THE PHANTOM COACH: Collected Ghost Stories (56 page)

Appendix II

A Legend of Boisguilbert

BESIDE this tarn, in ages gone,

As antique legends darkly tell,

A false, false Abbot and forty monks

Did once in sinful plenty dwell.

Accursed of Christ and all the saints,

They robb’d the rich; they robb’d the poor;

They quaff’d the best of Malvoisie;

They turn’d the hungry from their door.

And though the nations groan’d aloud,

And famine stalk’d across the land—

And though the noblest Christian blood

Redden’d the thirsty Eastern sand—

These monks kept up their ancient state,

Nor cared how long the troubles lasted;

But fed their deer, and stock’d their pond,

And feasted when they should have fasted.

And so it fell one Christmas Eve,

When it was dark, and cold, and late,

A pious knight from Palestine

Came knocking at the convent gate.

He rode a steed of Arab blood;

His helm was up; his mien was bold;

And roundabout his neck he wore

A chain of Saracenic gold.

‘What ho! good monks of Boisguilbert,

Your guest am I tonight!’ quoth he.

‘Have you a stable for my steed?

A supper, and a cell for me?’

The Abbot laugh’d; the friars scoff’d;

They fell upon that knight renown’d,

And bore him down, and tied his hands,

And threw him captive on the ground.

‘Sir guest!’ they cried, ‘your steed shall be

Into our convent stable led;

And, since we have no cell to spare,

Yourself must sleep among the dead!’

He mark’d them with a steadfast eye;

He heard them with a dauntless face;

He was too brave to fear to die;

He was too proud to sue for grace.

They tore the chain from round his neck,

The trophy of a gallant fight,

Whilst o’er the black and silent tarn

Their torches flash’d a sullen light.

And the great pike that dwelt therein,

All startled by the sudden glare,

Dived down among the water-weeds,

And darted blindly here and there.

And one white owl that made her nest

Up in the belfry tow’r hard by,

Flew round and round on swirling wings

And vanish’d with a ghostly cry.

The Abbot stood upon the brink;

He laugh’d aloud in wicked glee;

He waved his torch: ‘Quick! fling him in—

Our fish shall feast tonight!’ said he.

They flung him in. ‘Farewell!’ they cried,

And crowded round the reedy shore.

He gasping rose—‘Till Christmas next!’

He said—then sank to rise no more.

‘Till Christmas next!’ They stood and stared

Into each other’s guilty eyes;

Then fled within the convent gates,

Lest they should see their victim rise.

The fragile bubbles rose and broke;

The wid’ning circles died away;

The white owl shriek’d again; the pike

Were left to silence and their prey.

* * * * *

A year went by. The stealthy fogs

Crept up the hill, all dense and slow,

And all the woods of Boisguilbert

Lay hush’d and heavy in the snow.

The sullen sun was red by day;

The nights were black; the winds were keen;

And all across the frozen tarn

The footprints of the wolf were seen.

And vague foreshadowings of woe

Beset the monks with mortal fear—

Strange shadows through the cloister pac’d—

Strange whispers threaten’d every ear—

Strange writings started forth at dusk

In fiery lines along the walls;

Strange spectres round the chapel sat,

At midnight, in the sculptur’d stalls.

‘Oh, father Abbot!’ cried the monks,

‘We must repent! Our sins are great!

Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve—

Tomorrow night may be too late!

‘And should the drownèd dead arise’. . . .

The Abbot laugh’d with might and main.

‘The ice,’ said he, ‘is three feet deep.

He’d find it hard to rise again!

‘But when tomorrow night is come,

We’ll say a mass to rest his soul!’

Tomorrow came, and all day long

The chapel bell was heard to toll.

At eve they met to read the mass.

Bent low was ev’ry shaven crown;

One trembling monk the tapers lit;

One held his missal upside down;

And when their quav’ring voices in

The
Dies Irae
all united,

Even the Abbot told his beads

And fragments of the Creed recited.

And when . . . but hark! what sounds are those?

Is it the splitting of the ice?

Is it a steel-clad hand that smites

Against the outer portal thrice?

Is that the tread of an armèd heel?

The frighten’d monks forget to pray;

The Abbot drops the holy book;