iKi. 
 
15 
 
REVEALED from the UNKNOWN 
 
 . . . OR . . . 
 
 the METEORIC LAOCOON 
 
 BY 
 
 Ezra Cornell Monroe 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "Charge of Murat at Eylau" 
 
 "The Vaudois of the Vaal, or, 
 How Cronje Stood at Bay" 
 
 "The Race in the Pantry, or, 
 How Butterine Won" 
 
 "The Heroic Goat," Etc. 
 
 Copyright, 1904, by Ezra Cornell Monroe. 
 
^ 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 AUG 1 1904 
 ^ Cooyrterrt Entry 
 KAmju Xgl ino\i- 
 tJLASS (V XXo. No. 
 
 Of v a. <r 3 
 
 ' COPY B 
 
 

 EZRA CORNELL MONROE. 
 
REVEALED FROM THE UNKNOWN 
 
 ...OR... 
 
 THE METEORIC LAOCOON. 
 
 BY EZRA CORNELL MONROE. 
 
 Copyrig-ht, 1904, by Ezra Cornell Monroe. 
 
 I am old now, yes, quite old. The stone that marks three score 
 and ten, on life's eventful road, seems dim, so distant is it in the 
 past ; and the greatest mystery of all that is most mysterious, I 
 soon shall solve. Yet I feel no lingering dread, for I have an 
 abiding faith, that some might call belief, that but a temporal 
 sway is wielded by that monarch of all terrors, Death. 
 
 It was not always thus with me, and so I pen this tale. It is 
 not a fable, but the one great lesson of my otherwise most uneventful 
 life.. I believe that every life contains a story that should be 
 given to the world. And so I prepare for my task of love and 
 duty, love of truth, for it is immortal, and duty to my fellow 
 man, while yet the fire light is brightly shedding" its fitful gleam 
 on a silhouette, a pyrographic panel, and on a" meteoric group ; 
 all gathered beneath the menace of an ancient and rusted axe. 
 These relics have grown aged in my keeping, and at my death I 
 wish them buried at my side above two green and lowly mounds, 
 that mark without the aid of chiseled stone, the burial of the dead. 
 
 It was my first evening at the "Ridge". It was so called on 
 account of the many hills that gradually and often most precipit- 
 ously receded to the level of the distant plain, where lay a peace- 
 ful little village. 
 
 A roomy and spacious old mansion, was the "Ridge House" ; 
 and romantic, indeed, with its surroundings of rustic and uncul- 
 tivated lawns and hedges, Within, it was antique in every par- 
 
ticuiar. I was as yet scarcely thirty, but strong and robust and 
 possessed of a freedom of thought, that laughed at superstition 
 and rejected creeds. Many a weird and ghostly tale concerning 
 the old grange the people of the neighboring village had poured 
 into my ear since I had assumed my legal right, that of being 
 sole heir of "Ridge Wood". "Ridge Wood Mystery", the village 
 people now termed it, since the sudden and most unaccountable 
 disappearance of its former occupant and owner, my aunt and her 
 constant adviser and evil-faced partner in guilt, Sir Julius 
 Craven. He was irreverently, but not without cause, spoken of 
 by the neighboring vilagers, as "Jezabel's Craven". 
 
 Miss Jezabel Sternhold was my father's sister and had been 
 my only living relative. She had always lived a maiden lady, and 
 bore our family name. It was but a few months previous, that 
 both she and her adviser, Sir Julius Craven, had so suddenly and 
 mysteriously disappeared. That incident dated, as near as could 
 be ascertained, from the line storm of that year, a temptest of 
 peculiar and never to be forgotten violence. To say the least, 
 I was as much puzzled and perplexed as anyone, while in my 
 heart, there dwelt a nameless unspoken dread of that incident, 
 which as yet had defiel all solution. Many detectives from the 
 great cities had abandoned the case without even the slightest 
 clue, supposition, or even tenable theory. 
 
