Ligurian:
# Gibbet Hill

# do Bram Stoker

Quande ò lasciou o Royal Huts Inn, in çimma à Hind Head, pe anâ à vixitâ Devil’s Punchbowl e Gibbet Hill, stæta inmortalizzâ da-o Turner into seu Liber Studiorium, son passou pe unna longa stradda drita – a neuva stradda primmäia tra Londra e Portsmouth – e da lì à un pittin son arrivou in sciâ ziña da Vallâ e ò pösou i mæ euggi in sciâ seu bellessa. A negia, ch’a l’ea intensa à Londra quand’ea partio inte sta mattin da meitæ d’ottobre, a l’arrivava fin à Haslemere e a stava inte valladde coscì che e çimme de colliñe do Surrey s’erzeivan comme de isoe d’into mâ de negia e, inta luxe schillente do sô ch’a l’esaltava ste çimme ciù elevæ, a l’addôçiva tutta a vasta desteisa de colliñe, vallæ e còste ch’a s’estendeiva tra mi e a riva de meridion do mâ. A colliña a chinava rapida da tutti i scianchi feua che à Nòrd-Òvest, donde a vallâ rionda a s’arviva in sciâ cianua dabasso. Tutti i coî da stæ ean castigæ e addôçii; tutti i coî pin che o sô o l’aiva glorificou ean scentæ into smaxio de l’ötunno. O reusa e o moælo do brugo ean stæti cangiæ into marròn, con solo che unna stissa de cô pe ascädâ e seu tonalitæ. A frexa a l’ea de un intenso cô d’ambra e de un giano deslavou, e e infinitæ de erbe e de scioî sarvæghe s’ean misse o sò vestî d’inverno: e tonalitæ da decompoxiçion. Into mezo de tutta sta ricca massa de coî d’ötunno, l’astra, ancon intatta da-o zeo, a tiava un lampo cô de smerado. I costi verdi d’in gio a-o rianello piccin ch’o strixellava pe-a vallâ paivan avei unna vivessa sorvenaturale, e o verde scuo di pin che crovivan i costi de ponente e chinava n inta vallâ, o paiva affermâ inte quarche mainea poxitiva o drito da natua à mantegnî o sò cô à despeto de tutte e influense. Lontan, verso Nòrd e verso Òvest, ciù in de là di speroin e e spalle da colliña, i bòschi e e vallæ, i boschetti e i bricchi e e creñe vegnivan un apreuvo à l’atro inte unna succescion infinia, e l’ea stæto dòppo unna pösa ben ben longa ch’aiva desmisso d’ammiâ a bellessa da scena, co-o cheu pin de poei e maistæ e unn’influensa ch’a purifica, quella da bellessa da natua. «Chì a-o manco» m’ea dito «l’anima de l’òmmo a l’é elevâ, e inte sto cian ciù erto do travaggio da natua o mâ inti nòstri cheu o vëgne ninou».

Quande m’ea virou, però, aiva piggiou un resato, perché, comme pe ironia da sciòrte, gh’aiva da arente un monumento scu o a-a grammiçia e a-a sæ de sangue de l’òmmo: unna ciappa in sciâ ziña da stradda ch’a l’indicava o ponto into quæ, un secolo a vanti, l’ea stæto assascinou un pöveo mainâ ch’o se strascinava in viægio da Portsmouth.

Ma no gh’ea solo che a pria ch’a l’ea interessante; perché da arente à lê gh’ea træ figue che avieivan acciammou l’attençion de tutti. Ean solo che de figgette, ma de natua no commun. Doe ean de figge indiañe zovene che, se fïsan stæte ingleixi – dando a mente a-o ciù lento sviluppo di figgeu in Inghiltæra – saieivan stæte de trezze ò quattòrz’anni; dæto ch’ean de proveniensa orientale, aivan da ëse ben ben ciù zovene.

Stavan a-i scianchi da pria commemorativa e paivan doî arrembi araldichi, dæto che ogniduña a tegniva unna man sottî e scua arrembâ in sce un gomio da ciappa e a tegniva o moro in sciâ man tanto ch’a m’ammiava greive co-i seu euggi longhi, scui e impenetrabili. Tutte doe ean graçiose a-a seu mainea, e e seu figue de figge magre ean vestie de neigro con unna stòffa schillente, fæta inte unna mainea meza orientale, con unna çenta gianca de röba d’in gio a-a vitta e unna smersa de materiale scuo inguggeito da-a testa ch’o fava da cappello.

O terso da comitiva o l’ea un figgeu de quæxi dex’anni, co-i cavelli do cô de l’öo e i euggi bleuçê comme de porçellaña, e un fattoriso scimpatico in sciâ faccia reusa. O se poeiva definî Cupido ò mæximo un angeo. O l’ea vestio con unna tunica scua cô do sangue.

Pe quarche segondo ea arrestou lì à ammiâ quello trio ch’o m’osservava fisso sensa mesciâse. Dapeu gh’aiva parlou, con fâ unna quarche osservaçion in sciâ bellessa da scena. Uña de figge, toccando a pria con unna man, a m’aiva dito:

«Voscià scià ne peu dî quarcösa in sce sta pria? Niatri semmo foresti».

«Mi ascì son foresto chì, ma penso che e informaçioin ê poemmo attrovâ chì» gh’aiva replicou, intanto che lezzeiva l’inscriçion, ch’a l’ea in scê doe facce da pria. E comme aiva lezzuo a poula «ammassamento» i trei s’ean ammiæ tra de liatri e aivan ammiou mi, ean stæti piggiæ da-a tremmaxon e, stranio à dî, apreuvo a-a tremmaxon gh’ea vegnuo un fattoriso.

Mi aiva pensou ch’avessan poia, e m’ea aspresciou à azzonze «Ma no gh’é beseugno de lasciâ che sto fæto o ve conturbe. Tutto o l’é intravegnuo çent’anni avanti, quande o paise o l’ea ben ben despægio da quello ch’o l’é oua».

Uña de doe figgette a l’aiva dito à bassa voxe, con un ton ch’o paiva penetrante inte un mòddo particolâ:

«Spero de no, confio de no», e o figgeu piccin o m’aiva ammiou e riendo o l’aiva dito:

«M’imagino che se ghe foïse un ammassamento ancheu, o corpeive o saieiva misso a-a forca à Gibbet Hill».

