‘I see,’ said I, and I believe I shivered a bit.
‘When they came there the torch would suddenly show the change, so suddenly that the other would start and be for an instant alarmed, and turn his head round to the lord to ask what it meant.’
Phroso paused in her recital of the savage, simple, sufficient old trick.
‘Yes?’ said I. ‘And at that moment—’
‘The lord’s hand on his shoulder,’ she answered, ‘which had rested lightly before, would grow heavy as lead and with a great sudden impulse the other would be hurled forward, and the lord would be alone again with the secret, and alone the holder of power in Neopalia.’
This was certainly a pretty secret of empire, and none the less although the empire it protected was but nine miles long and five broad. I took the lantern from Phroso’s hand, saying, ‘Let’s have a look.’
I stepped a pace or two forward, prodding the ground with Hogvardt’s lance before I moved my feet: and thus I came to the spot where theStefanopoulos used with a sudden great impulse to propel his enemy down. For here the rocks, which hitherto had narrowly edged and confined the path, bayed out on either side. The path ran on, a flat rock track about a couple of feet wide, forming the top of an upstanding cliff; but on either side there was an interval of seven or eight feet between the path and the walls of rock, and the path was unfenced. Even had the Stefanopoulos held his hand and given no treacherous impulse, it would have needed a cool-headed man to walk that path by the dim glimmer of a torch. For, kneeling down and peering over the side, I saw before me, some seventy feet down as I judged, the dark gleam of water, and I heard the low moan of its wash. And Phroso said:
‘If the man escaped the sharp rocks he would fall into the water; and then, if he could not swim, he would sink at once; but if he could swim he would swim round, and round, and round, like a fish in a bowl, till he grew weary, unless he chanced to find the only opening; and if he found that and passed through, he would come to a rapid, where the water runs swiftly, and he would be dashed on the rocks. Only by a miracle could he escape death by one or other of these ways. So I was told when I was of age to know the secret. And it is certain that no man whofell into the water has escaped alive, although their bodies came out.’
‘Did Stefan’s body come out?’ I asked, peering at the dark water with a fascinated gaze.
‘No, because they tied weights to it before they threw it down, and so with the head. Stefan is there at the bottom. Perhaps another Stefanopoulos is there also; for his body was never found. He was caught by the man he threw down, and the two fell together.’
‘Well, I’m glad of it,’ said I with emphasis, as I rose to my feet. ‘I wish the same thing had always happened.’
‘Then,’ remarked Phroso with a smile, ‘I should not be here to tell you about it.’
‘Hum,’ said I. ‘At all events I wish it had generally happened. For a more villainous contrivance I never heard of in all my life. We English are not accustomed to this sort of thing.’
Phroso looked at me for a moment with a strange expression of eagerness, hesitation and fear. Then she suddenly put out her hand, and laid it on my arm.
‘I will not go back to my cousin who has wronged me, if—if I may stay with you,’ she said.
‘If you may stay!’ I exclaimed with a nervous laugh.
‘But will you protect me? Will you stand by me? Will you swear not to leave me here alone on the island? If you will, I will tell you another thing—a thing that would certainly bring me death if it were known I had told.’
‘Whether you tell me or whether you don’t,’ said I, ‘I’ll do what you ask.’
‘Then you are not the first Englishman who has been here. Seventy years ago there came an Englishman here, a daring man, a lover of our people, and a friend of the great Byron. Orestes Stefanopoulos, who ruled here then, loved him very much, and brought him here, and showed him the path and the water under it. And he, the Englishman, came next day with a rope, and fixed the rope at the top, and let himself down. Somehow, I do not know how, he came safe out to the sea, past the rocks and the rapids. But, alas, he boasted of it! Then, when the thing became known, all the family came to Orestes and asked him what he had done. And he said:
‘“Sup with me this night, and I will tell you.” For he saw that what he had done was known.
‘So they all supped together, and Orestes told them what he had done, and how he did it for love of the Englishman. They said nothing, but looked sad; for they loved Orestes. But he did not wait for them to kill him, as they were boundto do; but he took a great flagon of wine, and poured into it the contents of a small flask. And his kindred said: “Well done, Lord Orestes!” And they all rose to their feet, and drank to him. And he drained the flagon to their good fortune, and went and lay down on his bed, and turned his face to the wall and died.’
I paid less attention to this new episode in the family history of the Stefanopouloi than it perhaps deserved: my thoughts were with the Englishman, not with his too generous friend. Yet the thing was handsomely done—on both sides handsomely done.
‘If the Englishman got out!’ I cried, gazing at Phroso’s face.
‘Yes, I mean that,’ said she simply. ‘But it must be dangerous.’
‘It’s not exactly safe where we are,’ I said, smiling; ‘and Constantine will be guarding the proper path. By Jove, we’ll try it!’
‘But I must come with you; for if you go that way and escape, Constantine will kill me.’
‘You’ve just as good a right to kill Constantine.’
‘Still he will kill me. You’ll take me with you?’
‘To be sure I will,’ said I.
Now when a man pledges his word, he ought, to my thinking, to look straight and honestly in the eyes of the woman to whom he is promising.Yet I did not look into Phroso’s eyes, but stared awkwardly over her head at the walls of rock. Then, without any more words, we turned back and went towards the secret door. But I stopped at Spiro’s body, and said to Phroso:
‘Will you send Denny to me?’
She went, and when Denny came we took Spiro’s body and carried it to where the walls bayed, and we flung it down into the dark water below. And I told Denny of the Englishman who had come alive through the perils of the hidden chasm. He listened with eager attention, nodding his head at every point of the story.
WE TOOK SPIRO’S BODY AND FLUNG IT DOWN.
WE TOOK SPIRO’S BODY AND FLUNG IT DOWN.
‘There lies our road, Denny,’ said I, pointing with my finger. ‘We’ll go along it to-night.’
Denny looked down, shook his head and smiled.
‘And the girl?’ he asked suddenly.
‘She comes too,’ said I.
