After a couple of weeks had passed, the kite seemed to give Edgar Caswall a new zest for life.  He was never tired of looking at its movements.  He had a comfortable armchair put out on the tower, wherein he sat sometimes all day long, watching as though the kite was a new toy and he a child lately come into possession of it.  He did not seem to have lost interest in Lilla, for he still paid an occasional visit at Mercy Farm.

Indeed, his feeling towards her, whatever it had been at first, had now so far changed that it had become a distinct affection of a purely animal kind.  Indeed, it seemed as though the man’s nature had become corrupted, and that all the baser and more selfish and more reckless qualities had become more conspicuous.  There was not so much sternness apparent in his nature, because there was less self-restraint.  Determination had become indifference.

The visible change in Edgar was that he grew morbid, sad, silent; the neighbours thought he was going mad.  He became absorbed in the kite, and watched it not only by day, but often all night long.  It became an obsession to him.

Caswall took a personal interest in the keeping of the great kite flying.  He had a vast coil of cord efficient for the purpose, which worked on a roller fixed on the parapet of the tower.  There was a winch for the pulling in of the slack; the outgoing line being controlled by a racket.  There was invariably one man at least, day and night, on the tower to attend to it.  At such an elevation there was always a strong wind, and at times the kite rose to an enormous height, as well as travelling for great distances laterally.  In fact, the kite became, in a short time, one of the curiosities of Castra Regis and all around it.  Edgar began to attribute to it, in his own mind, almost human qualities.  It became to him a separate entity, with a mind and a soul of its own.  Being idle-handed all day, he began to apply to what he considered the service of the kite some of his spare time, and found a new pleasure—a new object in life—in the old schoolboy game of sending up “runners” to the kite.  The way this is done is to get round pieces of paper so cut that there is a hole in the centre, through which the string of the kite passes.  The natural action of the wind-pressure takes the paper along the string, and so up to the kite itself, no matter how high or how far it may have gone.

In the early days of this amusement Edgar Caswall spent hours.  Hundreds of such messengers flew along the string, until soon he bethought him of writing messages on these papers so that he could make known his ideas to the kite.  It may be that his brain gave way under the opportunities given by his illusion of the entity of the toy and its power of separate thought.  From sending messages he came to making direct speech to the kite—without, however, ceasing to send the runners.  Doubtless, the height of the tower, seated as it was on the hill-top, the rushing of the ceaseless wind, the hypnotic effect of the lofty altitude of the speck in the sky at which he gazed, and the rushing of the paper messengers up the string till sight of them was lost in distance, all helped to further affect his brain, undoubtedly giving way under the strain of beliefs and circumstances which were at once stimulating to the imagination, occupative of his mind, and absorbing.

The next step of intellectual decline was to bring to bear on the main idea of the conscious identity of the kite all sorts of subjects which had imaginative force or tendency of their own.  He had, in Castra Regis, a large collection of curious and interesting things formed in the past by his forebears, of similar tastes to his own.  There were all sorts of strange anthropological specimens, both old and new, which had been collected through various travels in strange places: ancient Egyptian relics from tombs and mummies; curios from Australia, New Zealand, and the South Seas; idols and images—from Tartar ikons to ancient Egyptian, Persian, and Indian objects of worship; objects of death and torture of American Indians; and, above all, a vast collection of lethal weapons of every kind and from every place—Chinese “high pinders,” double knives, Afghan double-edged scimitars made to cut a body in two, heavy knives from all the Eastern countries, ghost daggers from Thibet, the terrible kukri of the Ghourka and other hill tribes of India, assassins’ weapons from Italy and Spain, even the knife which was formerly carried by the slave-drivers of the Mississippi region.  Death and pain of every kind were fully represented in that gruesome collection.

That it had a fascination for Oolanga goes without saying.  He was never tired of visiting the museum in the tower, and spent endless hours in inspecting the exhibits, till he was thoroughly familiar with every detail of all of them.  He asked permission to clean and polish and sharpen them—a favour which was readily granted.  In addition to the above objects, there were many things of a kind to awaken human fear.  Stuffed serpents of the most objectionable and horrid kind; giant insects from the tropics, fearsome in every detail; fishes and crustaceans covered with weird spikes; dried octopuses of great size.  Other things, too, there were, not less deadly though seemingly innocuous—dried fungi, traps intended for birds, beasts, fishes, reptiles, and insects; machines which could produce pain of any kind and degree, and the only mercy of which was the power of producing speedy death.

Caswall, who had never before seen any of these things, except those which he had collected himself, found a constant amusement and interest in them.  He studied them, their uses, their mechanism—where there was such—and their places of origin, until he had an ample and real knowledge of all concerning them.  Many were secret and intricate, but he never rested till he found out all the secrets.  When once he had become interested in strange objects, and the way to use them, he began to explore various likely places for similar finds.  He began to inquire of his household where strange lumber was kept.  Several of the men spoke of old Simon Chester as one who knew everything in and about the house.  Accordingly, he sent for the old man, who came at once.  He was very old, nearly ninety years of age, and very infirm.  He had been born in the Castle, and had served its succession of masters—present or absent—ever since.  When Edgar began to question him on the subject regarding which he had sent for him, old Simon exhibited much perturbation.  In fact, he became so frightened that his master, fully believing that he was concealing something, ordered him to tell at once what remained unseen, and where it was hidden away.  Face to face with discovery of his secret, the old man, in a pitiable state of concern, spoke out even more fully than Mr. Caswall had expected.

“Indeed, indeed, sir, everything is here in the tower that has ever been put away in my time except—except—” here he began to shake and tremble it—“except the chest which Mr. Edgar—he who was Mr. Edgar when I first took service—brought back from France, after he had been with Dr. Mesmer.  The trunk has been kept in my room for safety; but I shall send it down here now.”

“What is in it?” asked Edgar sharply.

“That I do not know.  Moreover, it is a peculiar trunk, without any visible means of opening.”

“Is there no lock?”

“I suppose so, sir; but I do not know.  There is no keyhole.”

“Send it here; and then come to me yourself.”

The trunk, a heavy one with steel bands round it, but no lock or keyhole, was carried in by two men.  Shortly afterwards old Simon attended his master.  When he came into the room, Mr. Caswall himself went and closed the door; then he asked:

“How do you open it?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“Do you mean to say that you never opened it?”

“Most certainly I say so, your honour.  How could I?  It was entrusted to me with the other things by my master.  To open it would have been a breach of trust.”

Caswall sneered.

“Quite remarkable!  Leave it with me.  Close the door behind you.  Stay—did no one ever tell you about it—say anything regarding it—make any remark?”

Old Simon turned pale, and put his trembling hands together.

“Oh, sir, I entreat you not to touch it.  That trunk probably contains secrets which Dr. Mesmer told my master.  Told them to his ruin!”

“How do you mean?  What ruin?”

“Sir, he it was who, men said, sold his soul to the Evil One; I had thought that that time and the evil of it had all passed away.”

“That will do.  Go away; but remain in your own room, or within call.  I may want you.”

The old man bowed deeply and went out trembling, but without speaking a word. wM+pu8OAkV3kPm8KgEMPVWzFIvJu9YYDcSq31DHpR7iMJWSkx7e4WO4xLO8dL+kZ