The Black Cross | Page 5

cloud had come over the moon, light and fleecy at first, but gradually
growing blacker and spreading until finally it hung like a huge
drop-curtain screening the stars.
The street lay in darkness. From a window in the top of the arch a

single light was visible, pale and flickering as the ray from a candle;
otherwise the grey bulk of the building seemed lost in the shadows,
lifeless and silent.
Suddenly the light went out.
"Hist--st!" As if at a signal something moved on the staircase, creeping
forward, and then from the shadow of the tenement, from under the
archway, emerged other shadows, moving slowly like wraiths,
hesitating, stopping, losing themselves in the general blackness, and
then stirring again; shadows within shadows creeping.
Presently a door at the top of the steps opened and shut. Every time it
opened, a shadow passed through and another crept forward. No word
was spoken, no sound; not a step creaked, not a board stirred. It was a
procession of ghosts.
Behind the door was a long stone passage, narrow and dark like a cave.
The shadows felt the walls with their hands softly, gropingly, but the
hands were silent like the feet. Except for a hurried breathing in the
darkness the passage seemed empty.
Beyond were more steps leading down, and another passage, and then a
second door locked and barred. Before this door the shadows halted,
huddled together. "Hist--st!" Instantly the floor under them began to
quiver and drop, inch by inch, foot by foot, down a well of continued
blackness. The minutes passed. They still dropped lower and lower, so
low that they were now below the level of the canal; down, down into
the very foundations of the tenement, once a palace. All of a sudden the
darkness ceased.
The room into which the elevator entered was large, low-raftered and
lighted by a group of candles at the far end. In the centre was a black
table, and about the table thirteen chairs also black. The one at the head
was occupied by a figure garbed in a cloak and hood, with a black mask
drawn down to the lips. The other chairs were empty.
By the light of the candles the shadows now took shape, the one from

the other, and twelve black-cloaked and hooded figures stole forward,
also masked to the lips. They passed one by one before the seated mask,
touching his hand lightly, fleetingly, as one dipping the fingers into
holy water, and then around the table to their seats, each in turn, until
all were placed.
Some of the figures were tall, broad-shouldered and heavy, others small
and slight. From the height, the strength or delicacy of the chin, the
shape and size of the hand, was it alone possible to distinguish the sex;
the rest was shrouded in a mystery absolute and unfathomable.
As the last and thirteenth chair was filled, the mask at the head leaned
forward and pointed silently to a dark object at the far end of the room
about which the candles flickered and sparkled. It was a huge Black
Cross suspended as above an altar. Below it lay an open bier, roughly
hewn out of the stone, and across it a name in scarlet lettering. The bier
was empty.
The twelve other masks turned towards the Cross, reading the name,
and they made a sign with the hands in unison, a rapid crisscross
motion over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, ending in the low
murmur of a word, unintelligible, like a pledge. Then the first mask to
the left rose and bowed to the Head.
"Speak," he said, "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Of what is this man accused?"
There was a moment of silence, intense and charged with significance;
then the mask spoke.
"In the province of Pskof there is a Commune. One night, last winter,
the peasants rose without warning. They shot, they maimed, they
hacked, they burned alive every Jew in the village, men, women and
children; not one escaped. The police were behind them. The instigator
of the police was--"
The Head raised his hand: "Do you know this for a fact, from personal
information?"

"I know it for a fact, from personal information."
The first mask took his seat and the second rose, a gaunt figure, the
shoulders bowed and crippled under the cloak. His voice was deep and
full, with tones plaintive and penetrating.
"A month ago there were seven men arrested. They were taken to 'Peter
and Paul' and thrust into dungeons unspeakable. They received no trial;
they were convicted of no crime; they never saw their families again.
Three of these men are now in the mines. Two are still in the cells. Two
are dead."
"Why