We walked back together, Denny being unusually silent and serious. I thought that even his audacious courage was a little dashed by the sight and the associations of that grim place, so I said:
‘Cheer up. If that other fellow got through the rocks, we can.’
‘Oh, hang the rocks!’ said Denny scornfully. ‘I wasn’t thinking of them.’
‘Then what are you so glum about?’
‘I was wondering,’ said Denny, freeing himselffrom my arm, ‘how Beatrice Hipgrave would get on with Euphrosyne.’
I looked at Denny. I tried to feel angry, or even, if I failed in that, to appear angry. But it was no use. Denny was imperturbable. I took his arm again.
‘Thanks, old man,’ said I. ‘I’ll remember.’
For when I considered the very emphatic assertions which I had made to Denny before we left England, I could not honestly deny that he was justified in his little reminder.
Somemodern thinkers, I believe—or perhaps, to be quite safe, I had better say some modern talkers—profess to estimate the value of life by reference to the number of distinct sensations which it enables them to experience. Judged by a similar standard, my island had been, up to the present time, a brilliant success; it was certainly fulfilling the function, which Mrs Kennett Hipgrave had appropriated to it, of whiling away the time that must elapse before my marriage with her daughter and providing occupation for my thoughts during this weary interval. The difficulty was that the island seemed disinclined to restrict itself to this modest sphere of usefulness; it threatened to monopolise me, and to leave very little of me or my friends, by the time that it had finished with us. For, although we maintained our cheerfulness, our position was not encouraging. Had matters been anything short of desperate above ground it would have been madness to plunge into thatwatery hole, whose egress was unknown to us, and to take such a step on the off-chance of finding at the other end the Cypriote fishermen, and of obtaining from them either an alliance, or, if that failed, the means of flight. Yet we none of us doubted that to take the plunge was the wiser course. I did not believe in the extreme peril of the passage, for, on further questioning, Phroso told us that the Englishman had come through, not only alive and well, but also dry. Therefore there was a path, and along a path that one man can go four men can go; and Phroso, again attired, at my suggestion, in her serviceable boy’s suit, was the equal of any of us. So we left considering whether, and fell to the more profitable work of asking how, to go. Hogvardt and Watkins went off at once to the point of departure, armed with a pick, a mallet, some stout pegs, and a long length of rope. All save the last were ready on the premises, and that last formed always part of Hogvardt’s own equipment; he wore it round his waist, and, I believe, slept in it, like a mediæval ascetic. Meanwhile Denny and I kept watch, and Phroso, who seemed out of humour, disappeared into her own room.
Our idea was to reach the other end of the journey somewhere about eight or nine o’clock in the evening. Phroso told us that this hour was the most favourable for finding the fishermen;they would then be taking a meal before launching their boats for the fishing-grounds. Three hours seemed ample time to allow for the journey, for the way could hardly, however rich it were in windings, be more than three or four miles long. We determined, therefore, to start at five. At four Hogvardt and Watkins returned from the underground passage; they had driven three stout pegs into excavations in the rocky path, and built them in securely with stones and earth. The rope was tied fast and firm round the pegs, and the moistness of its end showed the length to be sufficient. I wished to descend first, but I was at once overruled; Denny was to lead, Watkins was to follow; then came Hogvardt, then Phroso, and lastly myself. We arranged all this as we ate a good meal; then each man stowed away a portion of goat—the goat had died the death that morning—and tied a flask of wine about him. It was a quarter to five, and Denny rose to his feet, flinging away his cigarette.
‘That’s my last!’ said he, regretfully regarding his empty case.
His words sounded ominous, but the spirit of action was on us, and we would not be discouraged. I went to the hall door and fired a shot, and then did the like at the back. Havingthus spent two cartridges on advertising our presence to the pickets we made without delay for the passage. With my own hand I closed the door behind us. The secret of the Stefanopouloi would thus be hidden from profane eyes in the very likely event of the islanders finding their way into the house in the course of the next few hours.
I persuaded Phroso to sit down some little way from the chasm and wait till we were ready for her; we four went on. Denny was a delightful boy to deal with on such occasions. He wasted no time in preliminaries. He gave one hard pull at the rope; it stood the test; he cast a rapid eye over the wedges; they were strong and strongly imbedded in the rock. He laid hold of the rope.
‘Don’t come after me till I shout,’ said he, and he was over the side. The lantern showed me his descending figure, while Hogvardt and Watkins held the rope ready to haul him up in case of need. There was one moment of suspense; then his voice came, distant and cavernous.
‘All right! There’s a broad ledge—a foot and a half broad—twenty feet above the water, and I can see a glimmer of light that looks like the way out.’
‘This is almost disappointingly simple,’ said I.
‘Would your lordship desire me to go next?’ asked Watkins.
‘Yes, fire away, Watkins,’ said I, now in high good humour.
‘Stand from under, sir,’ called Watkins to Denny, and over he went.
A shout announced his safe arrival. I laid down the lantern and took hold of the rope.
‘I must hang on to you, Hog,’ said I. ‘You carry flesh, you see.’
Hogvardt was calm, smiling and leisurely.
‘When I’m down, my lord,’ he said, ‘I’ll stand ready to catch the young lady. Give me a call before you start her off.’
‘All right,’ I answered. ‘I’ll go and fetch her directly.’
Over went old Hogvardt. He groaned once; I suppose he grazed against the wall; but he descended with perfect safety. Denny called: ‘Now we’re ready for her, Charley. Lower away!’ And I, turning, began to walk back to where I had left Phroso.
