“It is a hundred and fifty years since I first probed forbidden secrets.  I have now to pay the penalty.  None can participate in my destiny but with his own consent. None has consented. It has been reported of me, as you know, that I obtained from the enemy of souls a range of existence beyond the period of mortality—­a power to pass over space with the swiftness of thought—­to encounter perils unharmed, to penetrate into dungeons, whose bolts were as flax and tow at my touch.  It has been said that this power was accorded to me that I might be enabled to tempt wretches at their fearful hour of extremity with the promise of deliverance and immunity on condition of their exchanging situations with me.

“No one has ever changed destinies with Melmoth the Wanderer. I have traversed the world in search, and no one to gain that world would lose his own soul!” He paused.  “Let me, if possible, obtain an hour’s repose.  Ay, repose—­sleep!” he repeated, answering the astonishment of his hearers’ looks.  “My existence is still human!”

And a ghastly and derisive smile wandered over his features as he spoke.  John Melmoth and Moncada quitted the apartment, and the Wanderer, sinking back in his chair slept profoundly.

The two men did not dare to approach the door until noon next day.  The Wanderer started up, and they saw with horror the change that had come over him.  The lines of extreme age were visible in every feature.

“My hour is come,” he said.  “Leave me alone.  Whatever noises you may hear in the course of the awful night that is approaching, come not near, at peril of your lives.  Be warned!  Retire!”

They passed that day in intense anxiety, and at night had no thought of repose.  At midnight sounds of indescribable horror began to issue from the Wanderer’s apartment, shrieks of supplication, yells of blasphemy—­ they could not tell which.  The sounds suddenly ceased.  The two men hastened into the room.  It was empty.

A small door leading to a back staircase was open, and near it they discovered the trace of footsteps of a person who had been walking in damp sand or clay.  They traced the footsteps down the stairs, through the garden, and across a field to a rock that overlooked the sea.

Through the furze that clothed this rock, there was a kind of track as if a person had dragged his way, or been dragged, through it.  The two men gained the summit of the rock; the wide, waste, engulfing ocean was beneath.  On a crag below, something hung as floating to the blast.  Melmoth clambered down and caught it.  It was the handkerchief which the Wanderer had worn about his neck the preceding night.  That was the last trace of the Wanderer.

Melmoth and Moncada exchanged looks of silent horror, and returned slowly home.

* * * * *

DIEGO DE MENDOZA