently forget to tell you some things the other day. I thought there was no need of spreading a story that had better not have existed at all in the beginning. Well!”

He sighed wheezily. Then he resumed his story.

“It was not alone the descendants of the Salem witches who wandered into this valley and established homes,” he said. “You’ve heard of Thomas Morton of Merry Mount, haven’t you?”

Dreeme nodded. Of course, he had. Why, Deborah....

“Morton,” said the old doctor, “was a rascal who headed a colony of loose fellows. They sold liquor to the Indians, disregarded the Puritanical laws of living, laughed at religion, and injected a licentious scarlet into the gray cloth of the old New England. You can imagine that carousing colony near enough to Boston to cause the good Puritans a prodigious loss of sleep. It was something that they hated and feared because it stirred in them the covered embers of their own suppressed excesses, I suppose. Uncommitted sins that are buried in the blood and brain are fearful things, Daniel. I imagine that most of the Puritans sublimated their fleshly longings into a religious ardor but this would make them fear the downright honesty of openly committed sin more than ever. Anyway, when news reached Boston that the Morton colonists had reared a huge May pole and were dancing about it with their skins full of good liquor and debauching all the likely squaws they could lay hands on, they decided that something drastic should be done. So a body of armed men (crusaders of the Lord, Daniel) marched to Merry Mount, cut the May Pole down, strewed the place with ashes, cursed it and called it Dagon (you see how the name crops up?), and scattered the befuddled revelers. What was more natural than that some of these topers and lechers should push westward into the wilderness, having, so to speak, their bellies full of Puritanical oppression? To the west they came, then, following an old trail that led north of Springfield and across the Connecticut River, and eventually they found themselves in this valley. Leeminster was the town settled by them. So there you have the two towns, Daniel. I don’t know which was settled first. It doesn’t make any difference. They were near enough for daily intercourse, and I suppose there was some inter-marriage. Whether the witch-fever spread to Leeminster or not is a mystery. I am on dubious ground now, for most of the opinions I have arrived at are the result of deduction and there is no documentary proof to bolster me up. That is why I am chary at giving vent to them. Some of the things that you have told me seem to substantiate a few of the suspicions I have had. My voice, Daniel, is getting awfully hoarse.”

He paused and finished his tumbler of apple-jack.

“You are going to be reeling in a minute,” said Dreeme impatiently.

Lathrop wheezed and chuckled.

“No, sir,” he said. “When you see me reel you’ll see a sight.”

He chuckled again. Dreeme observed an apoplectic glow on his fat cheeks, however, and it made him uneasy. He was afraid that the old doctor’s head would loll to one side, and that the continuation of the story would be a series of stertorous snores. He had seen it happen before for Lathrop plied the apple-jack not wisely but too well.

“Where was I?” inquired Lathrop mildly. He rolled his blue eyes at the ceiling in thought.

“Oh!” he said in faint surprise as he unexpectedly lighted on the thread of his conversation. “Oh, yes!”

“Marlborough and Leeminster proceeded on their solitary way while the land developed,” he declared. “Towns sprang up on all sides of them, but they were protected by their valley and the fact that no large artery of travel cut through them. They were in a cul-de-sac. They accepted the modernities of living suspiciously and in a gingerly manner. Being farmers, the natives subsisted by themselves and without too much aid from the outside world. As time passed on I imagine the witch practices ceased, although the memories of them were handed down from father to son, and mother to daughter. They were not so much ashamed of these practices, at first, as they were reticently jealous. The very fact of them made them different from other men and women. When I came here I found no signs of secret practices. I did find a dour reticence, perhaps a more antagonistic one than you have run up against. But I paid no attention to it, and I minded my own business. I did not ask questions. I did not watch people. I admit that I thought a lot. I read a great deal of history, and tried to orientate these people. It was from old Captain Uriah Carrier himself that I got my clew, for, thinking me no more than a mere boy and being a boastful old scoundrel, he told me that he was the last Black Man, and he even, in a burst of drunken recklessness one night, showed me the book that had been in his family for generations. It was easy enough for me to put two and two together after that. Being wise though I put them together by myself and kept my convictions to myself. I....”

Lathrop developed a choking fit and sputtered for a few minutes while Dreeme waited impatiently. The old doctor made a half-gesture toward the apple-jack bottle, thought better of it, and withdrew his hand reluctantly.

“You see Marlborough today,” he said wearily, leaning back in his chair, “and you see a community that has hugged a secret to its bosom for centuries. These men and women are alive to the past, to the terrible heritage which they possess, and they desire to eradicate it from common knowledge, to bury it, as it were, in the dust-heap of gone things. That is their first impulse. They do not want strangers to know that they have descended from condemned witches. Now there’s Jeffrey Westcott.”

