{"id":199,"date":"2013-07-13T01:26:33","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:26:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=199"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:26:33","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:26:33","slug":"59-the-devils-mastiff-vol-07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/01-sabcl\/07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07\/59-the-devils-mastiff-vol-07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07","title":{"rendered":"-59_The Devil’s Mastiff.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n
\n

\n
\nThe Devil’s Mastiff <\/font><\/p>\n

<\/b>  <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nT<\/font>HERE <\/font><\/p>\n

<\/b>had been a heavy fall throughout
\nthe whole of that December day. The roads were white and in-
\ndistinguishable in a thick pall of moonlight and dazzling snow;<\/font>
\n<\/font>here and there a drift betrayed the footing. In the sky a bright
\nmoon pursued by clouds ran timidly up the ascent of the firmament; great arms of
\ndarkness sometimes closed over it; sometimes it emerged and proceeded with its still luminous race, ran,
\nswayed, floated, glided forward intently, unfalteringly. Patrick
\nCurran, treading uncautiously the white uncertain flooring of
\nearth, stumbling into snowdrifts, scouting into temporary dark-
\nness for his right road, cursed the weather and his fortunes.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It is not enough," he complained, "that I
\nshould be a proscribed fugitive hiding my head in every uncertain refuge from the
\npursuit of this devil’s Cromwell, doomed already to the gallows,
\nowing my life every day to the trembling compassion of my poor
\nfather’s tenants; it is not enough that I should have lost Alicia
\nand that Luke Walter should have her; but the very moon and
\nthe snow and the night are his allies against me. Since God is
\nso hard on me, I wonder why the devil does not come to my
\nhelp \u2014 I would sell my soul to him this moment willingly. But
\nperhaps he too is afraid of Cromwell."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It is hardly probable," said a voice at his side suddenly.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPatrick Curran turned with a fierce start and clutched at
\nhis dagger. <\/b> He was aware in the darkness of a dim form pacing
\nbeside him with a step much quieter and more assured than his
\nown. –<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Who are you?" he cried, rigid and menacing.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"A wayfarer like yourself," said the other, "I travel earth
\nas a fugitive."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"From whom or what?" asked Patrick.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"How shall I say ?" said the shadow, "Perhaps from my own
\nthoughts, perhaps from a too powerful enemy."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131047<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nAfter the discovery of the recent conspiracy to murder Corn-
\nwell and restore Charles Stuart, the country was full of Royalist
\nfugitives, hiding by day, travelling by night, in the hope of
\nreaching a port whence they could sail for Ostende or Calais.
\nFor the inquisitions of the Republican magistrates were imperative and undiscriminating.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I would give," he said to himself, "my soul and the rest of
\nmy allotted days as a free gift to Satan, if I might once clasp
\nAlicia in my arms and take with me into Hell the warm sense of
\nthe joy of her body and if I might see Luke Walter dead before
\nme or be sure he was following me. Oh if I can once be sure of
\nthat, let the brown dog of the Dacres leap on me the next moment, I care not."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"You may be sure of it," answered the voice at his side,
\nstrangely sweet, yet to Patrick’s ear formidable. He turned,
\nthrilling.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"You must be the devil himself," he almost shouted.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I may be only one who can read your thoughts," said the
\nother in that sweet sinister voice which made the young man
\nfancy sometimes that a woman spoke to him. "And that I can,
\nyou will easily judge when I have told you a very little of what I
\nknow of you. You are Patrick, the second son of Sir Gerald
\nCurran who got his estate from his wife, Margaret Dacre, his
\nbaronetcy from King James and his death from Cromwell who
\ntook him prisoner at Worcester and hanged him. You were to
\nhave married Lady Alicia Nevil, when the conspiracy of which
\nyou were one of the heads as well as the hand destined to strike
\ndown the Puritan tyrant, was discovered by the discernment,
\nluck and ruthless skill of Colonel Luke Walter."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe young Cavalier started and uttered a furious imprecation.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It was he," said the other, "he has great brain-power and
\npenetration and a resolute genius. It is even possible he may
\nsucceed Cromwell, if the God of the Puritans gives him a lease
\nlong enough,"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"If I have the chance, I will shorten it," cried Patrick Curran.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Or I," said the unknown, "for just now I too am a Royalist.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131048<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nBut to proceed. You were proclaimed and doomed to a felon’s
\ndeath in your absence; the Earl, implicated in the conspiracy,
\nwas compelled as the price of his pardon to betroth his daughter
\nto Luke Walter, and the marriage is fixed for tonight."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Tonight!" groaned the young man, and he smote his thigh
\nmiserably with his ,hand.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"At the Church of Worndale." ‘<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"But will it matter if Luke Walter perishes before he has
\nconsummated his nuptials?"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I promise you that," said the unknown. "It does not suit
