to lay hold of something unseen. And then she
dropped her arms and looked from one of them to the other. The
Professor did not think of it at the time, but remembered afterwards;
that strange aloofness of hers, as if she were looking at you from
another world. One no longer felt it.

"I am so sorry," she said. "It is too late. I am only a woman."

And Mrs. Marigold is still thinking.

THE PROLOGUE.

And here follows the Prologue. It ought, of course, to have been
written first, but nobody knew of it until quite the end entirely. It
was told to Commander Raffleton by a French comrade, who in days of
peace had been a painter, mingling with others of his kind, especially
such as found their inspiration in the wide horizons and legend-haunted
dells of old-world Brittany. Afterwards the Commander told it to the
Professor, and the Professor's only stipulation was that it should not
be told to the Doctor, at least for a time. For the Doctor would see
in it only confirmation for his own narrow sense-bound theories, while
to the Professor it confirmed beyond a doubt the absolute truth of this
story.

It commenced in the year Eighteen hundred and ninety-eight (anno
Domini), on a particularly unpleasant evening in late February--"a
stormy winter's night," one would describe it, were one writing mere
romance. It came to the lonely cottage of Madame Lavigne on the edge
of the moor that surrounds the sunken village of Aven-a-Christ. Madame
Lavigne, who was knitting stockings--for she lived by knitting
stockings--heard, as she thought, a passing of feet, and what seemed
like a tap at the door. She dismissed the idea, for who would be
passing at such an hour, and where there was no road? But a few
minutes later the tapping came again, and Madame Lavigne, taking her
candle in her hand, went to see who was there. The instant she
released the latch a gust of wind blew out the candle, and Madame
Lavigne could see no one. She called, but there was no answer. She
was about to close the door again when she heard a faint sound. It was
not exactly a cry. It was as if someone she could not see, in the
tiniest of voices, had said something she could not understand.

Madame Lavigne crossed herself and muttered a prayer, and then she
heard it again. It seemed to come from close at her feet, and feeling
with her hands--for she thought it might be a stray cat--she found
quite a large parcel, It was warm and soft, though,