We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was a death’s-head moth drenched with rain.

The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand, her head against my breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death.  For Lys believed that there were things on earth that none might understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God rolls up the scroll of life and all is ended.  We spoke of hope and fear and faith, and the mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and the end, of the shadow of sin, of omens, and of love.  The moth still lay on the floor quivering its somber wings in the warmth of the fire, the skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body.

“If it is a messenger of death to this house,” I said, “why should we fear, Lys?”

“Death should be welcome to those who love God,” murmured Lys, and she drew the cross from her breast and kissed it.

“The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm,” I said after a silence.

“Let it remain,” sighed Lys.

Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and read in the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue.  I shaded the candle, but Lys grew restless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, where the ashes of the fire rustled and whitened on the hearth.

The death’s-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had left it.  At first I thought it was dead, but when I looked closer I saw a lambent fire in its amber eyes.  The straight white shadow it cast across the floor wavered as the candle flickered.

The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; the illuminated gold and blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt where my hand brushed them.

“It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment,” I said to myself; and I held the discolored page close to the candle flame and read, translating laboriously: 

“I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things.  And I saw the Black Mass celebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff.  And it was said by the Abbe Sorgue, my kinsman:  for which deadly sin the apostate priest was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and fly to its master the devil.  But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt of Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, and carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin.  And I, Jacques Sorgue, traveling afterward by sea, beheld with my own eyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the air upon a vast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan.  And this was seen also by two men of the crew.”