My island—I can hardly resist personifying it in the image of some charming girl, full of tricks and surprises, yet all the while enchanting—had now behaved well for two hours. The limit of its endurance seemed to be reached. In another five minutes Phroso and I would have been safelydown the rope and the party re-united at the bottom, with a fair hope of carrying out prosperously at least the first part of the enterprise. But it was not to be. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and when I went back I left the lantern standing by the rope. Suddenly, when I was still a few yards from Phroso, I heard a curious noise, a sort of shuffling sound, rather like the noise made by a rug or carpet drawn along the floor. I stood still and listened, turning my my head round to the chasm. The noise continued for a minute. I took a step in the direction of it. Then I seemed to see a curious thing. The lantern appeared to get up, raise itself a foot or so in the air, keeping its light towards me, and throw itself over the chasm. At the same instant there was a rasp. Heavens, it was a knife on the rope! A cry came from far down in the chasm. I darted forward. I rushed to where the walls bayed and the chasm opened. The shuffling sound had begun again; and in the middle of the isolated path I saw a dark object. It must be the figure of a man, a man who had watched our proceedings, unobserved by us, and seized this chance of separating our party. For a moment—a fatal moment—I stood aghast, doing nothing. Then I drew my revolver and fired once—twice—thrice. The bullets whistled along the path, butthe dark figure was no longer to be seen there. But in an instant there came an answering shot from across the bridge of rock. Denny shouted wildly to me from below. I fired again; there was a groan, but two shots flashed at the very same moment. There were two men there, perhaps more. I stood again for a moment undecided; but I could do no good where I was. I turned and ran fairly and fast.
‘Come, come,’ I cried, when I had reached Phroso. ‘Come back, come back! They’ve cut the rope and they’ll be on us directly.’
In spite of her amazement she rose as I bade her. We heard feet running along the passage. They would be across the bridge now. Would they stop and fire down the chasm? No, they were coming on. We also went on; a touch of Phroso’s practised fingers opened the door for us; I turned, and in wrath gave the pursuers one more shot. Then I ran up the stairs and shut the door behind us. We were in the hall again—but Phroso and I alone.
A hurried story told her all that had happened. Her breath came quick and her cheek flushed.
‘The cowards!’ she said. ‘They dared not attack us when we were all together!’
‘They will attack us before very long now,’ said I, ‘and we can’t possibly hold the houseagainst them. Why, they may open that trap-door any moment.’
Phroso stepped quickly towards it, and, stooping for a instant, examined it. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they may. I can’t fasten it. You spoilt the fastening with your pick.’
Hearing this, I stepped close up to the door, reloading my revolver as I went, and I called out, ‘The first man who looks out is a dead man.’
No sound came from below. Either they were too hurt to attempt the attack, or, more probably, they preferred the safer and surer way of surrounding and overwhelming us by numbers from outside. Indeed we were at our last gasp now; I flung myself despondently into a chair; but I kept my finger on my weapon and my eye on the trap-door.
‘They cannot get back—our friends—and we cannot get to them,’ said Phroso.
‘No,’ said I. Her simple statement was terribly true.
‘And we cannot stay here!’ she pursued.
‘They’ll be at us in an hour or two at most, I’ll warrant. Those fellows will carry back the news that we are alone here.’
‘And if they come?’ she said, fixing her eyes on me.
‘They won’t hurt you, will they?’
‘I don’t know what Constantine would do; but I don’t think the people will let him hurt me, unless—’
‘Well, unless what?’
She hesitated, looked at me, looked away again. I believe that my eyes were now guilty of neglecting the trap-door which I ought to have watched.
‘Unless what?’ I said again. But Phroso grew red and did not answer.
‘Unless you’re so foolish as to try to protect me, you mean?’ I asked. ‘Unless you refuse to give them back what Constantine offers to win for them—the island?’
‘They will not let you have the island,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I dare not face them and tell them it is yours.’
‘Do you admit it’s mine?’ I asked eagerly.
A slow smile dawned on Phroso’s face, and she held out her hand to me. Ah, Denny, my conscience, why were you at the bottom of the chasm? I seized her hand and kissed it.
‘Between friends,’ she said softly, ‘there is no thine nor mine.’
Ah, Denny, where were you? I kissed her hand again—and dropped it like a red-hot coal.
‘But I can’t say that to my islanders,’ said Phroso, smiling.
Charming as it was, I wished she had not said it to me. I wished that she would not speak as she spoke, or look as she looked, or be what she was. I forgot all about the trap-door. The island was piling sensations on me.
At last I got up and went to the table. I found there a scrap of paper, on which Denny had drawn a fancy sketch of Constantine (to whom, by the way, he attributed hoofs and a tail). I turned the blank side uppermost, and took my pencil out of my pocket. I was determined to put the thing on a business-like footing; so I began: ‘Whereas’—which has a cold, legal, business-like sound:
‘Whereas,’ I wrote in English, ‘this island of Neopalia is mine, I hereby fully, freely, and absolutely give it to the Lady Euphrosyne, niece of Stefan Georgios Stefanopoulos, lately Lord of the said island—Wheatley.’ And I made a copy underneath in Greek, and, walking across to Phroso, handed the paper to her, remarking in a rather disagreeable tone, ‘There you are; that’ll put it all straight, I hope.’ And I sat down again, feeling out of humour. I did not like giving up my island, even to Phroso. Moreover I had the strongest doubt whether my surrender would be of the least use in saving my skin.
I do not know that I need relate what Phroso did when I gave her back her island. Thesesouthern races have picturesque but extravagant ways. I did not know where to look while she was thanking me, and it was as much as I could do not to call out, ‘Do stop!’ However presently she did stop, but not because I asked her. She was stayed by a sudden thought which had been in my mind all the while, but now flashed suddenly into hers.
‘But Constantine?’ she said. ‘You know his—his secrets. Won’t he still try to kill you?’
Of course he would if he valued his own neck. For I had sworn to see him hanged for one murder, and I knew that he meditated another.
‘Oh, don’t you bother about that!’ said I. ‘I expect I can manage Constantine.’
‘Do you think I’m going to desert you?’ she asked in superb indignation.
‘No, no; of course not,’ I protested, rather in a fright. ‘I shouldn’t think of accusing you of such a thing.’
‘You know that’s what you meant,’ said Phroso, a world of reproach in her voice.
