“I have only been here two years. The residents would call me anewcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastesled me to explore every part of the country round, and I shouldthink that there are few men who know it better than I do.”
“Is it hard to know?”
“Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the northhere with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observeanything remarkable about that?”
“It would be a rare place for a gallop.”
“You would naturally think so and the thought has cost severaltheir lives before now. You notice those bright green spotsscattered thickly over it?”
“Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”
Stapleton laughed.
“That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A false step yondermeans death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of themoor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head forquite a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked himdown at last. Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but afterthese autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my wayto the very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is anotherof those miserable ponies!”
Something brown was rolling and tossing among the greensedges. Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and adreadful cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror,but my companion’s nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.
“It’s gone!” said he. “The mire has him. Two in two days, andmany more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in thedry weather, and never know the difference until the mire hasthem in its clutches. It’s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”
“And you say you can penetrate it?”
“Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man cantake. I have found them out.”
“But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?”
“Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut offon all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled roundthem in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and thebutterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them.”
“I shall try my luck some day.”
He looked at me with a surprised face.
“For God’s sake put such an idea out of your mind,” said he. “Yourblood would be upon my head. I assure you that there wouldnot be the least chance of your coming back alive. It is only byremembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it.”
“Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”
A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. Itfilled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence itcame. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and thensank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.
Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.
“Queer place, the moor!” said he.
“But what is it?”
“The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles callingfor its prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite soloud.”
I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the hugeswelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothingstirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croakedloudly from a tor behind us.
“You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsenseas that?” said I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange asound?”
“Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, orthe water rising, or something.”
“No, no, that was a living voice.”
“Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”
“No, I never did.”
“It’s a very rare bird—practically extinct—in England now, but allthings are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprisedto learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of thebitterns.”
“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life.”
“Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillsideyonder. What do you make of those?”
The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings ofstone, a score of them at least.
“What are they? Sheep-pens?”
“No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoricman lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular haslived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as heleft them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can evensee his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside.
“But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”
“Neolithic man—no date.”
“What did he do?”
“He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig fortin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Lookat the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, youwill find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson.
Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”
A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in aninstant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy andspeed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight forthe great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in theair. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made himnot unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching hispursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary activityand fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous mire,when I heard the sound of steps, and turning round found a womannear me upon the path. She had come from the direction in whichthe plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, butthe dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close.