 The former two occupants, Sir Julius Craven and Miss Jezabel 
 Sternhold, and her supposed wealth, had disappeared as suddenly 
 and effectually, as though the earth had opened and swallowed them 
 up, or as if, like the elements at war, they had been spirited away 
 amidst that storm, like fabled witches of old. My aunt, Miss Jezabel, 
 was but little past middle life, and was said to have been as attractive 
 in face and form, as she had been repellant in manner, ungracious 
 in word, and regardless in deed. By extortion, had she become 
 reputedly rich ; money had been her God, and she had worshiped 
 it, almost with the homage of idolatry. Her silhouette, fair as dark ; 
 hung in her gloomy chamber, and on its features I would often gaze 
 in admiration. I had never seen my aunt, but I had often heard 
 my father bitterly reproach her name, she having ruined him, and 
 so caused my mother's death. I cannot recollect her, but my father, 
 I well remember. He was proud of spirit and ambitious by nature. 
 Grieving, he soon followed her to that land where I believe the just 
 are rewarded, "The wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are 
 at rest". I was thus left an orphaned and penniless child, but not 
 without kind and loving friends who cared for me, until my age en- 
 abled me to provide for myself. 
 
Years had rolled by, and now after months of diligent and un- 
 ceasing search, I had been found, had established my identity, and 
 taken possession of my aunt's estate, as her only living heir. Months 
 had passed since my arrival at the ridge. It was now the anniver- 
 sary of that awful storm, which had swept that section of the country 
 the previous Spring. My day's work was done, and I was comforta- 
 bly seated in the room, that had formerly been my aunt's chamber, 
 but which I had now converted into a library or smoking room. My 
 aunt's silhouette yet hung in its accustomed place upon the wall. All 
 else had been removed. It possessed for me a strange fascination. 
 Its calm and classic features turned towards the open window 
 through which the rays of the setting sun now shown with ebbing 
 splendor, inspired me ever with its grace and beauty. Round it a 
 purple vapor seemed to cling in space, and siren music to fill the 
 fragrant air. 
 
 I gazed from its soft and most beautiful outlines, dreamily through 
 the opened window that led to the veranda and thence across the 
 shrub-dotted, velvety lawn to the trunk of an enormous oak that, 
 buried almost to its shattered top, still stood in stern defiance of ele- 
 ments and time, emerging from its grave, like the soul of a mighty 
 monarch. It had at no distant date surmounted a bank some thirty 
 feet above, but the work of wind and rain had undermined it, and a 
 thunderbolt had no doubt precipitated it to its present condition, its 
 mighty roots like the arms of an enormous octopus dragging down 
 tons of earth upon its fall. It was evidently hollow at its base, for 
 where its top and limbs had broken off, there showed unmistakable 
 signs of a large and spacious cavity beneath. Its former appearance 
 must have been grand, stately and imposing indeed, as it surmounted 
 the once perpendicular bank many feet above. Its shelter had been 
 easily reached, however, by a path that then ran from the veranda. 
 
 Something of the detective is in us all, and necessity and circum- 
 stance alike develope it. I fancied my aunt had often visited its 
 grateful shade, and wondered if her thoughts had ever romanced 
 beneath its shady boughs. Perhaps, Julius Craven had sought her 
 there and wooed in vain. There seemed to be a strange affinity ex- 
 isting between this monarch falling to decay and the haughty pride, 
 the blossomed prime, depicted by the shadowed likeness on the wall. 
 
 A sudden gust of wind aroused me from my meditation. A storm 
 was rapidly gathering in the west. I glanced back from the window, 
 to the silhouette. It swung fanned by the rising breeze. It faced 
 the open window and the buried oak. As the lightning flashed from 
 cloud to cloud, I fancied its expression changed as though endowed 
 with life. A strange, unspeakable dread suddenly assailed me. The 
 
storm was now upon us. I hastened to close and make fast the win- 
 dow. The wind shrieked and wailed like a lost soul; the rain fell 
 in large plashing drops ; the thunder muttered omineously, and the 
 distant forest sighed and moaned. An appalling darkness suddenly 
 fell, for an inky cloud hung threateningly above the lawn. A sud- 
 den, mighty blast of wind and rain forced open and drove back the 
 window doors within my very grasp. The gust rattled and shook 
 the silhouette against the wall. The picture gave three distinct taps, 
 as it swung vibrating upon its cord and settled to repose. The storm 
 cloud glimmered as if in answer. I shall never forget that moment. 
 
