covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down
from under the eaves, and so homeward across the moor,
there being three leagues betwixt the Hall and her father’s
farm.
“It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
guests to carry food and drink — with other worse things,
perchance — to his captive, and so found the cage empty and
the bird escaped. Then, as it would seem, he became as one
that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the
dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and
trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all
the company that he would that very night render his body
and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the
wench. And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of
the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than
the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon her
Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms
that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them
to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the
moor.
“Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
to understand all that had been done in such haste. But anon
their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which
was like to be done upon the moorlands. Everything was
now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for
their horses, and some for another flask of wine. But at
length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in
pursuit. The moon shone clear above them, and they rode
swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must
needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.
“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of
the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the
story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce
speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the
unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. ‘But I
have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville
passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and
rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there
came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare,
dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and
empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a
great fear was on them, but they still followed over the
moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been
right glad to have turned his horse’s head. Riding slowly in
this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These,
though known for their valour and their breed, were whim—
pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we
call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with
starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow
valley before them.
“The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as
you may guess, than when they started. The most of them
would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the
goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two
of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set
by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon
was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre
lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and
of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was
it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her,
which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare—
devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and
plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great,
black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound
that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they
looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on
which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon
them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life,
still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that
very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
but broken men for the rest of their days.
“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly
known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and
guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have
been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden,
bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in
the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence,
my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way
of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark
hours when the powers of evil are exalted.
“[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and
John, with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
sister Elizabeth.]”
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire.
“Well?” said he.
“Do you not find it interesting?”
“To a collector of fairy tales.”
Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.”
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal
candidate for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a
gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at
Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his amia—
bility of character and extreme generosity had won the
affection and respect of all who had been brought into
contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is
refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county
family which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his
own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known,
made large sums of money in South African speculation.
More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
with them. It is only two years since he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large
were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which
have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless,
it was his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit by his good
fortune, and many will have personal reasons for bewailing
his untimely end. His generous donations to local and county
charities have been frequently chronicled in these columns.
“The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
imagine that death could be from any but natural causes. Sir
Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have
been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of
his considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes,
and bis indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler
and the wife as housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated
by that of several friends, tends to show that Sir Charles’s
health has for some time been impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart, manifesting itself in
changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the