href="#n_26" type="note">[26], nor can it be gainsaid[27] that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a certain wanton[28] and cruel humour. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas[29] this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off the maiden. When they had brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long carouse[30], as was their nightly custom. Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from below. At last in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under the eaves[31], and ran homeward across the moor[32].
“It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry food and drink—with other worse things, perhaps—to his captive, and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one that has a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the dining-hall, he cried aloud before all the company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench[33]. And while the revellers[34] stood aghast[35] 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. Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack[36], 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.
Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine. And the whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly, 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 hardly 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 went past with trailing bridle[37] and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them. Riding slowly they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their courage 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[38] 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[39], 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. 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[40], which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ[41]. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby advice you to refrain 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[42] 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 determined 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 descendant 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[43] his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns.
“The
