THE GREEN HUNTSMAN, by Joseph Holt Ingraham
(1841)
“Is it a true and honest tale, fair master?”
“Nay — I vouch not. I give it thee as I had it.”
In the upper faubourg of New Orleans and conspicuous from the river on which it fronts, stands a vast, square mansion, gray and ruinous through neglect rather than time. A few old moss-stained oaks of a century’s growth, rear their majestic heads above its rank lawn, and the hedges and walls that once enclosed it are broken down or utterly destroyed. Everywhere are the marks of its having been, in a better day, the abode of affluence and aristocratic pride. Lonely, in dilapidated grandeur, stately and imposing even in its ruin, it has for years attracted the eye of the curious stranger as he sailed past it. But vainly does the traveller seek to learn from those about him, the history of the spot. All that he can ascertain is, that it is called “The Haunted Villa.”
Less than half a mile above this dilapidated edifice on the estate adjacent also stands a mansion, which is no less striking for its beauty, adorned as it is with verandahs, porticos, and latticed conservatories, and half-hid in the most luxuriant foliage, with well-appointed hedges of the rose-thorn interspersed with lemon, acacia and pomegranate trees enclosing a lawn of the softest green. It seems the abode of taste, refinement and graceful affluence—the home of domestic bliss and social happiness. Never two mansions or grounds presented stranger or more remarkable contrasts, made still more striking by their juxtaposition.
At the latter villa on the evening of our story, there was held a Christmas festival, of a gayer and more brilliant description than usual, for it was a bridal night also—and the bride and bridegroom with the joyous train mingled merrily in the holiday festivities. The bride! How shall her matchless beauty be given to the eye of the reader! She was on stately stature, and graceful as the swan in her movements. Her eyes were dark, and burning with the light of love. There was an unfathomable well of feeling in their dangerous depths, and though they could occasionally flash fire and sparkle, their usual aspect was soft and timid as the gazelle’s. She was called Ephese, and men’s eyes have seldom looked on a more beautiful woman, or a bridegroom’s worshipping glance adorned a fairer bride. She was wedded the night of our story, in the gorgeous rooms of the mansion just described. The owner of this mansion was a French gentleman, and had been a widower for many years. He called Ephese his child. Some said she was his daughter, others that she was not. There was evidently a mystery about her. She was just eighteen the night of her bridal, which was as well both her birthday and wedding-day, a Christmas eve. The bridegroom was a rich young Creole of Orleans, handsome, chivalrous and well-born, and every way worthy to wear so bright a jewel as Ephese in his bosom.
It was a happy and merry night. All the youthful cavaliers for many leagues around were gathered there to grace the nuptials, and threescore maidens, with the dark eye and raven hair of that sunny clime, presented their rival-charms in the presence of the incomparable bride. In the wanton waltz and stately dance, amid never ceasing strains of ravishing music, and with the numerous scenes and changes of a bridal festival conjoined with a Christmas merry-making, the silvery hours flew swiftly on. Midnight at length approached, and the blushing bride, half-reluctant, half-consenting, was borne from the hall by a group of laughing virgins, to the nuptial chamber. At the instant the door closed behind her, the festive halls were strangely illuminated by a sudden light of a pale-green cast that outshone the brilliant candelabra in the rooms and threw over every face the ghastly pallor of death. At the same instant a loud, heavy, rumbling noise, like underground thunder, appalled every ear.
“Look! the Haunted Villa!” shouted several voices on the verandah.