He paused and blinked his blue eyes.

“Who is he?” he proceeded. “I don’t know. You don’t know. But we can guess what his purpose is. You’ve told me all about his maunderings about the mightiness of the will, the theory he hinted at to you in the burned mill that night. Now this is what I see, Daniel. Westcott fell in with Peleg Carrier in Germany, learned from him about the witch-cult that had existed here, and came to find out more about it. He had a theory of his own, a theory in an inchoate state, and he fancied that witch practices might be subdued to the ends of that theory. When he was settled here he found that he could start nothing, for these people had ceased to practice the so-called Black Arts. What he needed was a key, a weapon to drive the farmers before him. He found that weapon in Captain Uriah Carrier’s black book. All he had to do was to startle the morose inhabitants of Marlborough and its outlying district with the testimony from this book, for the will toward witchcraft was already a part of their blood’s inheritance. I believe, Daniel, that he reinstituted witch meetings, formed a coven here, and made himself the ruling Black Man. That’s why he’s avoided; that’s why his farm is shunned territory. He commands the dark side of the nature of Marlborough. These people lead two lives, and one of them is the surface life that we see going on about us. The other is the secret life that centers about the place called Dagon. Westcott drives them through their fears and their secret weaknesses, weaknesses that they might fight against and successfully conquer if he were not here. When he goes the whole scaffolding of mummeries will break down, these people will become normal inhabitants, and all this stuff will seem like some wild dream. That’s what I think, Daniel.”

Dreeme nodded an assent.

“That’s it,” he agreed. “Now what can we do about it?”

Lathrop scowled heavily.

“I,” he emphasized, “can do nothing about it.”

“Something must be done about it,” urged Dreeme.

“Then you do it, Daniel,” said the old doctor. “And God be with you.”

He shook his head dolefully.

“I’m not a witch-hunter,” he explained mildly. “Neither am I Don Quixote or Bayard or Sherlock Holmes or ... or....”

He continued to roll his head from side to side slowly.

“No, Daniel,” he protested, “I’m the man who sits in a chair all day.”

He reverted to the phenomena that Dreeme had adumbrated during his story.

“The various things you’ve told me,” he said, “clear up, as I’ve pointed out before, some of my suspicions. Let us take up the wax figures first, those little puppets that Deborah Morton found behind Westcott’s books. That’s an old witchcraft trick. A doll is made and baptized with the name of some living person against whom the witch desires revenge or evil. Then needles are thrust into those places where the person is to be injured and charms are recited over the little figure. Westcott, I believe, imagined this mummery would sharpen and direct the invisible strength of his will. You say one of the dolls had a needle thrust into its leg. Well, Westcott got shot in the leg, didn’t he? I imagine that was his first charm, a charm against himself. And it worked. Never ask me how it worked, but it did. The other doll had needles through its eyes. Well, how about the wooden pegs driven into Wagner’s eye-sockets?”

Dreeme shuddered as he recalled the disfigured face grinning up at him from the bank of the Saccarac River.

“I don’t believe Westcott killed Wagner,” added Lathrop. “No, sir. I believe he wanted the hired man dead because he found out that the poor fellow was acting as a go-between for Martha Westcott and yourself. Now into whose brain did Westcott force the thought of and will for this murder? Find that out, Daniel, if you can.”

“I intend to,” said the young doctor, his mouth a thin line of determination.

“But don’t forget,” remarked Lathrop, “that there may be a little doll somewhere christened Daniel Dreeme with a needle through its heart.”

“I’ll take my chance,” said Dreeme.

“We come to the goat’s head,” proceeded Lathrop. “That puzzles me. I know its origin but not its purpose.”

Dreeme was visibly excited at this topic.

“Here we sit like two Sherlock Holmes,” chuckled the old narrator, “and we’re really two Doctor Watsons. Amateurs, Daniel, amateurs.”

Suddenly he sobered up.

“The goat’s head,” he explained, “was the seal of Thomas Morton of Merry Mount. It is still extant upon legal documents which he left behind him. I’ll venture to assert, Daniel, that your Deborah, who wears that seal, apparently, about her neck, is a descendant of the Morton clan. Old Thomas left enough illegitimate progeny, God knows, and there is no reason why some of these women may not have taken the rascal’s name. Why the goat’s head should have been clutched in Wagner’s hand or why it is branded on Martha Westcott’s shoulder is beyond my reasoning faculties. Those are things that you will have to find out.”