 Suddenly, a blaze of light, illumined the storm cloud's awful 
 gloom. Then a sheet of flame like a human arm and hand, long, 
 bony and sinewy, darted from the bosom of its stygian darkness. 
 The lurid gleaming hand, unfolded from itself a spectral axe, with 
 its fiery blade raised as in covetous wrath. I heard the distant 
 shriek of a woman's voice. Then the flashing blade of the phantom 
 axe, parted from its shimmering helve and downward it smote the 
 buried oak. I heard the lightning's sharp, distinct click, it was fol- 
 lowed immediately by a deafening crash, then everything grew black 
 and I realized no more. 
 
 When I recovered consciousness, the storm had passed ; and count- 
 less stars shone in upon me with their cold and trembling light. I 
 slowly raised myself and looked around. As I did so, something that 
 had been lying upon my prostrated form clattered to the floor. I 
 reached forth my hand and touched the thing ; it was the silhouette ; 
 its cord had broken. I was cold and damp, an overpowering dread 
 suddenly took possession of me. With a hoarse cry, I hastily with- 
 drew my hand, and staggered to my feet. In an instant I remem- 
 bered all. Cold drops of rain and sweat stood upon my trembling 
 frame. In a paroxysm of weakness, I yielded to a sudden terror and 
 fled from that seemingly accursed spot and sought my chamber. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens, when it awoke me from my fit- 
 ful slumbers. My first thoughts were on the incidents of the pre- 
 vious night. Immediately an intense desire possessed me to view 
 the spot and the possible effect, that such an unearthly scene as I had 
 there witnessed might now reveal. As soon as possible, for I was 
 still quite stiff and cramped from my exposure of the night before, 
 I hastened to the lawn. There unscathed as it seemed, stood the 
 massive protruding trunk of buried oak, defiant and grim, and as 
 firmly imbedded in the soil as ever. 
 
 I could scarcely believe my eyes. I looked again to make sure that 
 I saw aright. As I did so, I stepped to the side directly facing re- 
 position at the open window the previous night. Then I beheld that 
 
which caused my heart seemingly to stand still, and a cold, creeping, 
 icy sensation to possess my being. My eyes, however, remained im- 
 movably fixed. For there, burned as if by pyrography on the bark- 
 less surface of the oak, I saw a long, bony, slender, sinewy arm and 
 hand. Its index finger, sternly pointing in rigid directness down its 
 slanting trunk, as if in guidance, and impatient at delav. From 
 shoulder to tip of finger, it was some three feet in length, and the 
 color of a manikin. Could ever anything more weird, unearthly, or 
 uncanny be conceived ? I gazed as in a dream. At last my powers 
 of volition returned, and I advanced, the better to examine this most 
 startling, phenomenal imprint. The lightning's stroke had centered 
 the almost perpendicular upturned trunk, and thence down through 
 its hollow depths had made its way, leaving but that one, gaunt and 
 ominous token of its external contact. 
 
 I had often thought of having the buried oak, with its mass of 
 earth and mould and clinging vine, removed. For many storms of 
 late had seemed to have centered above its bed and menaced all sur- 
 rounding objects. It was, however, not unsightly, and as the under- 
 taking was no small one, the labor had been deferred. I imme- 
 diately, however, set to work, and had this fire-stricken hand and 
 arm removed in my presence and with the greatest care. I also gave 
 orders, as soon as more urgent duties permitted, to clear away the 
 debris to the bottom of the tree, and remove that also. Then, with 
 my ghastly curiosity preserved in the form of a long and narrow 
 panel, I returned to the house. I went straight to my aunt's chamber, 
 remembering that as yet the window, which the night before I had 
 left open, had not been closed. I entered, closed the window, and 
 then, noticing the silhouette that was lying face downward on the 
 Moor, I stooped, restored the broken cord and replaced it as before 
 upon the wall. In so doing, I noticed a peculiar glint that on close 
 inspection, proved to emanate from a crack within the glass at its 
 upper right hand corner. It had not been there previous to the night 
 before, I was certain. 
 
