“They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of thenight shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him toknow if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, wasso crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he saidthat he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the houndsupon her track. ‘But I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘forHugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ranmute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should everbe at my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd androde onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came agalloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with whitefroth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then therevellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, butthey still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,would have been right glad to have turned his horse’s head. Ridingslowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These,though known for their valour and their breed, were whimperingin a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, uponthe moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles andstaring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.
The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you mayguess, than when they started. The most of them would by nomeans advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be themost drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened intoa broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to beseen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the daysof old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and therein the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead offear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yetwas it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, whichraised 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 HugoBaskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and drippingjaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dearlife, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that verynight of what he had seen, and the other twain were but brokenmen for the rest of their days.
“Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound whichis said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I haveset it down it is because that which is clearly known hath lessterror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can itbe denied that many of the family have been unhappy in theirdeaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet maywe shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, whichwould not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or fourthgeneration which is threatened in Holy Writ. To that Providence,my sons, I hereby commend you, and I counsel you by way ofcaution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hourswhen 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 sisterElizabeth.]”
When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrativehe pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across atMr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of hiscigarette 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 morerecent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of thisyear. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of SirCharles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.”
My friend leaned a little forward and his expression becameintent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:
“The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whosename has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidatefor Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over thecounty. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for acomparatively short period his amiability of character and extremegenerosity had won the affection and respect of all who had beenbrought into contact with him. In these days of nouveaux riches itis refreshing to find a case where the scion of an old county familywhich has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own fortuneand to bring it back with him to restore the fallen grandeur of hisline. Sir Charles, as is well known, made large sums of money inSouth African speculation. More wise than those who go on untilthe wheel turns against them, he realized his gains and returnedto England with them. It is only two years since he took up hisresidence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how largewere those schemes of reconstruction and improvement whichhave been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless,it was his openly expressed desire that the whole countrysideshould, within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, andmany will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end.
His generous donations to local and county charities have beenfrequently chronicled in these columns.
“The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charlescannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest,but at least enough has been done to dispose of those rumours towhich local superstition has given rise. There is no reason whateverto suspect foul play, or to imagine that death could be from anybut natural causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who maybe said to have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
