could that arrangement cause such a deep shadow in the far corner? Or was it a shadow?
The weight he had felt in the hall was doubled here, crushing him as a diver is crushed by sea-bottom pressures. The switch clicked, though Pursuivant had not touched it. The light went out abruptly.
Something pawed at him through the darkness. A hand—he saw it dimly, but not its arm. Was there an arm? Pursuivant jerked away, but refused to retreat. Now a face hung in the thick dusk—a head, anyway, for he made out the contour only, not the features. But it must have a mouth. For he felt a fanning of tepid breath, heard a mumble that became a word of sorts:
"Raus. . . ."
German. Get out!
Pursuivant stared at the hanging oval, trying to find eyes to fix with his own. Now another touch, at his shoulder. Light this time. Fluffy. Another voice, so soft as to be felt rather than heard:
"No . . . stay . . . you came to save. . . ."
The featureless head became more solid, and a suggestion of body was visible beneath—thick, as big as Pursuivant's own body. Wide-planted columns that might be mist-moulded legs. Again: "Raus!"
Pursuivant backed from the room, leaving the door open. He was in the parlor again, wiping his face. He felt better.
Scrope, mixing more drinks, looked at him questioningly. "You felt it too, huh?"
"I felt something. For a moment I saw." The judge paused to marshal his findings. "Who has ever slept in that front bedroom?"
"Nobody. The house-boy—before he left—had a lean-to off the kitchen. You're inaugurating my guest room tonight, judge. Here, have a drink."
They touched glasses and drank. Then they crossed the heavy-aired hall to the kitchen. Scrope quickly cooked a meal, simple but hearty—ham, eggs, home-fried potatoes, strong coffee. They ate at a white-topped table. Pursuivant acted as though fear had not come to him that night.
"I suggested that the Hessians weren't good fighters," he observed, holding out his cup, "but they were Germanic—and Germany has been the home of witches and devils. Read Faust, read Phantasmagoria, read the Brothers Grimm. And in a file of Old New York—out of print now—I found a story of how two Hessian soldiers bewitched a Manhattan farmer."
"True story?"
"It's in the reminiscences of George Rapaelje. That's a respected name in old New York history. Rapaelje claims to have seen it happen. Yes, and other Hessians—settling in Pennsylvania and New Jersey—worked magic."
"Of course. Look at that Headless Horseman yarn of Irving's," contributed Scrope. "Judge, you've got something. If that spell you recited—I wish you hadn't, for it didn't work."
Pursuivant looked earnestly at Scrope. "I didn't finish. It must be said three times, an hour apart." He drew out a thick gold watch. "And an hour has passed, or nearly."
Quite steadily, if not casually, he walked into the hall. Scrope came just behind. Again Pursuivant felt the baleful weight and closeness. Undaunted, he began to recite for the second time:
"All ye evil spirits, I forbid you this man's bed, his couch; I forbid you, in heaven's name, his house and home; I forbid—"
It had come heavily, noiselessly, out of the front bedroom. A hunchbacked hulk of it, that straightened and showed itself as tall and powerful as Pursuivant.
The judge knew amazement, complete but rational. Even in the half-light, he made out only a silhouette, roughly human,