‘My dear lady,’ said I, ‘getting you into trouble won’t get me out of it, and getting you out may get me out. Take that paper in your hand, and go back to your people. Say nothing about Constantine just now; play with him. You know what I’ve told you, and you won’t be deluded byhim. Don’t let him see that you know anything of the woman at the cottage. It won’t help you, it may hurt me, and it will certainly bring her into greater danger; for, if nothing has happened to her already, yet something may if his suspicions are aroused.’
‘I am to do all this. And what will you do, my lord?’
‘I say, don’t call me “my lord”; we say “Lord Wheatley.” What am I going to do? I’m going to make a run for it.’
‘But they’ll kill you!’
‘Then shall I stay here?’
‘Yes, stay here.’
‘But Constantine’s fellows will be here before long.’
‘You must give yourself up to them, and tell them to bring you to me. They couldn’t hurt you then.’
Well, I wasn’t sure of that, but I pretended to believe it. The truth is that I dared not tell Phroso what I had actually resolved to do. It was a risky job, but it was a chance; and it was more than a chance. It was very like an obligation that a man had no right to shrink from discharging. Here was I, planning to make Phroso comfortable; that was right enough. And here was I planning to keep my own skin whole; well,a man does no wrong in doing that. But what of that unlucky woman on the hill? I knew friend Constantine would take care that Phroso should not come within speaking distance of her. Was nobody to set her on her guard? Was I to leave her to her blind trust of the ruffian whom she was unfortunate enough to call husband, and of his tool Vlacho? Now I came to think of it, now that I was separated from my friends and had no lingering hope of being able to beat Constantine in fair fight, that seemed hardly the right thing, hardly a thing I should care to talk about or think about, if I did save my own precious skin. Would not Constantine teach his wife the secret of the Stefanopouloi? Urged by these reflections, I made up my mind to play a little trick on Phroso, and feigned to accept her suggestion that I should rely on her to save me. Evidently she had great confidence in her influence now that she held that piece of paper. I had less confidence in it, for it was clear that Constantine wielded immense power over these unruly islanders, and I thought it likely enough that they would demand from Phroso a promise to marry him as the price of obeying her; then, whether Constantine did or did not promise me my life, I felt sure that he would do his best to rob me of it.
Well, time pressed. I rose and unbolted thedoor of the house. Phroso sat still. I looked along the road. I saw nobody, but I heard the blast of the horn which had fallen on my ears once before and had proved the forerunner of an attack. Phroso also heard it, for she sat up, saying, ‘Hark, they are summoning all the men to the town! That means they are coming here.’
But it meant something else also to me; if the men were summoned to the town there would be fewer for me to elude in the wood.
‘Will they all go?’ I asked, as though in mere curiosity.
‘All who are not on some duty,’ she answered.
I had to hope for the best; but Phroso went on in distress:
‘It means that they are coming here—here, to take you.’
‘Then you must lose no time in going,’ said I, and I took her hand and gently raised her to her feet. She stood there for a moment, looking at me. I had let go her hand, but she took mine again now, and she said with a sudden vehemence, and a rush of rich deep red on her cheeks:
‘If they kill you, they shall kill me too.’
The words gushed impetuously from her, but at the end there was a choke in her throat.
‘No, no, nonsense,’ said I. ‘You’ve got the island now. You mustn’t talk like that.’
‘I don’t care—’ she began; and stopped short.
‘Besides, I shall pull through,’ said I.
She dropped my hand, but she kept her eyes on mine.
‘And if you get away?’ she asked. ‘What will you do? If you get to Rhodes, what will you do?’
‘All I shall do is to lay an information against your cousin and the innkeeper. The rest are ignorant fellows, and I bear them no malice. Besides, they are your men now.’
‘And when you’ve done that?’ she asked gravely.
‘Well, that’ll be all there is to do,’ said I, with an attempt at playful gaiety. It was not a very happy attempt.
‘Then you’ll go home to your own people?’
‘I shall go home; I’ve got no people in particular.’
‘Shall you ever come to Neopalia again?’
‘I don’t know. Yes, if you invite me.’
She regarded me intently for a full minute. She seemed to have forgotten the blast of the horn that summoned the islanders. I also had forgotten it; I saw nothing but the perfect oval face, crowned with clustering hair and framingdeep liquid eyes. Then she drew a ring from her finger.
‘You have fought for me,’ she said. ‘You have risked your life for me. Will you take this ring from me? Once I tried to stab you. Do you remember, my lord?’
I bowed my head, and Phroso set the ring on my finger.
‘Wear it till a woman you love gives you one to wear instead,’ said Phroso with a little smile. ‘Then go to the edge of your island—you are an islander too, are you not? so we are brethren—go to the edge of your island and throw it into the sea; and perhaps, my dear friend, the sea will bring it back, a message from you to me. For I think you will never again come to Neopalia.’
I made no answer: we walked together to the door of the house, and paused again for a moment on the threshold.
‘See the blue sea!’ said Phroso. ‘Is it not—is not your island—a beautiful island? If God brings you safe to your own land, my lord, as I will pray Him to do on my knees, think kindly of your island, and of one who dwells there.’
The blast of the horn had died away. The setting sun was turning blue to gold on the quiet water. The evening was very still, as we stoodlooking from the threshold of the door, under the portal of the house that had seen such strange wild doings, and had so swiftly made for itself a place for ever in my life and memory.
I glanced at Phroso’s face. Her eyes were set on the sea, her cheeks had turned pale again, and her lip was quivering. Suddenly came a loud sharp note on the horn.
‘It is the signal for the start,’ said she. ‘I must go, or they will be here in heat and anger, and I shall not be able to stop them. And they will kill my lord. No, I will say “my lord.”’
She moved to leave me. I had answered nothing to all she had said. What was there that an honourable man could say? Was there one thing? I told myself (too eager to tell myself) that I had no right to presume to say that. And anything else I would not say.
‘God bless you,’ I said, as she moved away; I caught her hand and again lightly kissed it. ‘My homage to the Lady of the Island,’ I whispered.