\nyou that Alicia should marry another. It does not suit me that
\nthere should be a strong successor to Cromwell. Charles Stuart
\nis my good friend, and I wish that he should rule England.
\nTherefore, Patrick, it is a bargain."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Who the devil are you?" cried the young man
\nagain, marvelling.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAs if to answer the moon peeped out from between two
\nheavy angry masses of black cloud, illumining the earth’s intense
\nand inclement whiteness. He saw beside him a young man of
\nremarkable beauty, whose face was perfectly familiar, but his
\nname could not be remembered.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"As for your soul and your life," said the stranger, and as
\ntheir eyes met, Patrick shuddered, "you need not give them to
\nthe devil whether freely or as part of the bargain, for they are
\nalready his."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nHe laughed a laugh of terrible and ominous sweetness, and
\nin a moment Patrick remembered. He knew that laugh, he knew
\nthat face. They were his own.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAt that moment the moon passed away into the second fragment of cloud. Patrick stood, unable to speak, looking at the
\ndim shadow in front of him. Then it vanished.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nIt was sometime before the young man could command him-
\nself sufficiently to pursue his way. He tried to think for a moment that it was John Dacre, the illegitimate son of Sir Gerald
\nby his sister-in-law Matilda Dacre, who resembled Patrick
\nstrongly and was his sworn comrade and lover. But he knew it
\nwas not John. That was not John’s face or John’s speech or<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131049<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nJohn’s thinking. It must have been a vivid dream or a waking
\nillusion. He walked forward in the darkness, greatly disturbed,
\nbut with recovered courage.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAgain the moon shone out, this time with a clear gulf of sky
\njust in front of her. Before Patrick the white road stretched long,
\nstraight and visible to a great distance and was marked out here
\nby high snow-covered hedge from the equally white indistinguish-
\nable country around.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Come now, that is better," said Patrick Curran. As he
\nspoke, he saw far off on the road a dark object travelling towards
\nhim; he slackened his pace and was minded to turn off the road
\nto avoid it. But it was approaching with phenomenal speed.
\nAs it came nearer, he saw that it was only a dog. Again Patrick
\nstood still. A dog! There was nothing in that. It was not what
\nhe had feared. But he remembered that singular conversation
\nand the impious prayer that had arisen in his heart about the
\nbrown dog of the Dacres, \u2014 the dog which showed itself always
\nwhen a Dacre was about to die and leaped on him whenever
\nthe doom was by violence. He smiled, but a little uncertainly.
\nThen the moonlight seemed to dwell on the swiftly-travelling
\nanimal more intensely and he saw that it was brown.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nNever had Patrick seen any earthly thing master of such a
\nterrible speed. It ran, it galloped, it bounded, and the wretched
\nman watching the terrific charge of that phantasmal monster, \u2014-
\nfor it was a gigantic mastiff, \u2014 felt his heart stop and his warm
\nyouthful blood congeal in his veins. It was now within twenty
\npaces; he felt the huge eyes upon him and knew that it was
\ngoing to leap. He went down heavily with the ponderous frame
\nof the animal oppressing his breast, its leonine paws on his shoulders, its hot breathing moistening his face. And then there was
\nnothing.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nThat was the most terrible part of it, to have been borne
\ndown physically by a semblance, an unearthly hallucination, a
\nthing that was this moment and the next was not. Patrick
\nstruggled to his feet, overcome by a panic terror; his nerves
\ncried to him to run, to travel away quickly from this accursed
\nnight and this road of ghastly encounters. But he felt as if hamstrung, <\/font>
\n <\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131050<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nhelpless, clutched by an intangible destruction. He sat
\ndown on the snow, panted and waited.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAfter a few minutes the blood began to flow more quietly
\nthrough his veins, the pounding of his heart slackened and the
\nsick agitation of his nerves yielded to a sudden fiery inrush. He
\nleaped furiously (o his feet. "The Dog of the Dacres," he cried,
\n"the brown Dog, the Devil’s Mastiff! And no doubt it was
\nhis master spoke to me in my own semblance. I am doomed,
\nthen. But not to the gallows. No, by God, not to the gallows.
\nGod’s doom and the devil’s, since I can resist neither, but not
\nman’s, not Cromwell’s!" Then he paused. "Tonight!" he cried
\nagain. "At Worndale Church! But I will see her once before I
\ngo down to Hell. And it may be I shall take Luke Walter with
\nme. It may be that is what the Devil wants of me."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nHe looked about the landscape and thought he could
\ndistinguish the trees that bordered the distant Church of Worn-
\ndale. That was in front of him. Also in front, but much more
\nto the left, was Trevesham Hall, the home of Alicia Nevil.
\nHe began walking rapidly, no longer with his first cautious
\nand doubtful treading, but with a bold reckless stride. And it
\nwas noticeable that he no longer stumbled or floundered into
\nsnowdrifts. Patrick knew that he had only a few brief inches
\nof his life’s road left to his treading; for no man of the Dacre
\nblood had ever lived more than twenty-four hours after the
\nBrown Dog leaped on him. A desperate courage had entered
\ninto his veins. He would see<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

 (Incomplete)<\/i><\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131051<\/font><\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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