«Böna, zoenòtto» gh’aiva dito: «Veddo che ti ti sæ tutto in sciâ costion: mi vaggo sciù in çimma a-o bricco pe ammiâ a Croxe commemorativa. Ti veu vegnî ti ascì à ammiâ donde aivan misso l’assascin?»

«Con piaxei» o l’aiva dito, con unn’äia de solennitæ squæxi sorvenaturale, levandose a berretta, in reconoscimento do mæ invito. E figge m’aivan fæto scoaccin lô ascì, e tutti s’eimo inandiæ insemme verso a çimma do bricco. Into cammin, mi aiva remarcou che o figgeu o strenzeiva unna man à pugno.

«Cöse ti gh’æ lì serrou?» gh’aiva domandou.

«Sti chì» o l’aiva replicou, arvindo a man e mostrandome unna massa schissâ d’ombrighi, i quæ se remenavan inta sò neuva libertæ. «Me gusta i ombrighi» o l’aiva continuou. «Scià l’ammie, se remescian, e se peuan tiâ fin à fâli vegnî mai tanto longhi!» e o l’à mostrou st’urtimo fæto.

«Pövei ombrighi!» aiva dito mi, «perché no lasciâli anâ? Ghe saieiva ben ben ciù cao stâsene in tæra». «Na», a l’ea stæta a sò replica, tanto che o î infricciava inte ceighe da sò tunica.

Gh’ea un muggio de persoñe a-a Croxe quande semmo arrivæ in çimma à Gibbet Hill, in azzonta à de preuve abondante de vixitatoî de no guæi in forma de scòrse d’euve e tòcchi de giornali, perché a croxe a l’ea un di pòsti ciù cäi a-e gente pe-o picnic. Tra ste gente desconosciue a mæ fantaxia a l’ea piggiâ pe-a ciù parte da unna scignoa e da un galantòmmo che gh’ò dito «a cobbia da luña d’amê».

A bella vista che aiva davanti à mi – unna desteisa sarvæga de çimme de colliñe che montavan con di bòschi verdi e de vallæ ricche – a m’aiva piggiou mai tanto che m’ea ascordou do tutto di mæ zoveni compagni. Ea anæto in sciâ ziña do bricco rapido e m’ea assettou à ammiâ verso est, e m’ea perso inta bellessa da scena.

Tutt’assemme, m’ea arregordou di mæ zoveni compagni e î aiva çercæ in gio; ma ean scentæ do tutto: no gh’ea segno de liatri da nisciuña parte.

A mæ partensa da Londra a l’ea stæta mattinea, e a camminâ da Haslemere into sô ardente d’ottobre un pittin fadigosa, donca, dòppo un pittin, quand’ea stæto tutto d’in gio a-a çimma do bricco e aiva, pe coscì dî, abbrassou a vista inte tutte e direçioin, m’ea inandiou pe un boschetto fondo e ombrezzou de nisseue e de fò con di erti pin che montav an in sce tutto – un di quelli bòschi scciassi che s’arrampiñan in sciù da-a vallâ, e che tian de ponte de verde sciù pe-e pendense da colliña.

Chì gh’ea tutta a perfeçion do pin de l’ötunno. A vegetaçion a cresceiva de mainea ricca à l’assosto di pin aggroppæ. O brun da scòrsa e o cô bleuastro do feuggiamme di pin, tanto che s’ammiava inti corrieu semiscui tra de liatri, o doçe ödô aromatico ch’esallavan, o scilençio addormiggiou, remarcou solo che da-o borbonâ de inf inie vitalitæ da natua, l’erba ricca e legia – o quæ verde de stæ o l’ea ancon intatto inte sta göga à l’assosto – tutti invitavan a-a pösa. Con un beou sentimento de giromia m’ea allonghio in sce l’erba, e fito aiva perso i mæ penscëi e a mæ consciensa inte ramme intressæ de d’ato à mi.

No sò quante tempo aiva dormio, ma o dev’ëse stæto un bon momento, perché me sentiva ben ben refrescou into çervello, e con quello senso de legio dô de granfi a-i moscoli ch’o vëgne dòppo un longo periodo d’inattivitæ; e gh’ea in sce de mi quello senso misteioso do tempo passou ch’o dixe a-i filòsofi che o nòstro pensceo o l’é continuo inte unna forma ò unn’atra. No gh’ea, però, nisciun senso de dovei omesso, nisciuña prescion do travaggio imminente, che inte çerti caxi o destrue o fascino de l’addesciâse. Saiva che gh’ea ben ben de tempo davanti à mi e che poeiva pensâ, sensa nisciun contròllo, che poeiva demoâme comme m’ea ciù cao inte sto senso de libertæ, e gödî da freschixe e da puritæ de l’äia inte sto pòsto mäveggioso.

E coscì no m’ea mesciou, ma m’ea desteiso in sciâ scheña co-e moen sott’a-a testa à ammiâ e ramme e i ciæi de luxe che sciortivan tramezo a-e feugge e a-e ramme. E pensava à tante cöse inte quella mainea lusciosa e meza assunnâ ch’a l’appartëgne a-o tempo libero de un òmmo pe-o sòlito ben ben occupou. Piggiâ un fî de pensceo e lasciâlo cazze torna, balansâ tra de idee generale e particolare, e realizzâ inte tutte e mainee o ciù grande tra i piaxei, o _laissez aller_ intellettuale.

Gh’ea inte l’äia o mæximo borbonâ sciätou de soin variæ ch’o m’aiva fæto addormî a-o prinçipio; ma inte quarche mainea o volumme o l’ea ciù ricco che primma, ciù pin e aggradio pe l’oegia, e con un scignificato particolâ, comme se no solo tutta a natua a parlesse ma ghe fïse quarche voxe tra a miriade ciù potente che o resto. Mi stava à sentî con un interesse crescente e o son o paiva piggiâ unna poxiçion ciù definia tra e armonie da natua. No l’ea comme s’o crescesse de fòrsa, ma solo comme se e vibraçioin s’ammuggessan, con arrivâ in ondæ ciù leste de quante poessan asmortâse.

