RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 2, 1907.

When I was outside the church, I looked at my watch in the bright moonlight, and found I had one minute to wait.  So I stood in the shadow of the doorway and looked out at the scene before me.  Not a sign of life was visible around me, either on land or sea.  On the broad plateau on which the church stands there was no movement of any kind.  The wind, which had been pleasant in the noontide, had fallen completely, and not a leaf was stirring.  I could see across the creek and note the hard line where the battlements of the Castle cut the sky, and where the keep towered above the line of black rock, which in the shadow of the land made an ebon frame for the picture.  When I had seen the same view on former occasions, the line where the rock rose from the sea was a fringe of white foam.  But then, in the daylight, the sea was sapphire blue; now it was an expanse of dark blue—so dark as to seem almost black.  It had not even the relief of waves or ripples—simply a dark, cold, lifeless expanse, with no gleam of light anywhere, of lighthouse or ship; neither was there any special sound to be heard that one could distinguish—nothing but the distant hum of the myriad voices of the dark mingling in one ceaseless inarticulate sound.  It was well I had not time to dwell on it, or I might have reached some spiritually-disturbing melancholy.

Let me say here that ever since I had received my Lady’s message concerning this visit to St. Sava’s I had been all on fire—not, perhaps, at every moment consciously or actually so, but always, as it were, prepared to break out into flame.  Did I want a simile, I might compare myself to a well-banked furnace, whose present function it is to contain heat rather than to create it; whose crust can at any moment be broken by a force external to itself, and burst into raging, all-compelling heat.  No thought of fear really entered my mind.  Every other emotion there was, coming and going as occasion excited or lulled, but not fear.  Well I knew in the depths of my heart the purpose which that secret quest was to serve.  I knew not only from my Lady’s words, but from the teachings of my own senses and experiences, that some dreadful ordeal must take place before happiness of any kind could be won.  And that ordeal, though method or detail was unknown to me, I was prepared to undertake.  This was one of those occasions when a man must undertake, blindfold, ways that may lead to torture or death, or unknown terrors beyond.  But, then, a man—if, indeed, he have the heart of a man—can always undertake; he can at least make the first step, though it may turn out that through the weakness of mortality he may be unable to fulfil his own intent, or justify his belief in his own powers.  Such, I take it, was the intellectual attitude of the brave souls who of old faced the tortures of the Inquisition.

But though there was no immediate fear, there was a certain doubt.  For doubt is one of those mental conditions whose calling we cannot control.  The end of the doubting may not be a reality to us, or be accepted as a possibility.  These things cannot forego the existence of the doubt.  “For even if a man,” says Victor Cousin, “doubt everything else, at least he cannot doubt that he doubts.”  The doubt had at times been on me that my Lady of the Shroud was a Vampire.  Much that had happened seemed to point that way, and here, on the very threshold of the Unknown, when, through the door which I was pushing open, my eyes met only an expanse of absolute blackness, all doubts which had ever been seemed to surround me in a legion.  I have heard that, when a man is drowning, there comes a time when his whole life passes in review during the space of time which cannot be computed as even a part of a second.  So it was to me in the moment of my body passing into the church.  In that moment came to my mind all that had been, which bore on the knowledge of my Lady; and the general tendency was to prove or convince that she was indeed a Vampire.  Much that had happened, or become known to me, seemed to justify the resolving of doubt into belief.  Even my own reading of the books in Aunt Janet’s little library, and the dear lady’s comments on them, mingled with her own uncanny beliefs, left little opening for doubt.  My having to help my Lady over the threshold of my house on her first entry was in accord with Vampire tradition; so, too, her flying at cock-crow from the warmth in which she revelled on that strange first night of our meeting; so, too, her swift departure at midnight on the second.  Into the same category came the facts of her constant wearing of her Shroud, even her pledging herself, and me also, on the fragment torn from it, which she had given to me as a souvenir; her lying still in the glass-covered tomb; her coming alone to the most secret places in a fortified Castle where every aperture was secured by unopened locks and bolts; her very movements, though all of grace, as she flitted noiselessly through the gloom of night.

All these things, and a thousand others of lesser import, seemed, for the moment, to have consolidated an initial belief.  But then came the supreme recollections of how she had lain in my arms; of her kisses on my lips; of the beating of her heart against my own; of her sweet words of belief and faith breathed in my ear in intoxicating whispers; of . . . I paused.  No!  I could not accept belief as to her being other than a living woman of soul and sense, of flesh and blood, of all the sweet and passionate instincts of true and perfect womanhood.

