A Vintage From Atlantis Read Online Free PDF

brownish-yellow eyes were bright and clear as a mellowed wine.
    “Poor little one,” she said. “I fear that your dreadful experiences have served to unsettle you. It was fortunate that I came along when I did, and decided to intervene. I seldom interfere with the Druids and their sacrifices; but I saw you sitting on their altar a little while agone, and was struck by your youth and comeliness.”
    Ambrose felt more and more that he had been made the victim of a most peculiar sorcery; but, even yet, he was far from suspecting the true magnitude of this sorcery. Amid his bemusement and consternation, however, he realized that he owed his life to the singular and lovely woman beside him, and began to stammer out his gratitude.
    “You need not thank me,” said the lady, with a dulcet smile. “I am Moriamis, the enchantress, and the Druids fear my magic, which is more sovereign and more excellent than theirs, though I use it only for the welfare of men and not for their bale or bane.”
    The monk was dismayed to learn that his fair rescuer was a sorceress, even though her powers were professedly benignant. The knowledge added to his alarm; but he felt that it would be politic to conceal his emotions in this regard.
    “Indeed, I am grateful to you,” he protested. “And now, if you can tell me the way to the Inn of Bonne Jouissance, which I left not long ago, I shall owe you a further debt.”
    Moriamis knitted her light brows. “I have never heard of the Inn of Bonne Jouissance. There is no such place in this region.”
    “But this is the forest of Averoigne, is it not?” inquired the puzzled Ambrose. “And surely we are not far from the road that runs between the town of Ximes and the city of Vyônes?”
    “I have never heard of Ximes, or Vyônes, either,” said Moriamis. “Truly, the land is known as Averoigne, and this forest is the great wood of Averoigne, which men have called by that name from primeval years. But there are no towns such as the ones whereof you speak. Brother Ambrose, I fear that you still wander a little in your mind.”
    Ambrose was aware of a maddening perplexity. “I have been most damnably beguiled,” he said, half to himself. “It is all the doing of that abominable sorcerer, Azédarac, I am sure.”
    The woman started as if she had been stung by a wild bee. There was something both eager and severe in the searching gaze that she turned upon Ambrose.
    “Azédarac?” she queried. “What do you know of Azédarac? I was once acquainted with someone by that name; and I wonder if it could be the same person. Is he tall and a little grey, with hot, dark eyes, and a proud, half-angry air, and a crescent scar on the brow?”
    Greatly mystified, and more troubled than ever, Ambrose admitted the veracity of her description. Realizing that in some unknown way he had stumbled upon the hidden antecedents of the sorcerer, he confided the story of his adventures to Moriamis, hoping that she would reciprocate with further information concerning Azédarac.
    The woman listened with the air of one who is much interested but not at all surprised.
    “I understand now,” she observed, when he had finished. “Anon I shall explain everything that mystifies and troubles you. I think I know this Jehan Mauvaissoir, also; he has long been the man-servant of Azédarac, though his name was Melchire in other days. These two have always been the underlings of evil, and have served the Old Ones in ways forgotten or never known by the Druids.”
    “Indeed, I hope you can explain what has happened,” said Ambrose. “It is a fearsome and strange and ungodly thing, to drink a draught of wine in a tavern at eventide, and then find one’s self in the heart of the forest by afternoon daylight, among demons such as those from whom you succored me.”
    “Yea,” countered Moriamis, “it is even stranger than you dream. Tell me, Brother Ambrose, what was the year in which you entered the Inn of Bonne