SHE STOOD MUTE AND WIDE-EYED BEFORE HIMSHE STOOD MUTE AND WIDE-EYED BEFORE HIM
The girl's eyes swept him approvingly.
"Of course," she said, well pleased, for a woman delights in placing her own valuation upon the courage of which a man speaks diffidently.
"I am Esmay," she announced, and paused a little doubtfully.
"I know," assented Constans.
"Then you do remember? Even the bracelet with the carbuncles, and how you would not make up because I was a girl and knew no better?"
"It was a very foolish affair from beginning toend," said Constans, loftily, intent upon disguising his embarrassment.
"Of course I knew you at once," she went on, meditatively. "You were so awkward in your ridiculous priest robes that morning in the temple of the Shining One. How Nanna and I did laugh!"
Constans winced a trifle at this, but he could not think of anything to say. She laughed again at the remembrance—provokingly. Then she turned on him suddenly. "Why have you come to Arcadia House?" she asked.
Constans hesitated, tried to avoid the real issue, and of course put himself in the wrong.
"It was on Ulick's account. I had promised him——"
"Oh!" The look was doubly eloquent of the disappointment inherent in the exclamation, and Constans thrilled under it. What delicious flattery in this unexpected frankness! He made a step forward, but Esmay in her turn drew back, her eyes hardened, and he stopped, abashed.
It had been a sudden remembrance of her childish threat—"a woman ... and some day you will know what that means"—that had tempted her to the rashness which she had so quickly regretted. For she had forgotten that a proposition is generally provided with a corollary. If she had become a woman he no less had grown to manhood, and that one forward step had forced her to recognize the fact. She was silent, feeling a little afraid and wondering at herself. Constans, in more evident discomfiture, blundered on, obsessed by a vague sense of loyalty to his friend.
"Ulick is away—on the expedition to the southland. He was anxious that you should be found, and I promised to do my best. He will be glad to know."
"When is he coming back?" demanded Esmay, with an entire absence of enthusiasm.
"This month, certainly; indeed, it may be any day now."
"You must promise me that you will not tell him where I am or even that you have seen me."
"But—but——"
"Remember now that you have promised."
Constans felt himself called upon to speak with some severity to this unreasonable young person.
"You are giving a great deal of trouble to your friends," he said, reprovingly.
"My friends!" she echoed, mockingly.
"There was your mother and her message to your uncle Hugolin in Croye."
"Yes, I know," she broke in. "Then it was received—the message——?" She stopped, unable to go on; an indefinable emotion possessed her.
"My uncle has sent you to fetch me," she whispered. "You are his messenger."
Constans had to answer her honestly, and was sorry.
"No," he said, bluntly. "Messer Hugolin could not see his way to anything."
Her pride came to her aid. "Oh, it does not matter," she said, and so indifferently that Constans was deceived.
"But you cannot stay here," he insisted—"here among the Doomsmen."
"They are my father's people, and you have just told me that my uncle Hugolin does not want me."
"And what does Quinton Edge desire of you?" he asked.
"I do not know," she answered, returning his gaze fearlessly, whereof Constans was glad, although he could not have told her why.
"Yet you are a prisoner?"
"It seems so, and my sister Nanna as well. But we have nothing of which to complain, and doubtless our master will acquaint us with his pleasure in good time."
"It is always that way," said Constans, bitterly. "His will against mine at every turn; a rock upon which I beat with naked hands."
"He is a strong man," answered Esmay, thoughtfully, "but I think I know where his power lies. It is simply that neither his friends nor his enemies are aware of how they stand with him."
But Constans did not even notice that she was speaking; the remembrance of his unfulfilled purpose seized and racked him. He had hated this man, Quinton Edge, from that first moment in which their eyes had clashed—ever and always. At first instinctively; then with reason enough and to spare; and yet this small world still held them both. How long were his hands to be tied? Once and again his enemy had stood before him and had gone his way insolently triumphant. He might be now in the house yonder, and Constans looked at it eagerly. A master passion, primitive and crude, possessed him.
The girl divined the hostile nature of the power which held him, and instinctively she put forth her own strength against it.
"Listen!" she said, and plucked him by the sleeve. Constans looked at her.
"I am going to trust you," she went on, quickly. "The time may come when I can no longer remain in safety at Arcadia House. When it does I will let you know by displaying a white signal in the western window of the cupola. Then you will come?"
"I will come," he answered, albeit a little slowly and heavily as one who seeks to find himself.
Esmay opened the door and looked out. It was almost dark, and after listening a moment she seemed satisfied.