And so, in spite of all—in spite of all beliefs, fixed or transitory, with a mind whirling amid contesting forces and compelling beliefs—I stepped into the church overwhelmed with that most receptive of atmospheres—doubt.

In one thing only was I fixed: here at least was no doubt or misgiving whatever.  I intended to go through what I had undertaken.  Moreover, I felt that I was strong enough to carry out my intention, whatever might be of the Unknown—however horrible, however terrible.

When I had entered the church and closed the heavy door behind me, the sense of darkness and loneliness in all their horror enfolded me round.  The great church seemed a living mystery, and served as an almost terrible background to thoughts and remembrances of unutterable gloom.  My adventurous life has had its own schooling to endurance and upholding one’s courage in trying times; but it has its contra in fulness of memory.

I felt my way forward with both hands and feet.  Every second seemed as if it had brought me at last to a darkness which was actually tangible.  All at once, and with no heed of sequence or order, I was conscious of all around me, the knowledge or perception of which—or even speculation on the subject—had never entered my mind.  They furnished the darkness with which I was encompassed with all the crowded phases of a dream.  I knew that all around me were memorials of the dead—that in the Crypt deep-wrought in the rock below my feet lay the dead themselves.  Some of them, perhaps—one of them I knew—had even passed the grim portals of time Unknown, and had, by some mysterious power or agency, come back again to material earth.  There was no resting-place for thought when I knew that the very air which I breathed might be full of denizens of the spirit-world.  In that impenetrable blackness was a world of imagining whose possibilities of horror were endless.

I almost fancied that I could see with mortal eyes down through that rocky floor to where, in the lonely Crypt, lay, in her tomb of massive stone and under that bewildering coverlet of glass, the woman whom I love.  I could see her beautiful face, her long black lashes, her sweet mouth—which I had kissed—relaxed in the sleep of death.  I could note the voluminous shroud—a piece of which as a precious souvenir lay even then so close to my heart—the snowy woollen coverlet wrought over in gold with sprigs of pine, the soft dent in the cushion on which her head must for so long have lain.  I could see myself—within my eyes the memory of that first visit—coming once again with glad step to renew that dear sight—dear, though it scorched my eyes and harrowed my heart—and finding the greater sorrow, the greater desolation of the empty tomb!

There!  I felt that I must think no more of that lest the thought should unnerve me when I should most want all my courage.  That way madness lay!  The darkness had already sufficient terrors of its own without bringing to it such grim remembrances and imaginings . . . And I had yet to go through some ordeal which, even to her who had passed and repassed the portals of death, was full of fear.

It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards through the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing of the church.  Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I should never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the shriek which was rising to my lips.

I would have given anything to have been able to light even a match.  A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own man again.  But I knew that this would be against the implied condition of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous consequences to her whom I had come to save.  It might even frustrate my scheme, and altogether destroy my opportunity.  At that moment it was borne upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight for myself or my own selfish purposes—not merely an adventure or a struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and dangers.  It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her life, but perhaps even for her soul.

And yet this very thinking—understanding—created a new form of terror.  For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of other moments of terrible stress.

Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests, when, amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind seemed to reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with horror, whose lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was an episode, and the reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted the air, till even I, who was, at the risk of my life, a privileged spectator who had come through dangers without end to behold the scene, rose and fled in horror.

Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the Himalayas, whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless, in the reaction of their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and then sank into marble quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the visions of the hellish powers which they had invoked.

Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar, where even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the fantastic excesses of their orgies.

Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched monasteries of Thibet.

Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of Cathay.

Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-men of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the Rockies, beyond the great plains.

Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars of forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.

Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.

Of . . . Here I once more pulled myself up.  Such thoughts were no kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure.  My work that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for the woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose future I was to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or Heaven.  The hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.

Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part in my preparation for the ordeal.  They were of fact which I had seen, of which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had survived.  With such experiences behind me, could there be aught before me more dreadful? . . .

Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman order, could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most desperate acts of the basest men? . . .

With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the Crypt.

There I waited, silent, still.

My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it.  Beyond this, what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control.  I had done what I could; the rest must come from others.  I had exactly obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my knowledge and power.  There was, therefore, left for me in the present nothing but to wait.

It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own reaction.  The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms of light.  How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I know not.  It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but, whatever may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to people itself with luminous entities.