In an instant the halls were deserted, and the verandah and lawn looking in the direction of the ruined mansion, were crowded with terrified gazers. Terrific spectacle! The whole interior of the ruin, towards which their eyes were turned, seemed to be on fire. Through every aperture of door and window and gaping crevice, the fire shone out as if from a furnace, with an intense glowing heat. Yet there ascended no smoke from it, nor could there be heard any sound of crackling flame. But what was most fearful was a tongue of green flame, which rising from the midst of the molten mass, flung itself, lapping and curling high into the air, like a serpent, and then contracted and coiled down upon the surface of the bed of fire, again to unfold and dart upward, and shed its baleful glare a wide league around. The most death-like silence pervaded the groups of banqueters as they looked upon this spectacle. To all the name of the Haunted Villa was familiar, and to every mind supernatural terror was associated with it. No one breathed. Expectation and alarm sat on every face. Gradually the intensity of the glowing interior lessened, and in a few minutes all became dark as before, save the tongue of flame which continued to curl and writhe above the central tower with fiercer strength. All at once it disappeared, like a lamp blown out, and in its place a small globe of green fire, that shone with a steady light, was alone visible upon the summit of the tower.
Awed and full of conjectures and trembling apprehensions, the company instantly broke up. In a few minutes, nearly all were on their way to their homes, anxious to place the widest distance between themselves and this spot of supernatural sounds and spectacles. Five or six young men alone remained in the deserted verandah. They were intimate friends of the bridegroom, who himself stood among them as they discoursed together on the event.
“Did you notice that it was just as the door closed behind the bride?” remarked Don Antonio Baradas, one of the group upon the colonnade.
“I did, signor,” replied Eugene Brissot, with animation, “for my eye was following her departure, surrounded by her bridesmaids, and methought I had never seen woman so lovely, and I mourned so bright a star should set to every eye but Henride’s.”
“You all noticed it was just as she left the room, signors?” repeated young Don Antonio, looking round with a marked manner and speaking in a solemn tone.
“We did,” all answered, “but has Ephese anything to do with—”
“Speak, Don Antonio! what evil threatens or is connected with my beloved bride?” demanded the young husband, earnestly grasping his friend’s hand.
“Liston, signor,” answered Don Antonio Baradas.
The young cavaliers, joined by one or two ladies, now grouped closer about the young Spaniard as he leaned gracefully against a column, his arms folded within his silk mantle across his breast. His attitude was striking and commanding. His age appeared not less than thirty, but care or deep and active thought had worn in his face strong lines, which, while they added to its intellect, took from his youth. He had been very handsome and was still striking for his manly appearance. His figure was tall and slender and finely shaped. His complexion was so dark as to approach a swarthy hue. His features were finely aquiline, and his large dark eyes beamed with the fire of intelligence. Sometimes there was in them a strangeness of expression terrible to look upon, while ere it could be commented upon by those who observed it, passed away, instantly followed by the sweetest smile human lips ever wore. With the early history of Don Antonio, none were acquainted. He had come to New Orleans on a Christmas eve, eight years before, a traveller and as the heir of a noble Cuban family. After a sojourn of a few weeks, he gave out that he had become so much pleased with the city as to determine to abide there permanently. His lodgings were magnificently furnished, and in his horses and equipage, he rivalled the wealthiest Creoles. He soon found friends, and the halls of the oldest and best families of the land were thrown open to him. He was admired for his wit, accomplishments, and manly graces, and everywhere courted for his wealth. Thus for seven years had Don Antonio lived among the hospitable and refined Orleanois. During all this while it was remarked that he had never drank wine nor spoken to a woman—though the loveliest in the world were alluring him with their smiles. Between him and Henride Claviere, the bridegroom, there had existed a long and clo
se intimacy. He had now been invited to wait on him as a groomsman, but had singularly and strangely to his friend, declined, saying he could be present only as a guest.
“Listen, signor,” he said, in an impressive manner, as his friends gathered around him, their curiosity aroused by the tone and emphasis of his words. “It is twenty-one minutes yet to midnight! There will be full time ‘till twelve for me to speak. Patience, Henride! thy bride hath not been gone ten minutes and thou must wait for the cathedral bell to toll midnight ere thou leave us.”
“The Cathedral bell! It was never heard this distance,” exclaimed several.
