Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles

heladyisnotthere?”HolmesaskedwhenIhadfinishedmyreport. “No.” “Wherecanshebe,then,sincethereisnolightinanyotherroomexceptthekitchen?” “Icannotthinkwheresheis.” IhavesaidthatoverthegreatGrimpenMiretherehungadense,whitefog.Itwasdriftingslowlyinourdirectionandbankeditselfuplikeawallonthatsideofus,lowbutthickandwelldefined.Themoonshoneonit,anditlookedlikeagreatshimmeringice-field,withtheheadsofthedistanttorsasrocksborneuponitssurface.Holmes’sfacewasturnedtowardsit,andhemutteredimpatientlyashewatcheditssluggishdrift. “It’smovingtowardsus,Watson.” “Isthatserious?” “Veryserious,indeed—theonethinguponearthwhichcouldhavedisarrangedmyplans.Hecan’tbeverylong,now.Itisalreadyteno’clock.Oursuccessandevenhislifemaydependuponhiscomingoutbeforethefogisoverthepath.” Thenightwasclearandfineaboveus.Thestarsshonecoldandbright,whileahalf-moonbathedthewholesceneinasoft,uncertainlight.Beforeuslaythedarkbulkofthehouse,itsserratedroofandbristlingchimneyshardoutlinedagainstthesilver-spangledsky.Broadbarsofgoldenlightfromthelowerwindowsstretchedacrosstheorchardandthemoor.Oneofthemwassuddenlyshutoff.Theservantshadleftthekitchen.Thereonlyremainedthelampinthedining-roomwherethetwomen,themurderoushostandtheunconsciousguest,stillchattedovertheircigars. Everyminutethatwhitewoollyplainwhichcoveredone-halfofthemoorwasdriftingcloserandclosertothehouse.Alreadythefirstthinwispsofitwerecurlingacrossthegoldensquareofthelightedwindow.Thefartherwalloftheorchardwasalreadyinvisible,andthetreeswerestandingoutofaswirlofwhitevapour.Aswewatcheditthefog-wreathscamecrawlingroundbothcornersofthehouseandrolledslowlyintoonedensebankonwhichtheupperfloorandtherooffloatedlikeastrangeshipuponashadowysea.Holmesstruckhishandpassionatelyupontherockinfrontofusandstampedhisfeetinhisimpatience. “Ifheisn’toutinaquarterofanhourthepathwillbecovered.Inhalfanhourwewon’tbeabletoseeourhandsinfrontofus.” “Shallwemovefartherbackuponhigherground?” “Yes,Ithinkitwouldbeaswell.” Soasthefog-bankflowedonwardwefellbackbeforeituntilwewerehalfamilefromthehouse,andstillthatdensewhitesea,withthemoonsilveringitsupperedge,sweptslowlyandinexorablyon. “Wearegoingtoofar,”saidHolmes.“Wedarenottakethechanceofhisbeingovertakenbeforehecanreachus.Atallcostswemustholdourgroundwhereweare.”Hedroppedonhiskneesandclappedhiseartotheground.“ThankGod,IthinkthatIhearhimcoming.” Asoundofquickstepsbrokethesilenceofthemoor.Crouchingamongthestoneswestaredintentlyatthesilver-tippedbankinfrontofus.Thestepsgrewlouder,andthroughthefog,asthroughacurtain,theresteppedthemanwhomwewereawaiting.Helookedroundhiminsurpriseasheemergedintotheclear,starlitnight.Thenhecameswiftlyalongthepath,passedclosetowherewelay,andwentonupthelongslopebehindus.Ashewalkedheglancedcontinuallyovereithershoulder,likeamanwhoisillatease. “Hist!”criedHolmes,andIheardthesharpclickofacockingpistol.“Lookout!It’scoming!” Therewasathin,crisp,continuouspatterfromsomewhereintheheartofthatcrawlingbank.Thecloudwaswithinfiftyyardsofwherewelay,andweglaredatit,allthree,uncertainwhathorrorwasabouttobreakfromtheheartofit.IwasatHolmes’selbow,andIglancedforaninstantathisface.Itwaspaleandexultant,hiseyesshiningbrightlyinthemoonlight.Butsuddenlytheystartedforwardinarigid,fixedstare,andhislipspartedinamazement.AtthesameinstantLestradegaveayellofterrorandthrewhimselffacedownwardupontheground.Isprangtomyfeet,myinerthandgraspingmypistol,mymindparalyzedbythedreadfulshapewhichhadsprungoutuponusfromtheshadowsofthefog.Ahounditwas,anenormouscoal-blackhound,butnotsuchahoundasmortaleyeshaveeverseen.Fireburstfromitsopenmouth,itseyesglowedwithasmoulderingglare,itsmuzzleandhacklesanddewlapwereoutlinedinflickerin