So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church.  Here and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.

In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by strange muffled sounds—the suggestion of sounds rather than actual vibrations.  These were all at first of the minor importance of movement—rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter breathings.  Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of hypnotic trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.

The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real.  There were most certainly actual little points of light in places—not enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter gloom.  I thought—though it may have been a mingling of recollection and imagination—that I could distinguish the outlines of the church; certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible.  Instinctively I looked up—and thrilled.  There, hung high above me, was, surely enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of light.

I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood, unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for all things, in rather a negative than a positive mood—a mood which has an aspect of spiritual meekness.  This is the true spirit of the neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a “neo-nymph.”

As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough for distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a great open book, whereon were laid two rings—one of sliver, the other of gold—and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the joining of their stems with tissue—one of gold, the other of silver.  I do not know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is the religion of the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before me could be none other than enlightening symbols.  Instinctively I knew that I had been brought hither, though in this grim way, to be married.  The very idea of it thrilled me to the heart’s core.  I thought the best thing I could do would be to stay quite still, and not show surprise at anything that might happen; but be sure I was all eyes and ears.

I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no sign of her whom I had come to meet.

Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it was, there was no flame, no “living” light.  Whatever light there was came muffled, as though through some green translucent stone.  The whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.

Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a man’s hand stretched out and took mine.  Turning, I found close to me a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and beard.  He was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold, rich with variety of adornment.  His head was covered with a high, over-hanging hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which formed a long, hanging veil on either side.  These veils, falling over the magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn effect.

I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so far as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.

In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from so high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not distinguish its origin, hung a chain.  At the sight a strange wave of memory swept over me.  I could not but remember the chain which hung over the glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive feeling that the grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the other side of the opening in the roof of the crypt from which the chain over the sarcophagus depended.

There was a creaking sound—the groaning of a windlass and the clanking of a chain.  There was heavy breathing close to me somewhere.  I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness, several black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of ghosts.  Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes through which I could see dark gleaming eyes.  My guide held me tightly by the hand.  This gave me a feeling of security in the touch which helped to retain within my breast some semblance of calm.

The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued for so long that the suspense became almost unendurable.  At last there came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended four lesser chains spreading wide.  In a few seconds more I could see that these were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the covering of glass, which was being dragged upward.  As it arose it filled closely the whole aperture.  When its bottom had reached the level of the floor it stopped, and remained rigid.  There was no room for oscillation.  It was at once surrounded by a number of black figures, who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the darkness.  Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded, and with head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also was gorgeously arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold richly embroidered.  He raised his hand, and forthwith eight other black-clad figures stepped forward, and bending over the stone coffin, raised from it the rigid form of my Lady, still clad in her Shroud, and laid it gently on the floor of the sanctuary.

I felt it a grace that at that instant the dim lights seemed to grow less, and finally to disappear—all save the tiny points that marked the outline of the great Cross high overhead.  These only gave light enough to accentuate the gloom.  The hand that held mine now released it, and with a sigh I realized that I was alone.  After a few moments more of the groaning of the winch and clanking of the chain there was a sharp sound of stone meeting stone; then there was silence.  I listened acutely, but could not hear near me the slightest sound.  Even the cautious, restrained breathing around me, of which up to then I had been conscious, had ceased.  Not knowing, in the helplessness of my ignorance, what I should do, I remained as I was, still and silent, for a time that seemed endless.  At last, overcome by some emotion which I could not at the moment understand, I slowly sank to my knees and bowed my head.  Covering my face with my hands, I tried to recall the prayers of my youth.  It was not, I am certain, that fear in any form had come upon me, or that I hesitated or faltered in my intention.  That much I know now; I knew it even then.  It was, I believe, that the prolonged impressive gloom and mystery had at last touched me to the quick.  The bending of the knees was but symbolical of the bowing of the spirit to a higher Power.  When I had realized that much, I felt more content than I had done since I had entered the church, and with the renewed consciousness of courage, took my hands from my face, and lifted again my bowed head.

Impulsively I sprang to my feet and stood erect—waiting.  All seemed to have changed since I had dropped on my knees.  The points of light about time church, which had been eclipsed, had come again, and were growing in power to a partial revealing of the dim expanse.  Before me was the table with the open book, on which were laid the gold and silver rings and the two crowns of flowers.  There were also two tall candles, with tiniest flames of blue—the only living light to be seen.