Pittin à pittin, tutti i atri soin paivan scentâ e mi n’aiva sentio solo ciù che un. O paiva sempre ciù vexin da maniman che comensava à distinguilo ciù ciæo, fin à quande ea arrivou a-a concluxon che a seu vivagna a l’ea separâ da mi solo che da quarche çentanæa de iarde. Dapeu aiva comensou à poeilo analizzâ un pittin. L’effetto generale o l’ea comme unna meña de requaggio muxicale asmortou – un requaggio sottovoxe – ma con unna sottî dôçessa prevalente e unn’attraçion che squæxi no se ghe poeiva resciste. À un bello momento, aiva tiou sciù a testa da-e frexe donde m’ea desteiso e aiva ammiou de donde o son o ne vegniva. Lì, con mæ sorpreisa, inte unna göga averta donde a luxe a cazzeiva tramezo à unna fissua tra i erboi, gh’ea arrecuggeito i figgeu ch’aiva conosciuo. E doe figge ean assettæ, e tra de liatre o figgeu o stava sciù. Uña de figge a l’aiva inta man manciña quarcösa ch’o s’assumeggiava à un scigoelo de Pan, un insemme de cannette sottî ma un pittin ciù drue che e pagge do gran. In sce de questo a fava scuggiâ quarcösa ch’a l’aiva attaccou a-e die da man drita, ch’o produxeiva i basci de quello stranio son de requaggio. L’atra figgia a l’aiva inte moen unna scheuggioa con di fî ch’a toccava cianin; e o figgeu o l’aiva unna meña de scigoelo de canna ch’o fava unna nòtta particolarmente longa e doçe, ma ch’a se deslenguava inta massa da muxica. Dapeu e figge s’ean unie inte unna smersa de canto monòtono de dôçessa strania, ma ben ben debole. Ean tutti trei che ammiavan ben lontan da-o mæ scianco. Da lì à un pittin e figge ean stæte sciù; s’ean giæ un pö e aiva posciuo ammiâ che ean apreuvo à virâ cian cianin inte un çercio compio, comme se çerchessan inte tutte e direçioin d’in gio à liatre. E comme aivan comensou à virâse inta mæ direçion, m’ea ascoacciou torna tra e frexe, de mainea che no poessan veddime, za che a costion a comensava à impadronîse do mæ interesse.

Aiva dæto a mente de aggueitâ tra e frasche de frexe e de ammiâ tutto quello che succedeiva. Da lì à pöco a mæ attençion a l’ea stæta desviâ, e inte unna mainea no guæi piaxeive.

De sentî un movimento e un fô tra e feugge mòrte da arente à mi, m’ea ammiou d’in gio e squæxi ea sätou in pê, perché lì vexin, sempre ciù vexin, gh’ea un gran serpente, da speçie dita di serpenti òrbi. O l’ea vegnuo drito verso de mi e o l’ea passou pròpio in scî mæ pê. Mi no m’ea mesciou, e lê o l’ea anæto avanti, mostrandome a mæxima attençion ch’o l’avieiva dæto à un bacco de legno, e o l’aiva biscezzou verso o gruppo into cianetto assoiggiou. S’accapiva ch’o l’ea attræto da quella muxica strania e strafaläia, e dæto che sta chì a l’ea a mæ primma esperiensa con un serpente, o mæ interesse o l’ea cresciuo, e m’ea misso à aggueitâ a scena ciù da-a vexin che primma. Anavan avanti co-a seu muxica e o serpente o s’ea avvexinou ancon de ciù; fin ch’o s’ea fermou a-i pê do figgeu da-i belli cavelli, e o s’ea abbigoelou inte unna spirale, o l’aiva tiou sciù a testa e o l’aiva comensou à siâ. O figgeu o l’aiva ammiou zu e e figge aivan virou i euggi verso de lê, ma a muxica a no s’ea fermâ manco pe un momento; pe contra, a l’ea vegnua ciù lesta. Dapeu o serpente o s’ea inguggeito intorno a-a caviggia do figgeu e o l’aiva comensou à montâ sciù pe-o seu còrpo, con biscezzâ in gio a-a sò gamba e a-a sò cheuscia, e in sciù, fin à quande in sciâ fin o l’aiva strisciou longo o brasso ch’o tegniva o flauto.

Dapeu tutt’assemme a muxica a s’ea fermâ. E doe figge ean stæte sciù, e o figgeu o l’aiva desteiso o brasso attorniou da-o serpente, co-a man tutta averta, e parme verso o çê. O serpente o l’ea arrestou fermo e redeno, comme se trasformou inte pria. Dapeu e figge s’ean piggiæ pe-e moen e aivan attorniou cian cianin o figgeu, con emette un canto basso, mormoou e misteioso, pægio à quello de primma, ma stavòtta in decrescendo incangio che in crescendo, e inte unna ciave minô. En anæti avanti à sta mainea pe doî ò trei menuti pöcassæ. O figgeu o l’ea arrestou fermo areo, o brasso desteiso, i euggi bleu fissi in sciô serpente. Dapeu quest’urtimo o l’aiva tiou sciù a testa un pittin e paiva ch’o l’anesse apreuvo a-i movimenti de figge che gh’ea in gio. Ste chì anavan avanti co-i seu movimenti lenti, giando e giando, e i movimenti do serpente vegnivan ciù prononçiæ con ciascheduña revoluçion, fin à quande o giava con fòrsa d’in gio a-o brasso do figgeu, comme o movimento automatico de un furgao. Pittin à pittin, o mesciâse de figge o l’ea vegnuo ciù lento e quello do serpente ancon ciù lento in proporçion, fin à quande o movimento de figge, e a muxica cantilenante, ch’a no s’ea mai fermâ, ean scentæ do tutto, e o serpente o l’arrestava appeiso, unna massa mòrta ch’a locciava comme un tòcco de còrda in sciâ man do figgeu. O figgeu o no s’ea mai mesciou, ma e figge s’ean lasci æ e moen, e uña de liatre, ch’a s’ea fermâ giusto davanti a-o figgeu, a l’aiva piggiou o serpente pe-a testa e a coa e paiva ch’a ô tiesse con delicatessa fin à destendilo. Quande a l’aiva lasciou anâ, o l’ea arrestou desteiso in sciâ man do figgeu, redeno comme un tòcco de legno. Gh’ea quarcösa inte sto fæto ch’a me metteiva anscietæ, a m’aiva misso in cheu de un òmmo che un tempo aiva visto inte un attacco catalettico, o quæ còrpo o mantegniva a poxiçion donde o l’ea stæto misso, no impòrta quante grottesca ò incòmmoda ò sforsâ. O serpente o paiva ëse inte unna condiçion pægia, e con unna strania coixitæ mi aiva aspëtou o pròscimo sviluppo. O figgeu o l’arrestava impascibile, co-a man ancon desteisa e o serpente ch’o se gh’appösava de d’ato. E figge stavan un pittin davanti à lê, a-i seu scianchi, coscì che a man desteisa a l’ea tramezo à liatre.