Her hand dwelt in mine a moment, briefer than our divisions of time can reckon, fuller than is often the longest of them. Then, with one last look, questioning, appealing, excusing, protesting, confessing, ay, and (for my sins) hoping, she left me, and stepped along the rocky road in the grace and glory of her youthful beauty. I stood watchingher, forgetting the woman at the cottage, forgetting my own danger, forgetting even the peril she ran whom I watched, forgetting everything save the old that bound me and the new that called me. So I stood till she vanished from my sight; and still I stood, for she was there, though the road hid her. And I was roused at last only by a great cry of surprise, of fierce joy and triumph, that rent the still air of the evening, and echoed back in rumblings from the hill. The Neopalians were greeting their rescued Lady.
Then I turned, snatched up Hogvardt’s lance again, and fled through the house to do my errand. For I would save that woman, if I could; and my own life was not mine to lose any more than it was mine to give to whom I would. And I recollect that, as I ran through the kitchen and across the compound, making for the steps in the bank of rocks, I said, ‘God forgive me!’
A man’smind can move on more than one line; even the most engrossing selfish care may fail entirely to occupy it or to shut out intruding rivals. Not only should I have been wise, but I should have chosen, in that risky walk of mine through the wood that covered the hill-slope, to think of nothing but its risk. Yet countless other things exacted a share of my thoughts and figured amongst my brain’s images. Sometimes I was with Denny and his faithful followers, threading dark and devious ways in the bowels of the earth, avoiding deep waters on the one side, sheer falls on the other, losing the track, finding it again, deluded by deceptive glimmers of light, finding at last the true outlet; now received hospitably by the Cypriote fishermen, now fiercely assailed by them, again finding none of them; now making allies of them, now carried prisoners by them to Constantine, again scouring the sea with vain eagerness for a sightof their sails. Then I was off, far away, to England, to my friends there, to the gaiety of London now in its full rushing tide, to Mrs Hipgrave’s exclusive receptions, to Beatrice’s gay talk and pretty insolence, to Hamlyn’s gilded dulness, in rapid survey of all the panorama that I knew so well. Then I would turn back to the scene I had left, and again bid my farewell under the quiet sky, in prospect of the sea that turned to gold. So I passed back and forward till I seemed myself hardly a thinking man, but rather a piece of blank glass, across which the myriad mites of the kaleidoscope chased one another, covering it with varying colours, but none of them imparting their hue to it. Yet all this time, by the strange division of mental activity of which I have spoken, I was crawling cautiously but quickly up the mountain side, with eyes keen to pierce the dusk that now fell, with ears apt to find an enemy in every rustling leaf and a hostile step in every woodland sound. Of real foes I had as yet seen none. Ah! Hush! I dropped on my knees. Away there on the right—what was it leaning against that tree-trunk? It was a tall lean man; his arms rested on a long gun, and his face was towards the old grey house. Would he see me? I crouched lower. Would he hear me? I was as still as dead Spiro had lain in the passage. But then I felt stealthilyfor the butt of my revolver, and a recollection so startling came to me that I nearly betrayed myself by some sudden movement. In the distribution of burdens for our proposed journey, Denny had taken the case containing the spare cartridges which remained after we had all reloaded. Now I had one barrel only loaded, one shot only left. That one shot and Hogvardt’s lance were all my resources. I crouched yet lower. But the man was motionless, and presently I ventured to move on my hands and knees, sorely inconvenienced by the long lance, but determined not to leave it behind me. I passed another sentry a hundred yards or so away on the left; his head was sunk on his breast and he took no notice of me. I breathed a little more freely as I came within fifty feet of the cottage.
Immediately about the house nobody was in sight. This however, in Neopalia, did not always mean that nobody was near, and I abated none of my caution. But the last step had to be taken; I crawled out from the shelter of the trees, and crouched on one knee on the level space in front of the cottage. The cottage door was open. I listened but heard nothing. Well, I meant to go in; my entrance would be none the easier for waiting. A quick dart was safest; in a couple of bounds I was across, in the verandah, through theentrance, in the house. I closed the door noiselessly behind me, and stood there, Hogvardt’s lance ready for the first man I saw; but I saw none. I was in a narrow passage; there were doors on either side of me. Listening again, I heard no sound from right or left. I opened the door to the right. I saw a small square room: the table was spread for a meal, three places being laid, but the room was empty. I turned to the other door and opened it. This room was darker, for heavy curtains, drawn, no doubt, earlier in the day to keep out the sun, had not been drawn back, and the light was very dim. For a while I could make out little, but, my eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, I soon perceived that I was in a sitting-room, sparsely and rather meanly furnished. Then my eyes fell on a couch which stood against the wall opposite me. On the couch lay a figure. It was the figure of a woman. I heard now the slight but regular sound of her breath. She was asleep. This must be the woman I sought. But was she a sensible woman? Or would she scream when I waked her, and bring those tall fellows out of the wood? In hesitation I stood still and watched her. She slept like one who was weary, but not at peace: restless movementsand, now and again, broken incoherent exclamations witnessed to her disquiet. Presently her broken sleep passed into half-wakeful consciousness, and she sat up, looking round her with a dazed glance.
‘Is that you, Constantine?’ she asked, rubbing her hands across her eyes. ‘Or is it Vlacho?’
With a swift step I was by her.
‘Neither. Not a word!’ I said, laying my hand on her shoulder.
I was, I daresay, an alarming figure, with the butt of my revolver peeping out of my pocket and Hogvardt’s lance in my right hand. But she did not cry out.
‘I am Wheatley. I have escaped from the house there,’ I went on; ‘and I have come here because there’s something I must tell you. You remember our last meeting?’
She looked at me still in amazed surprise, but with a gleam of recollection.
‘Yes, yes. You were—we went to watch you—yes, at the restaurant.’
‘You went to watch and to listen? Yes, I supposed so. But I’ve been near you since then. Do you remember the man who was on your verandah?’