Out of the darkness stepped the same tall figure in the gorgeous robes and the triple hat.  He led by the hand my Lady, still clad in her Shroud; but over it, descending from the crown of her head, was a veil of very old and magnificent lace of astonishing fineness.  Even in that dim light I could note the exquisite beauty of the fabric.  The veil was fastened with a bunch of tiny sprays of orange-blossom mingled with cypress and laurel—a strange combination.  In her hand she carried a great bouquet of the same.  Its sweet intoxicating odour floated up to my nostrils.  It and the sentiment which its very presence evoked made me quiver.

Yielding to the guiding of the hand which held hers, she stood at my left side before the table.  Her guide then took his place behind her.  At either end of the table, to right and left of us, stood a long-bearded priest in splendid robes, and wearing the hat with depending veil of black.  One of them, who seemed to be the more important of the two, and took the initiative, signed to us to put our right hands on the open book.  My Lady, of course, understood the ritual, and knew the words which the priest was speaking, and of her own accord put out her hand.  My guide at the same moment directed my hand to the same end.  It thrilled me to touch my Lady’s hand, even under such mysterious conditions.

After the priest had signed us each thrice on the forehead with the sign of the Cross, he gave to each of us a tiny lighted taper brought to him for the purpose.  The lights were welcome, not so much for the solace of the added light, great as that was, but because it allowed us to see a little more of each other’s faces.  It was rapture to me to see the face of my Bride; and from the expression of her face I was assured that she felt as I did.  It gave me an inexpressible pleasure when, as her eyes rested on me, there grew a faint blush over the grey pallor of her cheeks.

The priest then put in solemn voice to each of us in turn, beginning with me, the questions of consent which are common to all such rituals.  I answered as well as I could, following the murmured words of my guide.  My Lady answered out proudly in a voice which, though given softly, seemed to ring.  It was a concern—even a grief—to me that I could not, in the priest’s questioning, catch her name, of which, strangely enough,—I was ignorant.  But, as I did not know the language, and as the phrases were not in accord literally with our own ritual, I could not make out which word was the name.

After some prayers and blessings, rhythmically spoken or sung by an invisible choir, the priest took the rings from the open book, and, after signing my forehead thrice with the gold one as he repeated the blessing in each case, placed it on my right hand; then he gave my Lady the silver one, with the same ritual thrice repeated.  I suppose it was the blessing which is the effective point in making two into one.

After this, those who stood behind us exchanged our rings thrice, taking them from one finger and placing them on the other, so that at the end my wife wore the gold ring and I the silver one.

Then came a chant, during which the priest swung the censer himself, and my wife and I held our tapers.  After that he blessed us, the responses coming from the voices of the unseen singers in the darkness.

After a long ritual of prayer and blessing, sung in triplicate, the priest took the crowns of flowers, and put one on the head of each, crowning me first, and with the crown tied with gold.  Then he signed and blessed us each thrice.  The guides, who stood behind us, exchanged our crowns thrice, as they had exchanged the rings; so that at the last, as I was glad to see, my wife wore the crown of gold, and I that of silver.

Then there came, if it is possible to describe such a thing, a hush over even that stillness, as though some form of added solemnity were to be gone through.  I was not surprised, therefore, when the priest took in his hands the great golden chalice.  Kneeling, my wife and I partook together thrice.

When we had risen from our knees and stood for a little while, the priest took my left hand in his right, and I, by direction of my guide, gave my right hand to my wife.  And so in a line, the priest leading, we circled round the table in rhythmic measure.  Those who supported us moved behind us, holding the crowns over our heads, and replacing them when we stopped.

After a hymn, sung through the darkness, the priest took off our crowns.  This was evidently the conclusion of the ritual, for the priest placed us in each other’s arms to embrace each other.  Then he blessed us, who were now man and wife!

The lights went out at once, some as if extinguished, others slowly fading down to blackness.

Left in the dark, my wife and I sought each other’s arms again, and stood together for a few moments heart to heart, tightly clasping each other, and kissed each other fervently.

Instinctively we turned to the door of the church, which was slightly open, so that we could see the moonlight stealing in through the aperture.  With even steps, she holding me tightly by the left arm—which is the wife’s arm, we passed through the old church and out into the free air.