Dapeu l’ea comensou unna discuscion tra de liatri inte unna lengua che m’ea figuou ëse unna quarche meña de lengua indiaña, ma che no accapiva. Tutte doe e voxe ean doçe, con unna particolâ potensa penetrante, ma uña a me metteiva istintivamente poia, sciben ch’a l’ea a ciù doçe e a ciù delicâ de doe. Inte quarche mainea – e l’idea a l’ea assæ spontanea – a paiva suggerî l’ammassamento.

Da-i toin e e inflescioin de voxe aiva accapio che tutte e frase ean formolæ comme de domande, unna suppoxiçion fito confermâ inte unna strania mainea, perché e respòste vegnivan dæte da-o serpente.

Quande ciascheduña figgia a-o seu gio a l’aiva dito a seu – e suggerivan o poxitivo e o negativo inti seu toin – o serpente o se giava cian cianin comme l’agoggia de unna buscioa, pe pontâ a testa verso uña de doe. A voxe ciù doçe a paiva ëse a poxitiva, e l’atra a negativa inte st’interrogatöio; e pe tutte e primme domande o serpente, dòppo ësise giou adaxo, o l’ea arrestou co-a testa verso o negativo. Sto fæto paiva ch’o l’avesse primma desturbou e dapeu fastidiou l’interrogatoa poxitiva, e a seu voxe a l’ea vegnua ciù letalmente doçe e penetrante fin à quande a m’aiva fæto vegnî a tremmaxon. Dapeu l’ea parsciuo ch’a se foïse arraggiâ delongo de ciù, perché i seu euggi ean stæti traversæ da unna luxe neigra, e in sciâ fin l’ea arrivou a seu domanda con un mormoggio agusso e trillante. Pe replica o serpente o s’ea misso à giâ ancon ciù a-a spedia, e tutt’assemme o s’ea fermou de botto davanti à l’atra figgeua.

Quella delusa a l’aiva emisso un son feo, curto e secco comme o baio de un can, tanto che unn’esprescion de maiçia mortâ a gh’aiva attraversou a cea; e che dapeu a l’ea scentâ, pe lasciâla seña comme primma. Into mæximo momento a rigiditæ do serpente a l’ea scentâ, e o l’ea arrestou appeiso pe un momento, mòllo comme primma, e dapeu o l’ea scuggiou in tæra, e o l’ea stæto lì ammuggiou sensa movimento, comme mòrto. O figgeu, de resato, comme s’o se foïse addesciou de botto, o l’aiva comensou à rie. E figge s’ean unie à sto scciuppon de rie, e inte un momentoo cianello, ch’o l’ea parsciuo mai tanto stranio, o s’ea impio d’allegria, tanto che i figgeu se corrivan apreuvo inte profonditæ do bòsco e tutt’assemme ean scentæ da-a vista.

Dapeu m’ea levou da-e frexe donde m’ea desteiso e no poeiva squæxi credde a-i mæ euggi, e aiva pensou che fòscia aiva dormio e m’ea assunnou tutto. Ma gh’ea o serpente ch’o paiva mòrto davanti à mi comme preuva da poei toccâ ch’aiva ascistio à quarcösa de reale.

O sô o l’ea lontan à ponente quande aiva finio a mæ passaggiâ pe-i sentê e i bòschi in sciâ banda de Witley de Hind Head e m’ea attrovou torna a-o seu ponto ciù erto in sce Gibbet Hill.

Oua o pòsto o l’ea deserto. E gente do picnic ean anæte tutte à cà; i calesci tiæ da-i pony e i axi e e streuppe de figgeu da scheua ean scentæ, e no gh’ea arrestou ninte da carca da giornâ feua che o sòlito muggio di vegi giornali e de scòrse d’euve rotte.

De za che a luxe a l’ea apreuvo à scentâ e l’äia a l’ea apreuvo à vegnî un pö ciù freida, o senso de solitæ o l’ea ciù che mai marcou. Ma mi ea vegnuo d’into mezo do fô e do ramadan da çittæ pe gödî de sta solitæ chì, e o seu luscio o l’ea pe mi indescrivibile. Zu inte vallæ o nëgin o l’ea ancon futo e giancastro, e e çimme do bricco ne sciortivan scue e scinistre.

Unna çenta de nuvie a l’inguggeiva tutto o zinâ, e de d’ato s’allonghiva un mâ giano sorfanin, macciou in sà e in là con de nuviete gianche che, nuando erte in sciô bricco, piggiavan l’urtimo ciæo do sô, oua ascoso da-o zinâ. Uña ò doe stelle aivan comensou à luxî into çê ch’o s’ascuiva, e unna paxe ch’a paiva sençiente a s’ea inscinuâ inta vallâ e a l’ea arrivâ fin donde m’ea assettou.

L’äia a l’ea vegnua ciù freida, e o scilençio o s’ea fæto perfetto. E stelle sciortivan feua into çê, ch’o l’aiva oua un bleu ciù scuo, e unna luxe ammermâ a l’ea cheita in sciâ scena. Ea stæto assettou pe longo tempo, e m’ea imbriægou da mäveggiosa bellessa inta quæ ea appossou. A fadiga da mente e do còrpo a paiva appartegnî à un passou lontan, comme se no poësan maiciù ëse atro che unna triste memöia.

Inte sti momenti l’òmmo o pâ squæxi nasce torna, e avei tutte e facoltæ renoelæ a-o mascimo. M’ea arrembou co-a scheña contra a grande croxe de pria, e, con mette e moen derê à mi, aiva intressou e brasse in gio a-o sò dorso, pe cangiâ a mæ poxiçion e poeime gödî tutto o luscio da pösa.

