away my garlic and other things.  And so it is we find this coffin empty.  But bear with me.  So far there is much that is strange.  Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be.  So,” here he shut the dark slide of his lantern, “now to the outside.”  He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the door behind him.

Oh!  But it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault.  How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing, like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life.  How sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay.  How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city.  Each in his own way was solemn and overcome.  Arthur was silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery.  I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions.  Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has at stake.  Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew.  As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a definite way.  First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin.  Next he took out a double handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty.  He crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands.  This he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb.  I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was doing.  Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious.

He answered, “I am closing the tomb so that the UnDead may not enter.”

“And is that stuff you have there going to do it?”

“It is.”

“What is that which you are using?” This time the question was by Arthur.  Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered.

“The Host.  I brought it from Amsterdam.  I have an Indulgence.”

It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust.  In respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching.  I pitied the others, especially Arthur.  I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink within me.  Never did tombs look so ghastly white.  Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom.  Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously.  Never did bough creak so mysteriously, and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.