Arthur Doyle - Essential Novelists - Arthur Conan Doyle

night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if

he might but overtake the wench. And while the revellers

stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,

it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that

they should put the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran

from the house, crying to his grooms that they should

saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the

hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them to the

line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

“Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable

to understand all that had been done in such haste. But

anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed

which was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything

was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,

some for their horses, and some for another flask of

wine. But at length some sense came back to their crazed

minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took

horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above

them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course

which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach

her own home.

“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the

night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to

him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as

the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could

scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen

the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. ‘But

I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville

passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind

him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at

my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd

and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for

there came a galloping across the moor, and the black

mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing

bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close

together, for a great fear was on them, but they still

followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,

would have been right glad to have turned his horse’s

head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last

upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour

and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the

head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the

moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles

and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

“The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you

may guess, than when they started. The most of them

would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,

or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.

Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of

those great stones, still to be seen there, which were

set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.

The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there

in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,

dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight

of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo

Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon

the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it

was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,

there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped

like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal

eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing

tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it

turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the

three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still

screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that

very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were

but broken men for the rest of their days.

“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound

which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever

since. If I have set it down it is because that which

is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but

hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many

of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which

have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we

shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,

which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that

third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy

Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend

you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from

crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of

evil are exalted.

“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,

with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their

sister Elizabeth.]”

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.

“Well?” said he.

“Do you not find it interesting?”

“To a collector of fairy tales.”

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.”

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose

name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate

for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over

the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville

Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of

character and extreme generosity had won the affection

and respect of all who had been brought into contact with

him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing

to find a case where the scion of an old county family

which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own

fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the

fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known,

made large sums of money in South African speculation.

More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns

against them, he realized his gains and returned to England

with them. It is only two years since he took up his

residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how

large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement

which have been interrupted by his death. Being himself

childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the

whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit

by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons

for bewailing his untimely end. His generous donations

to local and county charities have been frequently

chronicled in these columns.

“The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles

cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the

inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of

those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.

There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to

imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.

Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to

have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.

In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his

personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville