He had not been in the place since he was a child; he cared nothing about the dead of long ago: but now the memory of it all came back upon him, and he sought and found the grey sunken stone, and pulled away the grass from it, and read the legend with eyes that scarcely saw what they looked at.
"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!" And the place was free from moss, as they always said; the rude scratch, as of a sharp-pointed instrument.

Did it mean anything?
He dropped beside it for a minute, and studied the stone; then rose and went his way again, still wandering on and on, he knew not whither.
Darkness came, and he was in the woods, stumbling here and there, driven as by a strong wind, scorched as by a flame.

At last he sank down at the foot of a great oak-tree, in a place he knew well, even in the dark: he could go no farther.
"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!" It whispered in his ears, and seemed for a little to drown the haunting notes of the violin.

He, the Calvinist, the practical man, who believed in two things outside the visible world, a great hell and a small heaven, now felt spirits about him, saw visions that were not of this life.

His ancestor, the Huguenot, stood before him, in cloak and band; in one hand a Bible, in the other a drawn dagger.