Tutt’assemme, sensa manco unna poula d’avviso, e mæ moen ean stæte agguantæ da derê e tegnue streite inte un pâ de moen, magre e cade ma mai tanto fòrte che mi no poeiva ciù fâ nisciun movimento; e into mæximo tempo unna scerpa ò un sciallo de quarche materiale legio, sciòcco, ma druo, o m’ea stæto cacciou in sciâ faccia e tiou con fòrsa da derê, con tegnîme a testa vexin a-a pria. Coscì inmobilizzou e abbavaggiou, no poeiva ni mesciâme ni parlâ, e no poeiva fâ atro che aspëtâ cöse saieiva vegnuo apreuvo. Dapeu e mæ moen ean stæte ligæ con unna còrda missa d’in gio a-i pôsci e tiâ streita, coscì ch’ea fissou ciù fermamente che primma. No poeiva sentî nisciun son, e ea seguo d’ëse in scî pissi de patî unna rapiña. Ea da solo, lontan da tutti e inte moen d’òmmi ciù fòrti che mi, e donca ea rassegnou a-a scituaçion megio che poeiva, intimamente reconoscente d’avei adòsso solo che pöchi dinæ. Dòppo un temp o ch’o m’ea parsciuo longo, ma che fòscia o l’ea duou solo che pöchi menuti, a scerpa a l’ea stæta tiâ zu abasta pe liberâ i mæ euggi, ben che a mæ bocca a l’ea ancon coverta e no poeiva criâ.

Pe quarche momento ea stæto tròppo sorpreiso fiña pe attrovâ stranio quello che veddeiva davanti à mi. Incangio che di malemmi gaggiardi, da-e mainee sgreuzze e forsellui, gh’ea i trei figgeu ch’aivan reciammou a mæ attençion ciù avanti inta giornâ. Ean stæti davanti à mi belli fermi e scilençioxi pe un pittin, i seu euggi i soli træti ch’esprimmeivan unna consciensa ò interesse de quarche tipo.

Doî de lô, o figgeu e unna figgeua, dapeu m’aivan fæto un fattoriso con unna superioritæ demoâ, tanto che l’atra – quella ch’a l’aiva mostrou unna raggia coscì grande – a m’aiva fæto un fattoriso pin de un freido venin che, ligou comm’ea, o m’aiva fæto tremmâ. Dapeu a se m’ea avvexinâ de ciù, tanto che i atri ean arrestæ fermi à ammiâ co-o seu fattoriso demoou de superioritæ. A l’aiva piggiou da-a seu vitta, dond’o l’ea ascoso inte crenatue da sò röba, un stiletto longo e affiou, fin, à doî taggi, e con unna cea letale. A l’ea anæta avanti à brandîlo davanti à mi con unn’aspertixe e unna lestixe straordenäia.

Pe-a meitæ do tempo a seu lamma affiâ a m’aiva toccou a pelle, e o contatto o m’aiva dæto o resato. D’in tanto in tanto a s’asbriava verso i mæ euggi fin à quande poeiva sentî a ponta freida do stiletto ch’a me toccava o pin de l’euggio. Dapeu a fava comme pe asbriâse contra de mi co-a ponta de l’arma letale drita in sciô mæ cheu, ma a se fermava pròpio quande paiva che o mæ urtimo momento o foïse arrivou. A l’ea anæta avanti à sta mainea pe un pö; ma sciben ch’o l’ea curto, o paiva infinio. Sentiva un rigô freido, o mæ còrpo ch’o s’imbeçiva; o mæ cheu o paiva vegnî freido e scernio, delongo ciù freido e delongo ciù scernio, fin che i mæ euggi s’ean serræ. Aiva provou à arvîli… ghe l’aiva fæta… aiva provou torna… no ghe l’aiva fæta… ghe l’aiva fæta… no ghe l’aiva fæta… e in sciâ fin a consciensa a se n’ea anæta pe l’äia.

L’urtima cösa che m’arregòrdo d’avei visto co-i mæ euggi ancon addesci a l’ea o luxî do longo cotello inta luxe de stelle tanto ch’o se mesciava into zeugo lesto da figgeua. L’urtimo son ch’aiva sentio o l’ea stæto un rie basso da tutti trei i figgeu.

A voxe inte mæ oege a l’ea futa e lontaña; ma da maniman a l’ea vegnua ciù fòrte, e e poule parlæ ean vegnue comprenscibile: —

«Addescite! Addescite, fræ! Ti creppiæ pe-o freido!»

Freido! A poula a l’aiva dæto into segno, perché into mæ cheu gh’ea quarcösa d’abbeçio, e un zeo comme de mòrte. A mæ consciensa a l’aiva lottou pe tornâ in existensa, e aiva averto i euggi.

Oua gh’ea ciù tanta luxe, perché unna gran luña giana a s’ea levâ, e o cianello o l’ea inondou da-a sò luxe. Da arente à mi gh’ea doe persoñe ch’aiva de ficco conosciuo comme «a cobbia da luña d’amê» de primma. L’òmmo o s’ea chinou in sce de mi, e o l’ea apreuvo à scrollâme co-e brusche pe-a spalla, tanto che a scignoa a stava sciù, à ammiâ con anscietæ, co-e moen intressæ.

«O no l’é mòrto, George, n’é vea?», l’aiva sentia dî. A respòsta a l’ea vegnua: «No, pe graçia do Segnô! O se saià addormio. Che fortuña che t’aggi avuo l’inspiraçion de sciortî pe ammiâ a vista a-o ciæo de luña da chì; o saieiva posciuo moî da-o freido. Mia chì, a tæra a l’é za gianca co-a priña. Addescite, fræ! Addescite e vëgni via de chì!»

«O mæ cheu,» mi aiva mormoggiou, «o mæ cheu!» perché o l’ea freido comme a giassa. L’òmmo, oua con unn’esprescion ciù seria, o l’aiva dito a seu moggê: «Bella, porrieiva trattâse de unna cösa seria. Ti porriësci corrî torna à l’abergo, e mandâ quarchedun se neçessäio? Peu dâse ch’o l’agge un problema a-o cheu».

«De seguo, cao; vaggo oua?»

«Aspeta un momento». O s’ea torna chinou in sce de mi. O passou o m’ea vegnuo torna in cheu a-a spedia, e gh’aiva domandou: «Viatri ei miga visto da quarche parte di figgeu, doe figge indiañe un figgeu co-i cavelli biondi?»

«Scì! L’é tante oe, anavan pe-a stradda de Londra in sce un triçiclo. Rieivan e aivimo pensou che foïsan i figgeu ciù belli e contenti ch’avescimo mai visto. Ma pe cöse?»

«O mæ cheu, o mæ cheu!» aiva torna criou, perché gh’ea un freido ch’o paiva abbeçîme.

L’òmmo o l’aiva appösou a sò man in sciô mæ peto, ma o l’aiva levâ a-a spedia con un crio de terrô.

«Cöse gh’é, George, cöse gh’é?» a l’aiva squæxi criou a scignoa, dæto che a sò açion a l’ea stæta coscì repentiña e improvista da fâghe piggiâ un bello resato.