“It will be heard here tonight, as if swinging within the dome of this hall,” he answered, in a deep voice that with his words made each heart weigh heavier in the bosom against which it audibly throbbed. “Yonder mansion, my friends, was built by a Castilian noble, in whose veins flowed the best blood of Spain. His wealth was inexhaustible. He possessed also boundless ambition, and never did human life stand between him and his object. His passions were evil and indulged at any sacrifice. He lived solitary in a lonely castle amid the most fertile and lovely region of Castile. There he associated only with his gold, which he kept in coffers in his vaults, and with his horse and black hounds, with which he used to hunt every Christmas eve, from sunset to sunrise, in company, it is said, with the free spirits of the air, with whom, riding like the wind, they traversed the kingdom in its breadth and length ere the dawn. And what think you be hunted my friends? A Castilian maid who should be both perfectly beautiful and perfectly blind!—for there is a tradition in Spain, that such a maiden shall become the mother of an Emperor who shall unite all the kingdoms of Europe into one Empire. But it was not for this he would possess this blind beauty. He was in person the ugliest and most hideous man in all Spain. Men looked upon him with disgust and women with fear. He wanted a wife and forsooth, one that was beautiful too, for next to his money and hounds he admired women. But no female could be found to marry him, so hideous was his visage, for all the gold in his coffers. He had heard of this tradition, and the idea of having a bride who should be perfectly beautiful and yet be blind, was highly gratifying to his vanity, for he could feast upon her charms while she would be ignorant of his ugliness.”
“And why should he seek her by night?” demanded Don Antonio’s listeners.
“It is said he had a talisman purchased by a mint of golden zecchino of Pius VI, by which he would be guided to the abode of such a maiden, who could be borne off, says the tradition, only at the midnight hour and while buried in deep sleep.
“At length, one Christmas eve, when this Castilian noble was thirty years of age, he sallied forth with hound and horse and horn to seek the blind and beautiful maiden for his bride. It was a few minutes before midnight, that the priests who were chanting prayers in a monastery in the Pyrenees valley, heard the unusual sound of huntsmen and the hoarse bay of hounds approaching in full cry. The sounds came nearer and nearer and the wide doors of the chapel were burst open, and this young Castilian noble rode in at top speed, followed by his pack, and galloped straight towards the altar. The horror-stricken priests seized the golden crucifix that stood upon it and held it up between the sacred place and the intruders, whom they believed to be the spirit of the “Wicked Huntsman” of the Pyrenees, and no mortal man.
“Without heeding the priests or their crucifix, Don Rolando Osormo—for that was his name—leaped from his coal-black steed and passed through a small wicket that led into the cloisters of the nunnery. With a rapid step he traversed the corridor and stopped before a cell, the door of which was closed. It flew open at his touch. On a low couch, her features faintly visible by a lamp burning beside it, slept a nun of the most perfect symmetry of limbs and features. Don Rolando knelt beside her and lifted the lamp so as to obtain a more perfect view of her face. It was transcendently lovely. He smiled with satisfaction, and lifting her in his arms, bore her forth into the corridor.”
“How knew he that a maiden slept there?” asked one of the group.
“By the talisman on his whip, it is said.”
“What was that, Don Antonio?”
“A lock of the Virgin Mary’s hair braided in the snapper, says the legend. The pliant lash would straighten and point forward as he held it in his hand in the direction he should proceed. Its touch opened all barriers, and gave him ingress to the inmost closet of castle or cot. But the impious noble was soon to learn that he could not enter, even with such a talisman, a consecrated temple and bear off with impunity a bride of the church. His punishment, though long deferred, came. He returned into the chapel with his prize ere the terrified monks had recovered from their astonishment. Leaping upon his steed and followed by his hounds, he spurred down the echoing aisles again, and left the convent as the bell tolled midnight, the noise of his riding and the bay of his hounds breaking far and wide upon the stillness of the night, as he coursed homeward down the valley.
“Don Rolando soon reached his castle and laid his intended bride upon a gorgeous couch. Then sending for musicians, he placed them in a concealed alcove and bade them play the softest strains ‘till she awoke.”