Slowly he opened the bulky black volume before him.

“Daniel,” he said, “listen to this. I am reading from Cotton Mather.”

He bowed over the page and read slowly:

“... this Rampant Hag, Martha Carrier, was the person, of whom the Confessions of the Witches, and of her own Children among the rest, agreed, That the Devil had promised her, she should be Queen of Hell.”

He looked up solemnly.

“That, I take it,” he remarked, “is the fountainhead of the Carrier family. You notice she had children. She was the Queen of Hell, Daniel, the Queen of Hell. That’s a brave title for a Puritan lady.”

He turned back to the book and searched through a few pages. Finding what he sought for, he cleared his throat and looked up.

“Now then,” he said, and began to read again.

“‘Richard Carrier affirmed to the jury that he saw Mr. George Burroughs at the witch meeting at the village and saw him administer the sacrament.’ And here’s another interesting bit. ‘He,’ ... that’s Burroughs, Daniel.... ‘He was Accused by Eight of the Confessing Witches, as being an Head Actor at some of their Hellish Rendezvouses, and one who had the promise of being a King in Satan’s kingdom, now going to be erected....’”

Lathrop closed the book with a snap and a puff of dust started up from it.

“And there,” he said, “is the stock from which your sallow preacher-friend, the Reverend George Burroughs, descends. I point these things out to you, Daniel, so that you may understand how clear the stock has come down from the Salem witch-days. There’s another place in this book, if I recollect aright, where the witches accused George Burroughs of bringing puppets with him and sticking thorns into those puppets. Burroughs, I suppose, was the Black Man, or one of the Black Men, who ruled the New England coven. There we are, Daniel. Now you know all that I know and I imagine you can see why I wanted to keep it from you. I thought the ancient fever would die out and that there would be no need of all this speculation. It seems not.”

He wheezed heavily and shook his head.

“What must I do, Humphrey?” asked Dreeme.

Lathrop opened his eyes very wide and pointed a pudgy finger at the young doctor.

“Do?” he said. “Why, be a wise man. Take your little Deborah Morton with you and get out of the valley and settle elsewhere and live your life without worrying about these things. This situation cannot last. Westcott is undoubtedly mad, and he will blow himself up in some devilish experiment, or some farmer will do for him. Why should you stay here rooting into things that, after all, are no concern of yours? If these fools want to play at being witches, let them. Much good may it do them! Your life is all before you, and it moves on another arc than the existence in this gray town of Marlborough.”

He sighed and glanced at the silver-streaked window where the runnels of rain slid unceasingly.

“I’m anchored here,” he said sadly. “I’m an old hulk rotting in a forgotten dry-dock. Time has forgotten me. All I can do is sit in this chair and watch absolutely nothing go by and cogitate upon it. It’s a bright prospect, Daniel, a bright prospect.”

“I shall go away,” remarked Dreeme slowly. “Just when, I don’t know, but soon ... soon.”

He, too, watched the rain beating against the window-panes and listened to the confused roar of the storm as it beat over Marlborough. It was pleasant to sit in a dry warm nook and observe the elements raging vainly outside. The valley was full of the grey smoke of the down-pour, and the greedy soil, that had parched beneath the hot sun; was drinking the cool water, bringing its measure of relief to the tiny thrusting roots that fumbled about in the darkness for nourishment. It had not rained since the night he had first gone to the Westcott farm, since he had stood in the dark doorway with Martha Westcott listening for the sound of wings in the air; and that had been but a brief storm, a swift and vanishing interruption of the parched season that had hovered over the valley. That had been but a few days ago, and yet how far away it seemed. Wonderingly he watched the rain beat against the window and listened to the whirring music that filled the cloudy air.

III

Walden Slater had drawn his rickety rocker back against the wall and he sat just outside the curtain of water that dripped from the eaves of the back piazza. He looked through the swinging silver hangings of rain soberly, his empty corncob pipe drooping disconsolately from his wide mouth. It was evident that he was deep in the concentration of difficult thought for his brows wrinkled and his head bowed still lower as he twiddled a small bit of wood in his hand and gazed blankly at the whirring rain. Dreeme stood in the back door and watched him. Behind the young doctor in the kitchen Deborah moved about, her small clear voice raised as she attempted unsuccessfully to converse with the reticent Mrs. Slater who paraded back and forth with dishes and answered her in grudging monosyllables. There was an excited quaver in Deborah’s voice that moved Dreeme, the note of a stifled excitement. They all had something on their minds. They were all concealing something from one another. The very atmosphere induced an ingrowing that was unhealthy and unnatural. Dreeme coughed loudly and shifted his position. Walden Slater did not stir. He still sat crouched in the rocker rolling the bit of wood between his stumpy fingers.