 As I turned the picture, in order more fully to examine the ex- 
 tent of this injury, an involuntary cry escaped me. At a certain 
 angle, the light revealed in the glass an enormous flaw, an almost 
 exact reproduction of the scene I had witnessed the previous night. 
 There was the illumined cloud, with the lightning's long, sinewy 
 arm and hand unfolding to the uplifted axe. Its blade was raised 
 as in wrathful and covetous might, and poised for quick descent ; 
 not, however, above the buried oak, but at the back and directly over 
 the silhouette's head. In all else, it was a most startling reproduc- 
 tion. The hand and arm also bore a marked resemblance to the one 
 
upon the oak panel. I examined the picture again, and again ; only 
 at a certain angle did this wonderful light effect from the otherwise 
 almost imperceptible crack become visible. 
 
 I turned from the picture with its Sphinx-like riddle. What did 
 it mean ? I was haunted by strangs misgivings, and vague fantasies. 
 Try as I might, a grave apprehension, as of some approaching 
 danger, oppressed me, and I could not shake it off. An indescribable 
 feeling possessed me that I alone was chosen as the confident of un- 
 seen agents who mightily strove, deprived of speech, to impel me 
 then and there to perform some sacred duty, that was yet undone. 
 
 Days grew into weeks, the weeks into months ; and again the an- 
 niversary of "Ridge Wood Mystery" and the birth of the pyro- 
 graphic hand found me seated before that grewsome relic, and the 
 silhouette. The buried oak yet remained undisturbed in its appeal- 
 ing grandeur. Work had been most urgent in other directions, and 
 the labor of removing it and grading to the lofty bank above had 
 yet remained undone. It was now twilight and rapidly becoming 
 dark. Through the smoke of my cigar I listlessly watched through 
 the open window the steadily appearing stars as, one by one, they 
 took their places in the celestial vault. Then I gazed dreamily about 
 the room. Leaning against the corner of the wall under the sil- 
 houette, which hung motionless and placid as ever, rested the panel 
 with its pyrographic hand and arm. Circumstances had so inter- 
 twined it with this room, and its appointments, that the corner had 
 been its resting place, since its creation one year ago that night. I 
 had pointed it upwards, however, for in pointing downward it had 
 appeared too awfully suggestive in its tragically tense and bony di- 
 rectness. So pointing aloft toward the window doors, as though 
 in mute witness of its ethereal birth, it had, since that time, reclined 
 beneath the confirming beauty of the silhouette. I sat there hour 
 after hour, a prey to melancholy reflection. At length I fell asleep. 
 When I awoke the east was turning gray, but the stars had lost none 
 of their twinkling splendor. I was Chilled and benumbed, from my 
 long exposure to the night air, and my cramped position. In that 
 half conscious state, however, that always precedes the full awaken- 
 ing of one's faculties, I lingered. Not a breath of air was stirring. 
 
 Whether it was half a dream or not, I may never know ; but of a 
 sudden, the broken glass above the silhouette's head appeared to 
 gleam with a never before seen brightness, although enveloped in 
 deepest shadow. Once, twice, thrice, it flashed, as if in caressing 
 brightness ; then the face of the silhouette shone with a pale, pas- 
 sionate, phosphorescent glow. Once, twice, thrice, the picture tapped 
 the wall ; then it began to sway as though endeavoring to reach the 
 
it 
 
 pyrographic panel. My eyes involuntarily followed its direction. 
 Great God ! The panel with its long and ghastly arm and hand, were 
 responding to the summons. The hand and arm shone blood-red 
 in the uncertain light. Slowly, the panel swung on its lower corner 
 from out the wall, upheld by some unseen power. Noiselessly and 
 glideningly it gradually approached the open window, its hand 
 curved like the rampant head of a brazen serpent; and quivering, as 
 does the electric needle when it greets the pole. 
 
 I strove to wake. Was I not in the grasp of a horrid nightmare? 
 I essayed to call aloud, and break the magic spell; it was in vain. 
 I was incapable of movement. I could but think and see. I was as 
 one in a trance, save for my brain and eyes. My eyes followed the 
 every movement and direction of that hideous spectral hand, as 
 though governed by magnetic flow. Its long, bony index-finger now 
 pierced the open window. There it swung thrice, then it poised itself 
 and remained fixed upon a glittering star. Brighter and brighter 
 grew that star.. It appeared surrounded by a misty halo of light. 
 Now it seemed to breathe forth fire. Nearer, more radiant and daz- 
 zling, it became in its ethereal glory. It threw out snaky locks of 
 flame, like an aerial Medusa ; a veritable Chimera spouting forth 
 liquid fire. Now it filled the perspective with its unearthly splendor, 
 and its nucleus like an enormous radium eye, barred my window 
 with its lashes of flame. It glared upon me, this solar spectrum, and 
 it rolled in endless kaleidoscopic colors. 
 