Lê o l’aiva fæto un passo inderê, e a dònna a s’ea attaccâ con poia a-o sò brasso, tanto che un gròsso serpente òrbo o l’ea sciortio remenando da-o mæ peto, o l’ea cheito pe tæra, e o l’aiva biscezzou zu d’inta colliña into bòsco dabasso.

English translation:
# Gibbet Hill

# by Bram Stoker

When I left the Royal Huts Inn, on the top of Hind Head, in order to visit the Devil’s Punchbowl and Gibbet Hill, immortalized by Turner in the Liber Studiorium, I passed along a wide straight road – the new high road between London and Portsmouth – and shortly came to the edge of the Punchbowl and eased my eyes on its beauty. The fog, which had been heavy in London when I left on this mid-October morning, extended even to Haslemere and hung in the valleys so that the tops of the Surrey hills rose like islands from the sea of mist, and in the brilliant sunshine which glorified these upper levels softened and mellowed all the wide expanse of hill and dale and down which ranged between me and the Southern coast. The hill gave steeply on all sides save the north-west, where the circular valley opened to the plain below. All the summer tints were chastened and mellowed; all the full colours which the sunshine had glorified had faded into the sere of Autumn. The pink and purple of the heather were changed to a brown with only a suggestion of faded colour to warm its tone. The bracken was of rich amber and faded yellow, and the myriads of grasses and wild flowers had donned their winter garb – the hues of decay. Through all this rich mass of Autumn tints, the broom, untouched as yet by the frost, sent an emerald flash. The green bushes which fringed the tiny stream running through the valley seemed of supernatural vividness, and the dark green of the pines which covered the western slope and ran down into the valley seemed to assert in some positive way the right of nature to maintain her own colour despite all influences. Away to the north and west, past the spurs and shoulders of the hill, the woods and valleys, the copses and villages and hills and ridges ranged in endless succession; and it was after a long, long pause that I turned from drinking in the beauty of the scene with my heart full of the power and majesty and purifying influence of nature’s beauty. “Here at least,” said I to myself, “the soul of man is elevated; and on this high plane of nature’s handiwork the evil of our hearts is lulled.”

As I turned, however, I started, for, as if by the irony of fate, there, beside me, was a grim memorial of man’s wickedness and lust for blood – a tombstone by the roadside, marking the spot where a century ago a poor seaman trudging on his way from Portsmouth was murdered.

But not the stone only was of interest; for by it were three figures which would have arrested attention anywhere. They were only children, but of types that were not common. Two were young Indian girls of an age which by the slower development of English girlhood would be about some thirteen or fourteen years; being however, of Eastern birth, they were probably much younger.

They stood one on each side of the memorial stone, looking almost like heraldic supporters, as each with a slim brown hand resting on an elbow of the stone, leaned her face on the hand while looking at me gravely with long, dark, fathomless eyes. They were both very pretty of their type, and their slim girlish figures were draped in black of some shimmering material, made in a half Eastern fashion with a wide belt of the stuff round the waist, and some kind of dark material wound around the head and acting as a head gear.

The third of the group was a little boy of some ten years old, with hair of spun gold, eyes like blue porcelain, and a winning smile on his rosy face. One might designate him indifferently a Cupid or an angel. He was dressed in a dark blood-coloured tunic.

For a few seconds I stood looking at this group, they regarding me steadfastly without the slightest movement. Then I spoke to them, making some remark about the beauty of the scene. One of the girls said, tapping the stone with her hand as she spoke

“Can you tell us anything about this stone, Sir? We are strangers.”

“I am a stranger here myself, but I think we will find it here,” I answered, as I proceeded to read the inscription, which is on both sides of the stone. When I read the word “murder,” they all three looked at each other and at me, and shuddered, and, strange to say, followed the shudder with a smile.

I thought they might be frightened, and I hasted to add – “But you need not let this disturb you. It all happened a hundred years ago, when the country was very different from what it is now.”

One of the girls said in a low voice, whose tones were peculiarly penetrating

“I hope not – I trust not;” and the little boy looked up at me with a laugh and said

“I suppose if there were a murder now someone would be stuck up on Gibbet Hill.”

“Hullo young man,” said I, “You know all about it, I see. I am going up to the hill top to see the Memorial Cross. Will you come and see where they put the murderer?”

“With pleasure.”He said, with an air of almost supernatural gravity, lifting his cap in acknowledgement of my invitation. The girls bowed too, and we all moved up the hill together. As we went I noticed that the boy had one of his hands tightly clenched.

“What have you got there?” I asked of him.

“These” he said, opening his hand and showing me a crumpled mass of great earthworms, wriggling in their sudden freedom. “I love worms,” he went on. “See! they wriggle so, and you can pull them out long!” and he illustrated the latter fact.

“Poor worms!” said I, “Why not let them go? They would much rather be on the ground.” “Shan’t,” was his only reply, as he shoved them into the folds of his tunic.

There were a lot of persons at the cross when we reached the top of Gibbet Hill, besides abundant evidence of recent visitors in the shape of egg-shells and pieces of newspaper – for the cross is a favourite picnicking spot. Amongst the strangers my fancy was chiefly taken by a lady and gentleman whom I dubbed “the honeymoon couple.”

I soon became so absorbed by the lovely view which lay stretched before me – a wilderness of rising hill-tops with green woods and rich valleys – that I quite forgot my young companions. I went to the edge of the steep hill and sat down looking eastwards, and lost myself in the beauty of the scene.

Presently I remembered my young companions, and looked around for them; but they had quite disappeared: there was not a sight of them anywhere around.

My departure from London had been early, and the walk from Haslemere in the blazing October sun a little fatiguing, so, after a while, when I had been all around the summit of the Head and had, so to speak, boxed the scenic compass, I took my way to a deep shady grove of hazel and beech with tall pines rising over all – one of those dense copses that creep up from the valley, throwing jagged spikes of greenery up the slopes of the hill.

Here there was the very perfection of autumn fullness. The undergrowth grew luxuriantly under the shelter of the clustering pines. The brown of the bark and the blueish bloom of the foliage of the pines, as one gazed into the half dim aisles between them – the sweet aromatic odour which they exhaled – the sleepy silence, accentuated only by the hum of nature’s myriad vitalities – the soft, rich grass, whose summer greenery stood untouched as yet in this sheltered dell – all invited to repose. With a blissful feeling of content I stretched myself on the grass, and soon lost my thoughts and my consciousness in the interlaced branches above me.

