Ghost Stories of an Antiquary | Page 4

Canon Alberic de Mauléon stamped in gold
on the sides. There may have been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper
in the book, and on almost every one of them was fastened a leaf from
an illuminated manuscript. Such a collection Dennistoun had hardly
dreamed of in his wildest moments. Here were ten leaves from a copy
of Genesis, illustrated with pictures, which could not be later than A.D.
700. Further on was a complete set of pictures from a Psalter, of
English execution, of the very finest kind that the thirteenth century
could produce; and, perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of

uncial writing in Latin, which, as a few words seen here and there told
him at once, must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise.
Could it possibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias 'On the Words of
Our Lord', which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth
century at Nimes?[1] In any case, his mind was made up; that book
must return to Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole
of his balance from the bank and stay at St. Bertrand till the money
came. He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint
that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips were
working.
[1] We now know that these leaves did contain a considerable fragment
of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.
'If monsieur will turn on to the end,' he said.
So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf;
and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of much
more recent date than anything he had seen yet, which puzzled him
considerably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with the
unprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapter
library of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On the first of
the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn and instantly recognizable
by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle and cloisters of St
Bertrand's. There were curious signs looking like planetary symbols,
and a few Hebrew words in the corners; and in the north-west angle of
the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some
lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:
Responsa 12(mi) Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne?
Responsum est: Invenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus?
Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo? Ita. (Answers of the 12th of December,
1694. It was asked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall I become
rich? Thou wilt. Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt. Shall I die in
my bed? Thou wilt.)
'A good specimen of the treasure-hunter's record--quite reminds one of
Mr Minor-Canon Quatremain in Old St Paul's,' was Dennistoun's

comment, and he turned the leaf.
What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than he
could have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing
him. And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is
a photograph of it (which I possess) which fully bears out that
statement. The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end of the
seventeenth century, representing, one would say at first sight, a
Biblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented an interior)
and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about them which the
artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate to illustrations of
the Bible. On the right was a king on his throne, the throne elevated on
twelve steps, a canopy overhead, soldiers on either side--evidently King
Solomon. He was bending forward with outstretched sceptre, in attitude
of command; his face expressed horror and disgust, yet there was in it
also the mark of imperious command and confident power. The left
half of the picture was the strangest, however. The interest plainly
centred there.
On the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers,
surrounding a crouching figure which must be described in a moment.
A fifth soldier lay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his
eye-balls starting from his head. The four surrounding guards were
looking at the King. In their faces, the sentiment of horror was
intensified; they seemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their
implicit trust in their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the
being that crouched in their midst.
I entirely despair of conveying by any words the impression which this
figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollect once showing the
photograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology--a person of, I
was going to say, abnormally sane and