Despite all that the gloom had brought me, it was sweet to be in the open air and together—this quite apart from our new relations to each other.  The moon rode high, and the full light, coming after the dimness or darkness in the church, seemed as bright as day.  I could now, for the first time, see my wife’s face properly.  The glamour of the moonlight may have served to enhance its ethereal beauty, but neither moonlight nor sunlight could do justice to that beauty in its living human splendour.  As I gloried in her starry eyes I could think of nothing else; but when for a moment my eyes, roving round for the purpose of protection, caught sight of her whole figure, there was a pang to my heart.  The brilliant moonlight showed every detail in terrible effect, and I could see that she wore only her Shroud.  In the moment of darkness, after the last benediction, before she returned to my arms, she must have removed her bridal veil.  This may, of course, have been in accordance with the established ritual of her church; but, all the same, my heart was sore.  The glamour of calling her my very own was somewhat obscured by the bridal adornment being shorn.  But it made no difference in her sweetness to me.  Together we went along the path through the wood, she keeping equal step with me in wifely way.

When we had come through the trees near enough to see the roof of the Castle, now gilded with the moonlight, she stopped, and looking at me with eyes full of love, said:

“Here I must leave you!”

“What?”  I was all aghast, and I felt that my chagrin was expressed in the tone of horrified surprise in my voice.  She went on quickly:

“Alas!  It is impossible that I should go farther—at present!”

“But what is to prevent you?” I queried.  “You are now my wife.  This is our wedding-night; and surely your place is with me!”  The wail in her voice as she answered touched me to the quick:

“Oh, I know, I know!  There is no dearer wish in my heart—there can be none—than to share my husband’s home.  Oh, my dear, my dear, if you only knew what it would be to me to be with you always!  But indeed I may not—not yet!  I am not free!  If you but knew how much that which has happened to-night has cost me—or how much cost to others as well as to myself may be yet to come—you would understand.  Rupert”—it was the first time she had ever addressed me by name, and naturally it thrilled me through and through—“Rupert, my husband, only that I trust you with all the faith which is in perfect love—mutual love, I dare not have done what I have done this night.  But, dear, I know that you will bear me out; that your wife’s honour is your honour, even as your honour is mine.  My honour is given to this; and you can help me—the only help I can have at present—by trusting me.  Be patient, my beloved, be patient!  Oh, be patient for a little longer!  It shall not be for long.  So soon as ever my soul is freed I shall come to you, my husband; and we shall never part again.  Be content for a while!  Believe me that I love you with my very soul; and to keep away from your dear side is more bitter for me than even it can be for you!  Think, my dear one, I am not as other women are, as some day you shall clearly understand.  I am at the present, and shall be for a little longer, constrained by duties and obligations put upon me by others, and for others, and to which I am pledged by the most sacred promises—given not only by myself, but by others—and which I must not forgo.  These forbid me to do as I wish.  Oh, trust me, my beloved—my husband!”

She held out her hands appealingly.  The moonlight, falling through the thinning forest, showed her white cerements.  Then the recollection of all she must have suffered—the awful loneliness in that grim tomb in the Crypt, the despairing agony of one who is helpless against the unknown—swept over me in a wave of pity.  What could I do but save her from further pain?  And this could only be by showing her my faith and trust.  If she was to go back to that dreadful charnel-house, she would at least take with her the remembrance that one who loved her and whom she loved—to whom she had been lately bound in the mystery of marriage—trusted her to the full.  I loved her more than myself—more than my own soul; and I was moved by pity so great that all possible selfishness was merged in its depths.  I bowed my head before her—my Lady and my Wife—as I said:

“So be it, my beloved.  I trust you to the full, even as you trust me.  And that has been proven this night, even to my own doubting heart.  I shall wait; and as I know you wish it, I shall wait as patiently as I can.  But till you come to me for good and all, let me see you or hear from you when you can.  The time, dear wife, must go heavily with me as I think of you suffering and lonely.  So be good to me, and let not too long a time elapse between my glimpses of hope.  And, sweetheart, when you do come to me, it shall be for ever!”  There was something in the intonation of the last sentence—I felt its sincerity myself—some implied yearning for a promise, that made her beautiful eyes swim.  The glorious stars in them were blurred as she answered with a fervour which seemed to me as more than earthly:

“For ever!  I swear it!”

With one long kiss, and a straining in each others arms, which left me tingling for long after we had lost sight of each other, we parted.  I stood and watched her as her white figure, gliding through the deepening gloom, faded as the forest thickened.  It surely was no optical delusion or a phantom of the mind that her shrouded arm was raised as though in blessing or farewell before the darkness swallowed her up.