How long I slept I know not; but it must have been a good while, for I felt thoroughly refreshed as to brain, and with that half-aching sense of cramped muscles which comes after a long period of unchanged attitude; and there was over me that mysterious sense of elapsed time which tells philosophers that our thought is continuous in some form or another. There was, however, no sense of duty omitted – no press of coming work, which in such cases destroys the charm of awakening. I knew that there was ample time before me, and I might muse on, unchecked, that I could revel to my heart’s content in the sense of freedom, and enjoy the freshness and purity of the air in this wonderful spot.

And so I did not stir, but lay on my back with my hands under my head looking up into the branches and watching the gleams of light struggle through the tracery of leaf and branch. I thought of many things, in that luxurious half-dreamy way which belongs to the leisure of an habitually busy man. Taking up a thread of thought and dropping it again – swaying between general and particular ideas – in all ways realizing that greatest of pleasure, intellectual _laissez aller_.

There was in the air the same faint hum of varied sounds which had at first lulled me to sleep; but somehow the volume was richer than before – more full and satisfying to the ear, and with a special significance, as if not only all nature was speaking but that there was some one voice amongst the myriad more potent than the rest. I listened with a growing interest, and the sound seemed to take a more definite place amongst nature’s harmonies. It was not as if it grew in loudness, but merely as if the vibrations accumulated, coming in waves more quickly than they could die away.

Gradually all the other noises seemed to die away, and I heard only this one sound. It seemed to be closer and closer as I began to distinguish more clearly, until I shortly came to the conclusion that its source was separated from me by only some score of yards. Then I began to be able to analyse it a little. In general effect it was like a sort of musical muffled corncrake – a corncrake in a whisper – but with some subtle prevailing sweetness which seemed of almost irresistible attraction. Presently I raised my head from amongst the bracken where I lay, and looked whence the sound proceeded. There, to my surprise, in an open dell where the light fell through a break in the trees, were grouped the children whom I had seen. The two girls were seated, and between them the little boy stood up. One of the girls held in her left hand something which looked like a set of pandean pipes made of thin canes but slightly thicker than wheaten straws. Across this she drew something attached to the fingers of the right hand, which made the bass of the strange corncrake sound. The other girl held a shell with strings across it which she touched lightly; and the boy had a sort of reed flute which gave forth a peculiarly long sweet note, but which blended in the mass of music. Then the girls joined in a sort of monotonous chant of strange sweetness but very, very faint. They were all three looking well to one side of me. By and by the girls stood up; they all turned slightly, and I could see that they were evidently turning slowly in a complete circle, as though seeking in every direction around them. As they began to face my direction I sank down again into the bracken so that they might not see me, for the affair began to absorb my interest.

I took care, however, to peep through the fronds of the bracken and see all that went on. A very short time elapsed before my attention was diverted, and in not the most pleasant of ways.

Hearing a stir and rustle among the dead leaves beside me I looked round, and almost jumped to my feet, for there close by, and approaching closer, was a large snake of the blindworm species. It came straight towards me and actually passed over my feet. I did not stir, and it went on, heeding me no more than if I had been a log of wood, and wriggled away towards the group in the sunlit glade. It was evidently attracted by the strange, weird music, and as this was my first actual experience of serpent – charming my interest grew, and I watched the little party more closely than before. They went on with their music, and the snake approached closer and closer; till at the feet of the fair-haired child it stopped and, curling itself into a spiral, raised its head and began to hiss. The boy looked down, and the girls turned their eyes towards him, but the music did not stop for a moment; on the contrary, it grew something quicker. Then the snake twined itself around the child’s ankle and began to climb its way up his body, wriggling round and round his leg and thigh, and up and up, till at last it crawled along the arm that held the flute.

Then, suddenly, the music stopped. The two girls stood up, and the boy stretched out his arm with the snake wound around it, with his hand stretched out wide open, the palm upwards. The snake remained perfectly still, as if transformed into stone. Then the girls took hands and circled slowly around the boy, uttering a low, whispering, mysterious chant, something the same as the earlier one, but this time in decrescendo as compared with the former crescendo, and in a minor key. This went on for quite two or three minutes. The boy remained perfectly still, with his arm extended, and his blue eyes fixed on the snake. Then the latter raised its head slightly and seemed to follow with it the movements of the circling girls. They continued their slow movement, round and round, the snake’s movements being more and more pronounced with each revolution, till presently it was boldly turning, like the automatic motion of a firework, around the boy’s arm. Gradually the motion of the girls got slower and that of the snake correspondingly less, till, presently, the girls’ movement, and the low crooning music, which had never stopped, died away altogether, and the snake hung, a dead mass as limp as a piece of string across the boy’s hand. The boy never moved, but the girls let go each others’ hands, and one of them, who had stopped just in front of the boy, took the snake by head and tail and seemed to gently pull it out straight. When she let it go it lay across the boy’s hand as stiff as a piece of wood. There was something uncanny about this which recalled to me recollections of a man whom I had once seen in a cataleptic fit, and whose body retained any position into which it was put, no matter how grotesque or how uncomfortable or how strained. The snake seemed to be under some similar condition, and with strange curiosity I awaited the next development. The boy continued impassive his hand still stretched out and the snake resting across it. The girls stood a little in front of and on either side of him, so that the outstretched hand was midway between them.

Then began some questioning between them in a language which I presumed to be some form of Indian, but which I did not understand. Both voices were sweet, with a peculiar penetrating power, but one of them I seemed instinctively to fear, although it was the sweeter and softer of the two. Somehow – and the idea was quite spontaneous – it seemed to suggest murder.

From the tones and inflections of the voices I gathered that all utterances were put in the form of questions – a supposition shortly confirmed in a strange way, for the answers were given by the snake.

When each girl in turn had had her say – and they suggested positive and negative in their tones – the snake would slowly turn around like the needle in a compass, and point its head to either one. The sweeter voice seemed to be the positive, and the other the negative in the inquiry; and in all the earlier questions the snake, after turning slowly around, remain with its head towards the negative. This first seemed to disturb and then annoy the positive inquirer, and her voice grew ever more deadly sweet and penetrating until it made me shudder. Then she seemed to get more and more enraged, for her eyes gleamed with a dark unholy light, and at the last came her question in a keen thrilling whisper. For answer the snake then spun round quicker and quicker, and suddenly came to a dead stop in front of the other girl.