“How was he certain that she was blind as well as beautiful, Don Antonio?” asked Eugene Brissot. “Methinks a lady’s beauty lieth mostly in her eye.”
“The tradition saith that the maiden in question is to be perfectly beautiful still perfectly blind. She must have, therefore, perfect eyes to the observer though useless to herself as instruments of vision.”
“Poor lady,” sighed the young cavalier.
“I prithee proceed with thy story, Signor Antonio,” said the impatient bridegroom.
“It indeed becomes me to hasten, for the midnight hour is near at hand. Don Rolando having arrayed himself magnificently and perfumed himself with the costliest essences of Persia, stood concealed behind the curtains of her couch to witness her awaking. At length the music stole into her senses, and slowly she began to open her eyes and throw off the deep sleep that had weighed upon the fringed lids. Don Rolando watched her with the most intense interest. He trembled lest he should have been deceived—for, already he passionately loved her. She rose in her couch and gazed around. Her eyes were blue as heaven, large, liquid, and full of love and feeling. But whether they had vision he was unable to determine. He was about to show himself to make the trial, but restrained the impulse and remained still concealed, feeling assured that a few moments would decide it. She looked around her upon the damask hangings that on all sides enveloped her couch, but there was no individual object about her to arrest and fix the eye. She now threw back her golden hair from her forehead, as if perfectly awake, and gazed around with intelligent surprize, too visibly depicted on her features and in the enlargement of her dilating eye to be mistaken. Don Rolando’s heart began to sink within him. She looked each moment more bewildered and alarmed.
“‘Holy Virgin, where am I?’ she cried at length, in a voice which alarm had made most sweetly touching. ‘These silken hangings—this heavenly music—this gorgeous chamber—’ for she had now put aside the curtains. ‘Whither have I been borne in my sleep? It were Heaven, did not yonder lattice, with a view of the distant stars through, tell me I am yet on earth.’
“‘She sees, and the talisman has played me false! Accursed be it and the head it grew upon!’ muttered Don Rolando through his clenched teeth.
“He was about to rush forward and bury his dagger in her heart, for his vanity and pride would not allow him to permit her to see his features, inasmuch as he already loved her, and the thought of seeing her shudder at their ugliness was madness to him. He had rather slay her with his own hand. This he was about to do, when suddenly his arm was arrested by a light touch. He turned and beheld a low black figure, with a body no higher than his knees, with a prodigious head, in the brow of which was set a single eye of green flame like a shining emerald, and with hands and arms of supernatural length.
“‘Avaunt, fiend!’ he crie
d, starting back with horror and affright.
“‘Fear me not, Don Rolando,’ said the dwarf, in a hoarse low tone. ‘I know thy disappointment, ha, ha, ha! She has eyes brighter than stars.’
“‘By Heaven she hath! How know you my thoughts and purposes?’ demanded he with surprize.
“‘It matters not. I can aid thy purpose!’
“‘How?’
“‘Destroy her vision!’
“‘Thou, hell-hound! would’st thou mar such glorious beauty? She shall die first by my own hand.’
“‘I will not mar it. I will take away her sight nor lay hand upon her.’
“‘Give me proof of it and thou shalt attempt it. I would give half my wealth could it be so. Give me proof.’
“The demon-dwarf fixed upon him his single eye for an instant with such a steady gaze, that Don Rolando’s eyes were irresistibly riveted upon it as if fascinated. In vain he tried to take them off. They were no longer subservient to his will. The demon’s eye grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter each moment, ‘till the light of it became painfully intense, and seemed to Don Rolando’s eyes to fill the whole space before him and to pervade the whole room. By degrees it then faded away, lessening and growing dimmer and dimmer until it left the place to his vision dark as midnight.
“‘Where art thou, fiend, that thou hast charmed me thus and left me in darkness?’
“‘Ha, ha, ha! Don Rolando, dost thou find thyself in darkness?’ said the dwarf, speaking from the self-same spot where Don Rolando has last seen him.
The Macabre Megapack Page 18
