Page:Weird Tales Volume 12 Issue 05 (1928-11).djvu/90

And in the deserted cottage a thing happened which would have chilled the blood of the idiot tanner.

The form he had thought a corpse raised itself upon its knees and for the first time in a year stood erect upon its feet!

For a moment Dmitri stood listening by the door, then crossed to the wall, with steps that were uncertain and wavered. He lifted down the leather harness that would fasten the broadsword to his back and buckled the straps together. When he returned to the door and placed Gate-Opener in its sheath, he did so with a surer stride. Though the sword was heavy, he fitted the harness about his shoulders and stood straight in the doorway, looking out over the trees at the stars which gleamed also over Ponkert, a mile away.

Reverently he bowed his head, believing his prayer had been answered. Every moment now he felt stronger, although his legs were still weak and trembled beneath Gate-Opener's weight.

Dmitri had never been a religious man. Indeed, one of his frequent sayings was: "If there is a God at all, He must pay more attention to those who are not always bothering Him by asking for something. Howt weary He must be of begging!" But now it seemed that even the strong were sometimes weak, and with a full heart he would have worshiped and given thanks, but could find no words and all the while precious time was fleeting by, never to return.

He raised his hands beseechingly to the stars and cried : "I am coming, Ivga! If you are alive, I will free you or die in Ponkert square. If they have killed you, look down from the parapets of Heaven and watch the wizened souls of Ponkert dead go squealing by to Satan's halls. And Brenryk, watch a Heigar keep a promise!"

He descended the steps and walked slowly into the forest, toward the village.

Behind him, a black pool of shadow, darker than the rest of the night shades, flow-ed down the steps and along the path. It was oddly shaped as though something stunted and deformed lingered there, suiting its pace to that of the old man just ahead. Yet there was no one else that could be seen, walking down the path.

At this time, which was about the second hour of the night, a small procession stopped just outside Ponkert.

A hiss had sounded from a thicket, and Hugo drew rein and half rose in his saddle. "Who is there?" he said. "Step in front of me!"

"It is you, Hugo?" a cautious whisper came. "I am glad. I have waited hours for you to come."

From the bushes hobbled a hunched figure, wrapped about in a long, black cloak, and he recognized the wrinkled face as that of the gipsy crone, Clauda, his best friend after Mirko.

"What is it?" he said, startled by her strange look. "What has happened?"

"Don't go through the village, Hugo," she replied, clutching the bridle; "the people will kill you. They have seen you with the werewolf's daughter and they will burn you, too!"

"Burn me, too!" His heart almost stopped beating. "Have they burned her?"

"Not yet," was the grim reply, "but in the morning."

"Quick, Mother Clauda! What have they done? Where is she?"

"In the square, bound to the stake on the scaffold. Hugo, what are you going to do?"

The last words were almost a scream, for the boy had leapt from his horse and tom away her cloak.

"I am going to save her," he replied, and wrapped the cloak about him, drawing it close about his head.