“Yet not all is so plain, M’sieu,” he spoke low to McKay, “since in Pierre’s hand I found—this.”

He reached into a pocket and drew out a button from which hung a strip of cloth. They had once been part of that stained coat which McKay had hidden in his trunk. And as McKay strove to speak the old man raised his hand. Button and cloth dropped from it, into the water. A wave took it and floated it away; another and another snatched it and passed it on. They watched it, silently, until it had vanished.

“Tell me nothing,” said the keeper of the inn. “Polleau was a hard man and hard men were his sons. The trees hated them. The trees killed them. The—souvenir—is gone. Only M’sieu would better also—go.”

That might McKay packed. When dawn had broken, he stood at his window, looking long at the little wood. It too was awakening, stirring sleepily—like drowsy, delicate demoiselles. He thought he could see that one slim birch that was—what?

Tree or woman? Or both?

Silently, the old landlord and his wife watched him as he swung out his car—a touch of awe, a half-fear, in their eyes. Without a word they let him go.

And as McKay swept up the road that led over the lip of the green bowl, he seemed to hear from all the forest a deep-toned, mournful chanting. It arose around him as he topped the rise in one vast whispering cloud—of farewell! And died.

Never, he knew, would that green door of enchantment be opened to him again. His fear had closed it—forever. Something had been offered to him beyond mortal experience—something that might have raised him to the level of the gods of Earth’s youth. He had rejected it. And nevermore, he knew, would he cease to regret.

Bat’s Belfry – August W. Derleth

The following letter was found among the papers of the late Sir Harry Everett Barclay of Charing Cross, London.

June 10, 1925

My dear Marc,