 The heat was stifling. I gasped for breath. There was a roaring 
 as of a thousand furnaces, accompanied with a dazzling whiteness ; 
 then came a splintering, deafening crash, a lurid burst of bluish 
 light that swept away all shadows, and the meteor struck the buried 
 oak, and sank in blackness, sank where the ancient oak had disap- 
 peared forever. In its place the mouth of an enormous yawning 
 pit, belched forth a cloud of silvery smoke and ashes. They cov- 
 ered lawn and house, and filled my chamber to suffocation. Invol- 
 untarily I sprang to my feet ; the magic spell that had held me as in 
 a trance was broken. Clutching convulsively at my throat, I rushed 
 madly through the open window. I staggered across the veranda, 
 striking wildly at the air. It seemed peopled with countless grin- 
 ning faces that I would fain assail, but ever illusive they mockingly 
 escaped my frantic blows. Round and round, midst a revolving 
 cone of gleaming, fiery eyes, I now battled. Their swirl was ever 
 upwards. The ground was billowing beneath my stumbling form, 
 a yawning chasm whirled at my very feet. I paused, my eves grew 
 dim, I reeled, grasped wildly at the air, and with one last despairing 
 cry fell, prostrated on the lawn. 
 
12 
 
 The occupants, not only of my house, but of the adjoining farm 
 houses, were by this time thoroughly aroused and alarmed. They 
 came hastening to the scene. I was quickly restored to conscious- 
 ness, and with the assembled throng, soon found myself gazing down 
 into the pit that marked the meteor's course, and the site where once 
 had stood the buried oak. The smell of burnt wood pervaded every- 
 thing, and puffs of thin, white smoke yet rose from out its blackened 
 depth, and clung lazily above the heated ground. A voice from 
 amongst the crowd cried out, "Mr. Sternhold ! heaven has sent you 
 a fortune. That meteor is worth five dollars a pound, and the soft 
 dry ground and burning wood has without doubt prevented it from 
 bursting, by being cooled too quickly ; so it must be of enormous 
 size and value." "Let's dig it out !" came from a dozen voices almost 
 simultaneously. "If it weighs an ounce, it will weigh over half a' 
 ton !" spoke up the excited voice of the village coroner, who was a 
 man well posted in scientific facts. 
 
 Shovels were quickly brought, and under many eager hands, the 
 large mound rapidly began to disappear. Suddenly, with a cry of 
 horror, a workman dropped his shovel, and speechless stood point- 
 ing to what at first appeared to be a roll of cloth, clinging to a frag- 
 ment of splintered wood. We all gathered round. There, protrud- 
 ing from the ground, was a human arm grasping a rusty woodman's 
 axe. "Men (it was the coroner again who spoke), take away that 
 dirt most carefully." The body was found to be lying on its left side, 
 face downward. As the ground fell away, the body sank back, re- 
 vealing its full features, which were quite well preserved. A silence 
 fell upon us all. Then a dozen voices hoarsely whispered, "Julius 
 Craven !" Carefully the corpse was removed and laid upon the lawn. 
 Then the coroner's voice again broke the silence. "We must inves- 
 tigate still further, men ; I will assume direction ; continue with the 
 removal of that mound and use all care." 
 
 Scarcely a score more of shovelfulls had been cast aside, when 
 again a workman stopped and pointed tremblingly. As before a 
 mass of cloth was seen protruding from the ground. Carefully, even 
 tenderly, we removed the clinging marl. It was the body of a 
 woman, lying face downward ; her arms encircling, and her hands 
 convulsively clutching an iron bound box. 
 
