Dracula's Guest: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Vampire Stories (25 page)

“I wonder they did not burn the whole castle, so as to erase the very memory of it,” said the knight.

“It was a dependency of the church, and that saved it,” replied the other. “Your great-grandfather afterwards took possession of it, for it had fine lands attached. As the Knight of Klatka was of good family, a monument was erected to him in the church, which now lies as much in ruin as the castle itself.”

“Oh, let us set off at once! Nothing shall prevent my visiting so interesting a spot,” said Franziska eagerly. “The imprisoned damsels who never reappeared, the storming of the tower, the death of the knight, the nightly wanderings of his spirit round the old oak, and lastly, our own adventure, all draw me thither with an indescribable curiosity.”

When a servant announced that the horses were at the door, the young girls tripped laughingly down the steps which led to the coach-yard. Franz, the knight, and a servant well acquainted with the country followed; and in a few minutes the party was on the road to the forest.

The sun was still high in the heavens when they saw the towers of Klatka rising above the trees. Everything in the wood was still except the cheerful twitterings of the birds as they hopped about amongst the bursting buds and leaves and announced that spring had arrived.

The party soon found themselves near the old oak at the bottom of the hill on which stood the towers, still imposing in their ruin. Ivy and bramble bushes had wound themselves over the walls, and forced their deep roots so firmly between the stones that they in a great measure held these together. On the top of the highest spot a small bush in its young fresh verdure swayed lightly in the breeze.

The gentlemen assisted their companions to alight, and leaving the horses to the care of the servant, ascended the hill to the castle. After having explored this in every nook and cranny, and spent much time in a vain search for some trace of the extraordinary stranger whom Franziska declared she was determined to discover, they proceeded to an inspection of the adjoining church. This they found to have better withstood the ravages of time and weather; the nave, indeed, was in complete dilapidation, but the chancel and altar were still under roof, as well as a sort of chapel which appeared to have been a place of honour for the families of the old knights of the castle. Few traces remained, however, of the magnificent painted glass which must once have adorned the windows, and the wind entered at pleasure through the open spaces.

The party were occupied for some time in deciphering the inscriptions on a number of tombstones, and on the walls, principally within the chancel. They were generally memorials of the ancient lords, with figures of men in armour, and women and children of all ages. A flying raven and various other devices were placed at the corners. One gravestone, which stood close to the entrance of the chancel, differed widely from the others: there was no figure sculptured on it, and the inscription, which on all besides was a mere mass of flattering eulogies, was here simple and unadorned; it contained only these words: “Ezzelin von Klatka fell like a knight at the storming of the castle”—on such a day and year.

“That must be the monument of the knight whose ghost is said to haunt these ruins,” cried Franziska eagerly. “What a pity he is not represented in the same way as the others—I should so like to have known what he was like!”

“Oh, there is the family vault, with steps leading down to it, and the sun is lighting it up through a crevice,” said Franz, stepping from the adjoining vestry.

The whole party followed him down the eight or nine steps which led to a tolerably airy chamber, where were placed a number of coffins of all sizes, some of them crumbling into dust. Here, again, one close to the door was distinguished from the others by the simplicity of its design, the freshness of its appearance, and the brief inscription: “Ezzelinus de Klatka, Eques.”

As not the slightest effluvium was perceptible, they lingered some time in the vault; and when they reascended to the church, they had a long talk over the old possessors, of whom the knight now remembered he had heard his parents speak. The sun had disappeared, and the moon was just rising as the explorers turned to leave the ruins. Bertha had made a step into the nave, when she uttered a slight exclamation of fear and surprise. Her eyes fell on a man who wore a hat with drooping feathers, a sword at his side, and a short cloak of somewhat old-fashioned cut over his shoulders. The stranger leaned carelessly on a broken column at the entrance; he did not appear to take any notice of the party; and the moon shone full on his pale face.

The party advanced towards the stranger.

“If I am not mistaken,” commenced the knight, “we have met before.”

Not a word from the unknown.

“You released us in an almost miraculous manner,” said Franziska, “from the power of those dreadful wolves. Am I wrong in supposing it is to you we are indebted for that great service?”

“The beasts are afraid of me,” replied the stranger in a deep fierce tone, while he fastened his sunken eyes on the girl, without taking any notice of the others.

“Then you are probably a huntsman,” said Franz, “and wage war against the fierce brutes.”

“Who is not either the pursuer or the pursued? All persecute or are persecuted, and Fate persecutes all,” replied the stranger without looking at him.

“Do you live in these ruins?” asked the knight hesitatingly.

“Yes; but not to the destruction of your game, as you may fear, Knight of Fahnenberg,” said the unknown contemptuously. “Be quite assured of this; your property shall remain untouched—”

“Oh! my father did not mean that,” interrupted Franziska, who appeared to take the liveliest interest in the stranger. “Unfortunate events and sad experiences have, no doubt, induced you to take up your abode in these ruins, of which my father would by no means dispossess you.”

“Your father is very good, if that is what he meant,” said the stranger in his former tone; and it seemed as though his dark features were drawn into a slight smile; “but people of my sort are rather difficult to turn out.”

“You must live very uncomfortably here,” said Franziska, half vexed, for she thought her polite speech had deserved a better reply.

“My dwelling is not exactly uncomfortable, only somewhat small—still quite suitable for quiet people,” said the unknown with a kind of sneer. “I am not, however, always quiet; I sometimes pine to quit the narrow space, and then I dash away through forest and field, over hill and dale; and the time when I must return to my little dwelling always comes too soon for me.”