“I should think the rain would cheer you up,” remarked Dreeme.

Walden Slater turned his head slowly, inspected the young doctor with a blank eye, and then resumed his study of the rain.

“Won’t it be good for the crops?”

“Umph,” said Walden Slater. He twiddled his bit of wood and looked at the sky.

“I’m going to marry Deborah,” announced Dreeme.

Walden Slater turned deliberately around and stared at the young doctor. He looked first at his shoes, then his trousers, then his coat, and finally into the doctor’s face. His eyes were opaque mirrors. He cleared his throat. He said:

“Be you?”

His tone was mild and there was no surprise in his voice.

“I reckoned so,” he added after a moment.

“Any objections?” asked Dreeme.

Walden Slater watched the rain carefully.

“Do you ever whittle?” he inquired.

Dreeme laughed aloud.

“No,” he said. “I don’t even carry a knife.”

His mind flashed back to dour farmers seated morosely before the post office and general store whittling away at small pieces of wood, industriously carving nothing to pass away the endless time.

“No objections at all,” remarked Walden Slater mildly.

Both of them heard the humming of the Reverend George Burroughs as he came through the kitchen from the dining room, and Dreeme drew back with some distaste as the tall sallow figure pushed through the door to the back piazza.

“The Lord gives plenteously,” intoned the preacher as his black expressionless eyes roved from the faces of the two men to the gusts of rain that swept across the green foliage beyond the house.

“Lend me your knife,” requested Walden Slater, twiddling the bit of wood in his hand.

The Reverend George Burroughs extracted an old clasp-knife from his pocket and passed it over to the farmer. Walden Slater began to methodically whittle the bit of wood he held to a fine point. The tiny shavings fluttered to the floor.

“A fine rain makes a fine crop,” announced the preacher.

“A fine crop makes a fine profit,” added Dreeme, saying the first thing that popped into his mind.

“A fine knife makes a fine point,” declared Walden Slater. “This knife is dull.”

He handed it back without any thanks, and the preacher stowed it away in his pocket. Dreeme drifted back through the kitchen preparatory to returning to his study. The conversation was altogether too dull.

IV

Dreeme was jerked out of a sound sleep by a strong hand grasping his shoulder. He started up with an uncontrollable cry of amazement.

“Get into your clothes,” said a voice. “It’s time.”

He recognized Walden Slater’s voice. Without any questions he leaped out of bed and hurried into his trousers and shirt. A heavy rain pounded on the roof as he completed his brief toilet, and shook his head violently to recover his partially benumbed senses. Walden Slater moved before him as they hurried for the stair-case and ran down it to the entrance hall. Before dashing out through the door into the rain Dreeme flung his still soggy rain-coat about him. A moment later they stood in the road where the heavens seemed to open and let down an unimaginable flood upon them. Walden Slater snatched up a storm-proof lantern from the ground by the gate, and as he stooped his heavy coat gaped open and Dreeme caught a glimpse of the butt of the Smith and Wesson revolver thrust into his belt.

“What is it, Walden?” gasped the young doctor. “For God’s sake, find your tongue.”

“I can find my tongue when I want it,” replied the farmer. “You come with me.”

They splashed through the puddles up the gradual rise of the Leeminster Road, bowing their heads to the fierce blows of the frantic gusts of rain that sought to thrust them back. Dreeme was running in his bare feet.

“Walden!” he gasped. “Walden!”

“Deborah’s gone. Disappeared completely,” cried Walden Slater with unwonted vigor. “So’s Burroughs. Does that tell you anything? Dreeme, I’ve thought this whole thing out. You come with me.”

He ran all the faster, and Dreeme followed him while a mounting rage seethed within him.

“I know what I know,” the farmer called back over his shoulder.

Dreeme seemed to be borne along by the furies within him. He accelerated his pace and soon was abreast of the farmer. For a time they ran doggedly, the breath whistling in their lungs. Under their feet drummed the boards of the bridge that spanned the Saccarac River. A moment later they were on even ground. Deborah gone! How or why she had gone Dreeme did not know, but Walden Slater knew, and that was enough. It would be time enough later to ask questions. Yet Dreeme, leaning his head closer to the farmer, did ask something.

“Where are we going?” His voice rose in a shout. “To the Westcott farm?”

“Dagon, damn it, Dagon!” shouted back the farmer. “We’re going to the place called Dagon!”

They ran all the faster through the relentless rain.