‘That was you?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes, it was. And while I was there I heard—’
‘But what are you doing here? This house is watched. Constantine may be here any moment, or Vlacho.’
‘I’m as safe here as I was down the hill. Now listen. Are you this man’s wife, as he called you that night?’
‘Am I his wife? Of course I’m his wife. How else should I be here?’ The indignation expressed in her answer was the best guarantee of its truth, and became her well. And she held her hand up to me, as she had to the man himself in the restaurant, adding, ‘There is his ring.’
‘Then listen to me, and don’t interrupt,’ said I brusquely. ‘Time’s valuable to me, and even more, I fear, to you.’
Her eyes were alarmed now, but she listened in silence as I bade her. I told her briefly what had happened to me, and then I set before her more fully the conversation between Constantine and Vlacho which I had overheard. She clutched the cushions of the sofa in her clenched hand; her breathing came quick and fast; her eyes gleamed at me even in the gloom of the curtained room. I do not believe that in her heart she was surprised at what she heard. She had mistrusted the man; her manner, even on our first encounter, had gone far to prove that.She received my story rather as a confirmation of her own suspicions than as a new or startling revelation. She was fearful, excited, strung to a high pitch; but astonished she was not, if I read her right. And when I ended, it was not astonishment that clenched her lips and brought to her eyes a look which I think Constantine himself would have shrunk from meeting. I had paused at the end of my narrative, but I recollected one thing more. I must warn her about the secret passage; for that offered her husband too ready and easy a way of relieving himself of his burden. But now she interrupted me.
‘This girl?’ she said. ‘I have not seen her. What is she like?’
‘She is very beautiful,’ said I simply. ‘She knows what I have told you, and she is on her guard. You need fear nothing from her. It is your husband whom you have to fear.’
‘He would kill me?’ she asked, with a questioning glance.
‘You’ve heard what he said,’ I returned. ‘Put your own meaning on it.’
She sprang to her feet.
‘I can’t stay here; I can’t stay here. Merciful heaven, they may come any moment! Where are you going? How are you going to escape? You are in as much danger as I am.’
‘I believe in even greater,’ said I. ‘I was going straight from here down to the sea. If I can find my friends, we’ll go through with the thing together. If I don’t find them, I shall hunt for a boat. If I don’t find a boat—well, I’m a good swimmer, and I shall live as long in the water as in Neopalia, and die easier, I fancy.’
She was standing now, facing me, and she laid her hand on my arm.
‘You stand by women, you Englishmen,’ she said. ‘You won’t leave me to be murdered?’
‘You see I am here. Doesn’t that answer your question?’
‘My God, he’s a fiend! Will you take me with you?’
What could I do? Her coming gave little chance to her and robbed me of almost all prospect of escape. But of course I could not leave her.
‘You must come if you can see no other way,’ said I.
‘Why, what other is there? If I avoid him he will see I suspect him. If I appear to trust him, I must put myself in his power.’
‘Then we must go,’ said I. ‘But it’s a thousand to one that we don’t get through.’
I had hardly spoken when a voice outside said, ‘Is all well?’ and a heavy step echoed in the verandah.
‘Vlacho!’ she hissed in a whisper. ‘Vlacho! Are you armed?’
‘In a way,’ said I, with a shrug. ‘But there are at least two besides him. I saw them in the wood.’
‘Yes, yes, true. There are four generally. It would be death. Here, hide behind the curtains. I’ll try to put him off for the moment. Quick, quick!’
She was hurried and eager, but I saw that her wits were clear. I stepped behind the curtains and she drew them close. I heard her fling herself again on the couch. Then came the innkeeper’s voice, its roughness softened in deferential greeting.
At the same time a strong smell of eau de Cologne pervaded the room.
‘Am I well?’ said Madame Stefanopoulos fretfully. ‘My good Vlacho, I am very ill. Should I sit in a dark room and bathe my head with this stuff if I were well?’
‘My lady’s sickness grieves me beyond expression,’ said Vlacho politely. ‘And the more so because I am come from my Lord Constantine with a message for you.’
‘It is easier for him to send messages than to come himself,’ she remarked, with an admirable pretence of resentment.
‘Think how occupied he has been with this pestilent Englishman!’ said the plausible Vlacho.‘We have had no peace. But at last I hope our troubles are over. The house is ours again.’
‘Ah, you have driven them out?’
‘They fled themselves,’ said Vlacho. ‘But they are separated and we shall catch them. Oh, yes, we know where to look for most of them.’
‘Then you’ve not caught any of them yet? How stupid you are!’
‘My lady is severe. No, we have caught none yet.’
‘Not even Wheatley himself?’ she asked. ‘Has he shown you a clean pair of heels?’
Vlacho’s voice betrayed irritation as he answered:
‘We shall find him also in time, though heaven knows where the rascal has hidden himself.’
‘You’re really very stupid,’ said Francesca. I heard her sniff her perfume. ‘And the girl?’ she went on.
‘Oh, we have her safe and sound,’ laughed Vlacho. ‘She’ll give no more trouble.’
‘Why, what will you do with her?’
‘You must ask my lord that,’ said Vlacho. ‘If she will give up the island, perhaps nothing.’
‘Ah, well, I take very little interest in her. Isn’t my husband coming to supper, Vlacho?’
‘To supper here, my lady? Surely no. The great house is ready now. That is a more fitting place for my lady than this dog-hole. I am hereto escort you there. There my lord will sup with you. Oh, it’s a grand house!’
‘A grand house!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘Why, what is there to see in it?’
‘Oh, many things,’ said Vlacho. ‘Yes, secrets, my lady! And my lord bids me say that from love to you he will show you to-night the great secret of his house. He desires to show his love and trust in you, and will therefore reveal to you all his secrets.’
When I, behind the curtain, heard the ruffian say this, I laid firmer hold on my lance. But the lady was equal to Vlacho.