“As you now and then leave your dwelling,” said the knight, “I would invite you to visit us, if I knew—”

“That I was in a station to admit of your doing so,” interrupted the other; and the knight started slightly, for the stranger had exactly expressed the half-formed thought. “I lament,” he continued coldly, “that I am not able to give you particulars on this point—some difficulties stand in the way: be assured, however, that I am a knight, and of at least as ancient a family as yourself.”

“Then you must not refuse our request,” cried Franziska, highly interested in the strange manners of the unknown. “You must come and visit us.”

“I am no boon-companion, and on that account few have invited me of late,” replied the other with his peculiar smile; “besides, I generally remain at home during the day; that is my time for rest. I belong, you must know, to that class of persons who turn day into night, and night into day, and who love everything uncommon and peculiar.”

“Really? So do I! And for that reason, you must visit us,” cried Franziska. “Now,” she continued smiling, “I suppose you have just risen, and you are taking your morning airing. Well, since the moon is your sun, pray pay a frequent visit to our castle by the light of its rays. I think we shall agree very well, and that it will be very nice for us to be acquainted.”

“You wish it?—You press the invitation?” asked the stranger earnestly and decidedly.

“To be sure, for otherwise you will not come,” replied the young lady shortly.

“Well, then, come I will!” said the other, again fixing his gaze on her. “If my company does not please you at any time, you will have yourself to blame for an acquaintance with one who seldom forces himself, but is difficult to shake off.”

When the unknown had concluded these words he made a slight motion with his hand, as though to take leave of them, and passing under the doorway, disappeared among the ruins. The party soon after mounted their horses and took the road home.

It was evening of the following day, and all were again seated in the hall of the castle. Bertha had that day received good news. The knight Woislaw had written from Hungary that the war with the Turks would soon be brought to a conclusion during the year, and that although he had intended returning to Silesia, hearing of the Knight of Fahnenberg having gone to take possession of his new estates, he should follow the family there, not doubting that Bertha had accompanied her friend. He hinted that he stood so high in the opinion of his duke on account of his valuable services, that in future his duties would be even more important and extensive; but before settling down to them, he should come and claim Bertha’s promise to become his wife. He had been much enriched by his master, as well as by booty taken from the Turks. Having formerly lost his right hand in the duke’s service, he had essayed to fight with his left; but this did not succeed very admirably, and so he had an iron one made by a very clever artist. This hand performed many of the functions of a natural one, but there had been still much wanting; now, however, his master had presented him with one of gold, an extraordinary work of art, produced by a celebrated Italian mechanic. The knight described it as something marvellous, especially as to the superhuman strength with which it enabled him to use the sword and lance. Franziska naturally rejoiced in the happiness of her friend, who had had no news of her betrothed for a long time before. She launched out every now and then, partly to plague Franz, and partly to express her own feelings, in the highest praise and admiration of the bravery and enterprise of the knight, whose adventurous qualities she lauded to the skies. Even the scar on his face and his want of a right hand were reckoned as virtues; and Franziska at last saucily declared that a rather ugly man was infinitely more attractive to her than a handsome one, for as a general rule handsome men were conceited and effeminate. Thus, she added, no one could term their acquaintance of the night before handsome, but attractive and interesting he certainly was. Franz and Bertha simultaneously denied this. His gloomy appearance, the deadly hue of his complexion, the tone of his voice, were each in turn depreciated by Bertha, while Franz found fault with the contempt and arrogance obvious in his speech. The knight stood between the two parties. He thought there was something in his bearing that spoke of good family, though much could not be said for his politeness; however, the man might have had trials enough in his life to make him misanthropical. Whilst they were conversing in this way, the door suddenly opened and the subject of their remarks himself walked in.

“Pardon me, Sir Knight,” he said coldly, “that I come, if not uninvited, at least unannounced; there was no one in the ante-chamber to do me that service.”

The brilliantly lighted chamber gave a full view of the stranger. He was a man of about forty, tall, and extremely thin. His features could not be termed uninteresting—there lay in them something bold and daring—but the expression was on the whole anything but benevolent. There were contempt and sarcasm in the cold grey eyes, whose glance, however, was at times so piercing that no one could endure it long. His complexion was even more peculiar than the features: it could neither be called pale nor yellow; it was a sort of grey, or, so to speak, dirty white, like that of an Indian who has been suffering long from fever; and was rendered still more remarkable by the intense blackness of his beard and short-cropped hair. The dress of the unknown was knightly, but old-fashioned and neglected; there were great spots of rust on the collar and breastplate of his armour; and his dagger and the hilt of his finely worked sword were marked in some places with mildew. As the party were just going to supper, it was only natural to invite the stranger to partake of it; he complied, however, only in so far that he seated himself at the table, for he ate no morsel. The knight, with some surprise, inquired the reason.

“For a long time past I have accustomed myself never to eat at night,” he replied with a strange smile. “My digestion is quite unused to solids, and indeed would scarcely confront them. I live entirely on liquids.”

“Oh, then we can empty a bumper of Rhine-wine together,” cried the host.

“Thanks; but I neither drink wine nor any cold beverage,” replied the other; and his tone was full of mockery. It appeared as if there was some amusing association connected with the idea.

“Then I will order you a cup of hippocras”—a warm drink composed of herbs—“it shall be ready immediately,” said Franziska.