 Reverently we removed her clinging grasp, the coroner noting as 
 before the minutest detail. Not one among us but knew too well the 
 identity of that corpse, long before its features were revealed ; and as 
 we gently bore her to the sheltering canvas that veiled the other 
 form, we were not shocked, for the features of Jezabel Sternhold, 
 though dark as a silhouette's, were yet fair to look upon. The chest 
 
i3 
 
 was partly open and: it contained the gold and jewels that had been 
 her fortune. Despite these most gruesome discoveries, and their 
 diversion from our former quest, we decided to resume our previous 
 task, and unearth our guiding star that fragment of chaotic worlds, 
 whose earth-bound course had proved a revelation from the vast 
 unknown. Nor had we far or long to seek. 
 
 Reposing in darkness, caused by its own volcanic heat, apart from 
 any clinging debris, the meteor rested in inert majesty, rested upon 
 a few charred roots, all that remained of the once mighty oak. As 
 the walls of its self-made cavern baked to a brick like clay crumbled 
 and fell in powder-like dust at its base, a dozed shovels dropped from 
 twice as many nerveless hands. And there, silent and motionless 
 as the dead, we stood in reverential pause. The climax had come, 
 •we were all thrilled, startled and yet hushed. Not a rough and sight- 
 less mass of chaotic matter, burst upon our eager vision, but an 
 enormous, intertwining, labyrinth of metallic iron shot its bright and 
 life-like substance into being. Slowly, its every detail burned in- 
 sidiously its way into our powers of understanding. 
 
 We gazed in reverential amazement, and silent awe, upon a group 
 of figures that would have honored the chisels of a Praxitiles, or an 
 Angelo. A human group so wild and rugged in its awful grandeur, 
 that it became more than life-like ; it was supernatural. There stood 
 a man clutching an axe, which was uplifted above a female form 
 that grasped an iron box. Both stood beneath a mighty oak, above 
 which a thunder bolt in bold relief was being hurled upon the up- 
 lifted axe. It was an elegy in moulded metal, this "Metoric 
 Laocoon". 
 
 All saw a mystery revealed as by a miracle. The woman had stolen 
 noiselessly from her chamber, crossed the veranda, and ascended 
 the bank by means of the old time path. Stealthly a masculine form 
 glides in pursuit, as pitiless as the storm. It keeps in the deepest 
 shadows, from whence the covetous gleam of a woodman's axe, 
 flashes without bidding. The woman darts beneath the branches, 
 and approaches the trunk of the hollow oak. A storm cloud hangs 
 threateningly over all. The woman stoops, and takes from a con- 
 cealed cavity in the oak's trunk a treasure box. The man rushes 
 forward and swings aloft his glittering axe. The woman raises her 
 face, and gives that wild shriek which I had heard that never to be 
 forgotten night, before the lightning burned its pyrographic arm. 
 The woman's cry is an appeal for aid, and it is recorded ; the spirit 
 of the storm cloud harkens to her wail. As the bright and murder- 
 ous steel pauses for its descent, as though in defiant invitation, the 
 avenging thunderbolt is launched as upon an Ajax. It strikes the 
 
14 
 
 descending blade, and invests with its deathly current both axe and 
 man, treasure and victim. The would-be murderer and his sup- 
 plicant are each a corpse. They had been inseparable through life, 
 both in vice and crime ; they met one and the same death ; and were 
 destined for a common burial. For beneath the awful impact of that 
 bolt, the old oak totters on its crumbling bank ; the bank gives way, 
 and with a roar, that was only drowned by the awful rending of that 
 reverberating shock, the scene sank and was buried beneath an aval- 
 anch of soil. 
 
 Not a clue, not a trace, remained of that awful tragedy, that God 
 alone had witnessed. The rain descended and made firm the earth, 
 and removed all marks of recent burial. When search was made, 
 the appearance of the scene was as though it had been thus for years. 
 
 I have told you the story of my life's conversion, the unraveling 
 of "Ridge Wood Mystery" by the "Meteoric Laocoon". No more 
 of interest remains for me to tell ; I have finished my task, and it is 
 well. My chamber is enveloped in gloom, for the embers on its 
 hearth stone are fast becoming cold. The meteor's form is hardly 
 discernible in its corner ; the silhouette has faded on its wall, and 
 the pyrographic hand and arm are scarcely visible beneath the wood- 
 man's axe. Each has fulfilled its earthly mission between the two 
 eternities, and their forms to me seem sacred. Ever will they remain 
 my conpanions ; our work is done ; we rest from our labors. 
 
 The End. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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