I returned to my dressing-room. Pursuivant sat astride a chair, his sturdy forearms crossed upon its back.
"How does it go?" he asked.
"Like a producer's dream," I replied, seizing a powder puff with which to freshen my make-up. "Except for the things we know about, I would pray for no better show."
"I gave you a message in my speech before the curtain. Did you hear what I said? I meant, honestly, to praise Byron and at the same time to defy him. You and I, with God's help, will give Ruthven an ending he does not expect."
It was nearly time for me to make a new entrance, and I left the dressing-room, mystified but comforted by Pursuivant's manner. The play went on, gathering speed and impressiveness. We were all acting inspiredly, maugre the bizarre nature of the rehearsals and other preparations, the dark atmosphere that had surrounded the piece from its first introduction to us.
The end of the act approached, and with it my exit. Sigrid and I dragged the limp Varduk to the center of the stage and retired, leaving him alone to perform the sinister resurrection scene with which the first act closes. I loitered in the wings to watch, but Jake Switz tugged at my sleeve.
"Come," he whispered. "I want to show you something."
We went to the stage door. Jake opened it an inch.
The space behind the lodge was full of uncertain, half-formed lights that moved and lived. For a moment we peered. Then the soft, larval radiances flowed toward us. Jake slammed the door.
"They're waiting," he said.
From the direction of the stage came Varduk's final line:
"Grave, I reject thy shelter! Death, stand back!"
Then Davidson dragged down the curtain, while the house shook with applause. I turned again. Varduk, back-stage, was speaking softly but clearly, urging us to hurry with our costume changes. Into my dressing-room I hastened, my feet numb and my eyes blurred.
"I'll help you dress," came Pursuivant's calm voice. "Did Jake show you what waits outside?"
I nodded and licked my parched, painted lips.
"Don't fear. Their eagerness is premature."
He pulled off my coat and shirt. Grown calm again before his assurance, I got into my clothes for Act Two-a modern dinner suit. With alcohol I removed the clinging side-whiskers, repaired my make-up and brushed my hair into modern fashion once more. Within seconds, it seemed, Davidson was calling us to our places.
The curtain rose on Sigrid and me, as Mary and Swithin, hearing the ancestral tale of horror from Old Bridget. As before, the audience listened raptly, and as before it rose to the dramatic entrance of Varduk. He wore his first-act costume, and his manner was even more compelling. Again I felt myself thrust into the background of the drama; as for Sigrid, great actress though she is, she prospered only at his sufferance.
Off stage, on again, off once more-the play was Varduk's, and Sigrid's personality was being eclipsed. Yet she betrayed no anger or dislike of the situation. It was as though Varduk mastered her, even while his character of Ruthven overpowered her character of Mary. I felt utterly helpless.
In the wings I saw the climax approach. Varduk, flanked by Davidson as the obedient Oscar, was declaring Ruthven's intention to gain revenge and love.
"Get your sword," muttered Jake, who had taken Davidson's place at the curtain ropes. "You're on again in a moment."
I ran to my dressing-room. Pursuivant opened the door, thrust something into my hand.
"It's the silver sword," he told me quickly. "The one from my cane. Trust in it, Connatt. Almost eleven o'clock-go, and God stiffen your arm."
It seemed a mile from the door to the wings. I reached it just in time for my entrance cue-Sigrid's cry of "Swithin will not allow this."
"Let him try to prevent it," grumbled Davidson, fierce and grizzled as the devil-converted Oscar.
"I'm here for that purpose," I said clearly, and strode into view. The sword from Pursuivant's cane I carried low, hoping that Varduk would not notice at once. He stood with folded arms, a mocking smile just touching his white face.
"So brave?" he chuckled. "So foolish?"
"My ancestor killed you once, Ruthven," I said, with more meaning than I had ever employed before. "I can do so again."
I leaped forward, past Sigrid and at him.
The smile vanished. His mouth fell open.
"Wait! That sword-"
He hurled himself, as though to snatch it from my hand. But I lifted the point and lunged, extending myself almost to the boards of the stage. As once before, I felt the flesh tear before my blade. The slender spike of metal went in, in, until the hilt thudded against his breast-bone.
No sound from audience or actors, no motion. We made a tableau, myself stretched out at lunge, Varduk transfixed, the other two gazing in sudden aghast wonder.
For one long breath's space my victim stood like a figure of black stone, with only his white face betraying anything of life and feeling. His deep eyes, gone dark as a winter night, dug themselves into mine. I felt once again the intolerable weight of his stare-yet it was not threatening, not angry even. The surprise ebbed from it, and the eyes and the sad mouth softened into a smile. Was he forgiving me? Thanking me?…
Sigrid found her voice again, and screamed tremulously. I released the cane-hilt and stepped backward, automatically. Varduk fell limply upon his face. The silver blade, standing out between his shoulders, gleamed red with blood. Next moment the red had turned dull black, as though the gore was a millennium old. Varduk's body sagged. It shrank within its rich, gloomy garments. It crumbled.
The curtain had fallen. I had not heard its rumble of descent, nor had Sigrid, nor the stupefied Davidson. From beyond the folds came only choking silence. Then Pursuivant's ready voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a sad accident has ended the play unexpectedly-tragically. Through the fault of nobody, one of the players has been fatally-"
I heard no more. Holding Sigrid in my arms I told her, briefly and brokenly, the true story of Ruthven and its author. She, weeping, gazed fearfully at the motionless black heap.
"The poor soul!" she sobbed. "The poor, poor soul!"
Jake, leaving his post by the curtain-ropes, had walked on and was leading away the stunned, stumbling Davidson.
I still held Sigrid close. To my lips, as if at the bidding of another mind and memory, came the final lines of Manfred:
"He's gone-his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight- Whither? I dread to think-but he is gone."
Manly Wade Wellman - Judge Pursuivant 02 Page 9