‘You’re very melodramatic with your secrets,’ she said contemptuously. ‘I am tired, and my head aches. Your secrets will wait; and if my husband will not come and sup with me, I’ll sup alone here. Tell him I can’t come, please, Vlacho.’
‘But my lord was most urgent that you should come,’ said Vlacho.
‘I would come if I were well,’ said she.
‘But I could help you. If you would permit, I and my men would carry you down all the way on your couch.’
‘My good Vlacho, you are very tedious, you and your men. And my husband is tedious also, if he sent all these long messages. I am ill and I will not come. Is that enough?’
‘My lord will be very angry if I return alone,’ pleaded Vlacho humbly.
‘I’ll write a certificate that you did your best to persuade me,’ she said with a scornful laugh.
I heard the innkeeper’s heavy feet move a step or two across the floor. He was coming nearer to where she lay on the couch.
‘I daren’t return without you,’ said he.
‘Then you must stay here and sup with me.’
‘My lord does not love to be opposed.’
‘Then, my good Vlacho, he should not have married me,’ she retorted.
She played the game gallantly, fencing and parrying with admirable tact, and with a coolness wonderful for a woman in such peril. My heart went out to her, and I said to myself that she should not want any help that I could give.
She had raised her voice on the last words, and her defiant taunt rang out clear and loud. It seemed to alarm Vlacho.
‘Hush, not so loud!’ he said hastily. There was the hint of a threat in his voice.
‘Not so loud!’ she echoed. ‘And why not so loud? Is there harm in what I say?’
I wondered at Vlacho’s sudden fright. The idea shot into my head—and the idea was no pleasant one—that there must be people within earshot, perhaps people who had not been trusted withConstantine’s secrets, and would, for that reason, do his bidding better.
‘Harm! No, no harm; but no need to let every one hear,’ said Vlacho, confusedly and with evident embarrassment.
‘Every one? Who is here, then?’
‘I have brought one or two men to escort my lady,’ said he. ‘With these cut-throat Englishmen about’ (Bravo, bravo, Vlacho!) ‘one must be careful.’
A scornful laugh proclaimed her opinion of his subterfuge, and she met him with a skilful thrust.
‘But if they don’t know—yes, and aren’t to know that I am the wife of Constantine, how can I go to the house and stay with him?’ she asked.
‘Oh,’ said he, ready again with his plausible half-truths, ‘that is one of the secrets. Must I tell my lady part of it? There is an excellent hiding-place in the house, where my lord can bestow you most comfortably. You will want for nothing, and nobody will know that you are there, except the few faithful men who have guarded you here.’
‘Indeed, if I am still to be a stowaway, I’ll stay here,’ said she. ‘If my lord will announce me publicly to all the island as his wife, then I will come and take my place at the head of his house; but without that I will not come.’
‘Surely you will be able to persuade him to that yourself,’ said Vlacho. ‘But dare I make conditions with my lord?’
‘You will make them in my name,’ she answered. ‘Go and tell him what I say.’
A pause followed. Then Vlacho said in sullen obstinate tones:
‘I’ll not go without you. I was ordered to bring you, and I will. Come.’
I heard the sudden rustle of her dress as she drew back; then a little cry: ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘You must come,’ said Vlacho. ‘I shall call my men and carry you.’
‘I will not come,’ she said in a low voice, resolute and fierce.
Vlacho laughed. ‘We’ll see about that,’ said he, and his heavy steps sounded on the floor.
‘What are you going to the window for?’ she cried.
‘To call Demetri and Kortes to help me,’ said he; ‘or will you come?’
I drew back a pace, resting against the windowsill. Hogvardt’s lance was protruded before me. At that moment I asked nothing better than to bury its point in the fat innkeeper’s flesh.
‘You’ll repent it if you do what you say,’ said she.
‘I shall repent it more if I don’t obey my lord,’ said Vlacho. ‘See, my hand is on the curtains. Will you come, my lady?’
‘I will not come,’ said she.
There was one last short interval. I heard them both breathing, and I held my own breath. My revolver rested in my pocket; the noise of a shot would be fatal. With God’s help I would drive the lance home with one silent sufficient thrust. There would be a rogue less in the world and another chance for her and me.
‘As you will, then,’ said the innkeeper.
The curtain-rings rattled along the rod; the heavy hangings gave back. The moon, which was newly risen, streamed full in Vlacho’s eyes and on the pale strained face behind him. He saw me; he uttered one low exclamation: ‘Christ!’ His hand flew to his belt. He drew a pistol out and raised it; but I was too quick for him. I drove the great hunting-knife on the end of the sapling full and straight into his breast. With a groan he flung his arms over his head and fell sideways, half-supported by the curtain till the fabric was rent away from the rings and fell over his body, enveloping him in a thick pall. I drew my lance back. The force of the blow had overstrained Hogvardt’s wire fastenings; the blade was bent to an angle with the shaft and shookloosely from side to side. Vlacho’s blood began to curl in a meandering trickle from beneath the curtain. Madame Stefanopoulos glared at me, speechless. But my eyes fell from her to the floor; for there I saw two long black shadows. A sudden and desperate inspiration seized me. She was my ally, I hers. If both were held guilty of this act we could render no service to each other. If she were still unsuspected—and nobody except myself had heard her talk with Vlacho—she might yet help herself and me.
‘Throw me over,’ I whispered in English. ‘Cry for help.’
‘What?’
‘Cry. The men are there. You may help me afterwards.’
‘What, pretend—?’
‘Yes. Quick.’
‘But they’ll—’
‘No, no. Quick, for God’s sake, quick!’
‘God help us,’ she whispered. Then she cried loudly, ‘Help! help! help!’
I sprang towards her. There was the crash of a man leaping through the open window. I turned. Behind him I saw Demetri standing in the moonlight. Other figures hurried up; feet pattered on the hard ground. The man who had leaped in—a very tall, handsome andathletic fellow, whom I had not seen before—held to my head a long old-fashioned pistol. I let my hands drop to my side and faced him with a smile on my lips. It must be death to resist—death to me and death to my new friend; surrender might open a narrow way of safety.