The disappointed one gave one fierce, short, sharp sound like a dog’s bark, whilst a look of deadly malice swept over her face; and then passed away, leaving it as serene as before. At the same instant the rigidity of the snake collapsed, and it hung for an instant as limp as before, and then slipped to the ground, and lay there all in a heap without motion, as if dead. The boy started, as though from sleep to waking, and began to laugh. The girls joined in the cachinnation, and in an instant the glade, which had seemed so weird, grew instant with laughter, as the children chased each other into the recesses of the wood, and disappeared from view.

Then I rose up from the bracken where I lay I could hardly believe my eyes, and thought that I must have been sleeping, and have dreamt it all. But there lay the seemingly dead snake before me as a palpable evidence that I had beheld a reality.

The sun was far in the west when I had finished my stroll through the laneways and copses upon the Witley side of Hind Head and found myself once more at its highest point on Gibbet Hill.

The place was now deserted. The picnickers had all gone home; the pony traps and donkeys and parties of school children had disappeared, and nothing remained of the day’s visitation but the usual increase in old newspapers and broken egg shells.

As the light was just beginning to fade and the air to grow a show colder, the sense of loneliness was more than ever marked. But I had come from the midst of the hum and turmoil of the city to enjoy this very loneliness and its luxury was to me unspeakable. Down in the valleys the must still lay dim and fleecy white, and from it the hill tops rose dark and grim.

A belt of cloud fringed the whole horizon, and above it stretched a sea of sulphur yellow, flecked here and there with little clouds of white which, swimming high above the level of the hill, caught the last splendours of the sun, now obscured by the horizon. One or two stars began to twinkle through the darkening sky, and a stillness that seemed sentient stole up through the valley and reached to where I sat.

Then the air grew colder, and the silence became perfect. The stars swam out into the sky, which had now a darker blue, and a soft light fell on the scene. I sat on and on, and drank in the wondrous beauty in which I was immersed. Weariness of mind and body seemed of the dim past, and as if they could never again be other than a sad memory.

In such moments a man seems almost to be born again, and to have every faculty renewed to the full. I leaned with my back against the great stone cross,and, putting my hands behind me, clasped my arms around its back as to change my position and be able to enjoy more fully the luxury of rest.

Suddenly, without a word of warning, each hand was grasped from behind and held tight in a pair of hands, thin and warm but so strong that I could make no movement; and at the same time a scarf or shawl of some light, fleecy but thick material was thrown over my face and drawn tightly from behind, holding my head close to the stone. So pinioned and gagged, I could neither move nor speak, and had perforce to await the coming events. Then my hands were tied with a string put around the wrists and drawn tight, so that I was fixed more firmly than before. I could hear no sound, and took it for granted that I was being prepared for robbery. I was alone, far away from everyone and in the hands of men stronger than myself, and so resigned myself to the situation as well I could – secretly thankful that I had only a small sum of money with me. After a time which seemed long, but which was probably of but a few minutes’ duration, the scarf was pulled down so far that my eyes were free, though my mouth was still covered and I was unable to cry out.

For a few moments I was much too surprised to even think as strange what I saw before me. Instead of burly footpads with rude manner and coarse force, there were the three children who had arrested my attention earlier in the day. They stood before me perfectly still and silent for a little while, their eyes being the only features which expressed either consciousness or interest of any kind.

Two of them, the boy and one girl, then smiled on me with an amused superiority, whilst the other – she who in the glade had exhibited such anger – smiled with a deadly cold hate which, bound as I was, made me shudder. This latter then approached me closer, the others remaining quite still and looking on with their superior amused smile. She took from her waist, where it was concealed in the folds of her dress, a long sharp dagger, thin, double-edged, and lethal-looking. This she proceeded to flourish before me with extraordinary dexterity and rapidity.

Half the time its keen edge actually touched my skin, and the contact made me wince. Anon she would dart towards my eyes till I could feel its cold point actually touching my eyeballs. Then she would as if hurl herself at me with the point of the deadly weapon directed to my heart, but would stop just as it seemed that my last moment had come. This went on for a little while; but short though it was it seemed endless. I felt a cold chill, a strange numbness, growing over me; my heart seemed to get cold and weak – colder, and colder – weaker and weaker, still, till at length my eyes closed. I tried to open them – succeeded; tried again – failed, succeeded – failed – and at length consciousness passed away from me.

The last thing I remember seeing with my waking eyes was the gleam of the long knife in the starlight as it moved in the young girl’s dexterous play. The last sound I heard was a low laugh from all three of the children.

The voice in my ears was dim and distant;but it gradually grew louder, and the spoken words became intelligible: –

“Wake up! – Wake up, man! You will get your death of cold!”

Cold! The word struck home, for there was at my heart a numbness, and a chill as of death. My consciousness struggled back into existence, and I opened my eyes.

It was now much brighter, for a great yellow moon had arisen, and the common was flooded with its light. Beside me were two persons whom at once I recognised as “the honeymoon couple “of earlier in the day. The man was bending over me, and was shaking me roughly by the shoulder, whilst the lady stood by, looking on anxiously, with her hands clasped.

“He is not dead, George, is he?” I heard her say. The answer came. “No! Thank goodness! – He must have fallen asleep. It is a mercy that you had the inspiration to come out to see the moonlight view from here; he might have died of cold. See The ground is white with the hoar-frost already. Wake up, man! – Wake up, and come away!”

“My heart,” I murmured, “My heart!” for it was icy cold. The man looked more serious and said to his wife: – “Bella, this may be serious. Could you run back to the hotel, and send some one if necessary? It may be that his heart is affected.”

“Certainly, dear; shall I go at once?”

“Wait a minute first.” He leant over me again. The past was coming back to me quickly, and I asked him: “Did you see anywhere some children, two Indian girls, and a fair haired boy?”

“Yes! Hours and hours ago, as they went down the London road on a tricycle. They were laughing, and we thought them the prettiest and happiest children we had ever seen. But why?”

“My heart! My heart!” I cried out again, for there was a coldness which seemed to numb me.

The man put his hand over my heart, but quickly tore it away again with a cry of terror.

“What is it, George? What is it?” almost shrieked the lady, for his action was so sudden and unexpected that it thoroughly frightened her.

He stood back, and she clung frightened to his arm, as a large blindworm wriggled itself out from my bosom – fell on the ground – and glided away down the hill side into the copse below.