60 Cases of Detective Sherlock Holmes. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could

      scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen

      the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. ‘But

      I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville

      passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind

      him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at

      my heels.’ So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd

      and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for

      there came a galloping across the moor, and the black

      mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing

      bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close

      together, for a great fear was on them, but they still

      followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,

      would have been right glad to have turned his horse’s

      head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last

      upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour

      and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the

      head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the

      moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles

      and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

      “The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you

      may guess, than when they started. The most of them

      would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,

      or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.

      Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of

      those great stones, still to be seen there, which were

      set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.

      The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there

      in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,

      dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight

      of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo

      Baskerville lying near her, which raised 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 Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it

      turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the

      three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still

      screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that

      very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were

      but broken men for the rest of their days.

      “Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound

      which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever

      since. If I have set it down it is because that which

      is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but

      hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many

      of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which

      have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we

      shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,

      which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that

      third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy

      Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend

      you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from

      crossing the moor in those dark hours when 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

      sister Elizabeth.]”

      When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette 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 more recent. This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date.”

      My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

      “The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose

      name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate

      for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over

      the county. Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville

      Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of

      character and extreme generosity had won the affection

      and respect of all who had been brought into contact with

      him. In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing

      to find a case where the scion of an old county family

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