‘I yield,’ said I.
‘Who are you?’ he cried.
‘I am Lord Wheatley,’ I answered.
‘But did you not fly to the—?’ He stopped.
‘To the passage?’ said I. ‘No, I came here. I was trying to escape. I came in while Madame here was asleep and hid behind the curtain.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said she. ‘It is so, Kortes, it is as he says; and then Vlacho came—’
‘And,’ said I, ‘when the lady had agreed to go with Vlacho, Vlacho came to the window to call you; and by misadventure, sir, he came on me behind the curtain. And—won’t you see whether he’s dead?’
‘Kill him, Kortes, kill him!’ cried Demetri, fiercely and suddenly, from the window.
Kortes turned round.
‘Peace!’ said he. ‘The man has yielded. Do I kill men who have yielded? The Lady of the island and my Lord Constantine mustdecide his fate; it is not my office. Are you armed, sir?’
It went to my heart to give up that last treasured shot of mine. But he was treating me as an honourable man. I handed him my revolver with a bow, saying:
‘I depend on you to protect me from that fellow and the rest till you deliver me to those you speak of.’
‘In my charge you are safe,’ said Kortes, and he stooped down and lifted the curtain from Vlacho’s face. The innkeeper stirred and groaned. He was not dead yet. Kortes turned round to Demetri.
‘Stay here and tend him. Do what you can for him. When I am able, I will send aid to him; but I don’t think he will live.’
Demetri scowled. He seemed not to like the part assigned to him.
‘Are you going to take this man to my Lord Constantine?’ he asked. ‘Leave another with Vlacho, and let me come with you to my lord.’
‘Who should better stay with Vlacho than his nephew Demetri?’ asked Kortes with a smile. (This relationship was a new light to me.) ‘I am going to do what my duty is. Come, no questioning. Do not I command, now Vlacho is wounded?’
‘And the lady here?’ asked Demetri.
‘I am not ordered to lay a finger on the lady,’ answered Kortes. ‘Indeed I don’t know who she is.’
Francesca interposed with great dignity:
‘I will come with you,’ said she. ‘I have my story to tell when this gentleman is put on his trial. Who I am you will know soon.’
Demetri had climbed in at the window. He passed me with a savage scowl, and I noticed that one side of his head was bound with a bloodstained bandage. He saw me looking at it.
‘Aye,’ he growled, ‘I owe you the loss of half an ear.’
‘In the passage?’ I hazarded, much pleased.
‘I shall pay the debt,’ said he, ‘or see it paid handsomely for me by my lord.’
‘Come,’ said Kortes, ‘let us go.’
Fully believing that the fact of Kortes being in command instead of Demetri had saved me from instant death, I was not inclined to dispute his orders. I walked out of the house and took the place he indicated to me in the middle of a line of islanders, some ten or twelve in number. Kortes placed himself by my side, and Madame Stefanopoulos walked on his other hand. The islanders maintained absolute silence. I followed their example, but my heart (I mustconfess) beat as I waited to see in what direction our column was to march. We started down the hill towards the house. If we were going to the house I had perhaps twenty minutes to live, and the lady who was with us would not long survive me. In vain I scanned Kortes’s comely grave features. He marched with the impassive regularity of a grenadier and displayed much the same expressionless steadiness of face. Nearer to the fatal house we came; but my heart gave a sudden leap of hope and excitement, for Kortes cried softly, ‘To the right.’ We turned down the path that led up from the town, leaving the house on the left. We were not going straight to death then, and every respite was pregnant with unforeseen chances of escape. I touched Kortes on the shoulder.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the town,’ he answered.
Again in silence we pursued our way down the hillside. The path broadened and the incline became less steep; a few lights twinkled from the sea, which now spread before us. Still we went on. Then I heard the bell of a church strike twelve. The strokes ended, but another bell began to ring. Our escort stopped with one accord. They took off their caps and signed the cross on their breasts. Kortes did the same as the rest. Ilooked at him in question, but he said nothing till the caps were replaced and we were on our way again. Then he said:
‘To-day is the feast of St Tryphon. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ said I. ‘St Tryphon I know, but his feast is not kept always on this day.’
‘Always on this day in Neopalia,’ he answered, and he seemed to look at me as though he were asking me some unspoken question.
The feast of St Tryphon might have interested me very much at any ordinary time, but just now my study of the customs of the islanders had been diverted into another channel, and I did not pursue the subject. Kortes walked in silence some little way farther. We had now reached the main road and were descending rapidly towards the town. I saw again the steep narrow street, empty and still in the moonlight. We held on our way till we came to a rather large square building, which stood back from the road and had thus escaped my notice when we passed it on the evening of our arrival. Before this Kortes halted. ‘Here you must lodge with me,’ said he. ‘Concerning the lady I have no orders.’
Madame Stefanopoulos caught my arm.
‘I must stay too,’ said she. ‘I can’t go back to my house.’
‘It is well,’ said Kortes calmly. ‘There are two rooms.’
The escort ranged themselves outside the building, which appeared to be either a sort of barrack or a place of confinement. We three entered. At a sign from Kortes, Madame Stefanopoulos passed into a large room on the right. I followed him into a smaller room, scantily furnished, and flung myself in exhaustion on a wooden bench that ran along the wall. For an instant Kortes stood regarding me. His face seemed to express hesitation, but the look in his eyes was not unfriendly. The bell, which had continued to ring till now, ceased. Then Kortes said to me in a low voice:
‘Take courage, my lord. For a day you are safe. Nor even Constantine would dare to kill a man on the feast of St Tryphon.’
Before I could answer he was gone. I heard the bolt of the door run home. I was a prisoner.
Yet I took courage as he bade me. Four-and-twenty hours’ life was more than I had been able to count on for some time past. So I also doffed my hat in honour of the holy St Tryphon. And presently I lifted my legs on to the bench, took off my coat and made a pillow of it, and went to sleep.