"You have a ladder? Very well, you need not be afraid of the dogs, for when you see the signal I will arrange that they are kept in leash. And now you had better go; they are surely unchained by this time, and any moment may bring them ranging about. Good-bye, and remember your promise."
They walked along together until they came to the plantation of spruce-trees. Constans could see that his ladder was still in place on the wall; his path of retreat was open. He put out his hand, and her slim, cool palm rested for a moment in his. She nodded, smiled, and left him, going directly towards the house.
Moved by an inexplicable impulse, Constans followed for a short distance, keeping under the shelter of the trees. Then suddenly to him, straining his eyes through the dusk, there appeared a second figure, that of a woman, clothed wholly in white, hovering close upon the retreating steps of the girl.
Constans felt his knees loosen under him, the ancient superstitions being still strong in his blood for all of his studies and new-found philosophy.
"It is her sister Nanna," he muttered to himself, and knew that he lied in saying it. The old wives'tales, at which he had shuddered in boyhood, came crowding back upon him—grisly legends of vampire shapes and of the phantoms, invariably feminine in form, who were said to inhabit ruined places. A panic terror seized him as he watched the apparition gliding so swiftly and noiselessly upon the unconscious girl. Yet he continued to run forward, stumbling and slipping on the treacherous foothold of melting snow.
Esmay had reached a side door of the main building; quite naturally she entered and closed the door behind her, while the white-robed figure, after hesitating a moment, walked to a far corner of the house and disappeared. Out of the indefinite distance came the deep-throated bay of a hound. Constans turned and fled for his life.
Safely astride the wall coping he looked back. All was quiet in the garden, and at that instant a light shone out at an upper window of the house.
"She is safe," he told himself, and that was enough to know.
As he walked slowly westward, the thought of Ulick came again to him. Had he really promised the girl that he would tell Ulick nothing? Ridiculous as it may appear, he could not remember.
Arcadia House, while it certainly stood in need of the repairer's hand, was by no means uninhabitable, a fact which spoke well for the honesty of its old-time builders. Its oak beams, fastened together with tree-nails instead of iron spikes, were still sound, and its brick walls, unusually massive in construction, were without a crack. Most important of all, the roof, shingled with the best cypress, remained water-tight, and so protected the interior from the ruinous effects of moisture. In outward appearance, however, Arcadia House had sadly degenerated. The stucco that originally covered the outer walls had fallen away here and there, leaving unsightly patches to vex the eye, and in many of the windows the glazing had been destroyed either wholly or in part.
Some years before Quinton Edge had taken possession of this abandoned Eden. The summers in the city were usually warm, and the Doomsmen were in the habit of seeking the upper stories of the tall buildings for relief, just as in the twentieth century people went to the mountains for the heated term. Quinton Edge, having accidentally discovered Arcadia House recognized its advantages as a summer residence, and he had his own reasons for desiring the privacy thatits secluded situation afforded. He was satisfied with putting three or four of the rooms into livable condition, and as for the rest it was only necessary to repair the wall surrounding the grounds and stock the storehouses with fuel and provisions to make of Arcadia House the proverbial castle. That itwashis castle was his own affair, and he had taken care that only the fewest possible number should be in the secret. Old Kurt and a couple of negro slave women made up the ordinary domestic staff of the establishment, and until the advent of Esmay and Nanna, some three months before, Arcadia House had received no visitors. And he would be a foolish man who called upon Quinton Edge without an invitation.
Esmay, after parting from Constans, paused a moment at the side entrance of the house. She wanted to look back, but a stronger instinct forbade it; she opened the door and passed into the hall.
It was a broad, low-ceilinged apartment, and served as a common living-room to the master of Arcadia House and his guests. A few embers burned on the hearth, and a solitary candle set in a wall-sconce strove with its feeble glimmer against the full tide of silver moonshine that poured in through the uncurtained windows facing on the river. Quinton Edge himself was sitting at the corner of the fireplace smoking a red-clay pipe with a reed stem. He rose as Esmay entered, detaining her with a gesture as she would have passed him.
"One moment, if you will."
The girl stopped and waited for him to continue. He considered a moment, looking her over coolly. And indeed she made an attractive picture as shestood there, the firelight glinting redly in her tawny eyes and her cheeks incarnadined with excitement. Quinton Edge told himself that he had made no mistake. Then he spoke:
"You have waited most patiently for me to announce my intentions. Let me see; it is nearly three months since you came to Arcadia House?"
The girl made no reply. Alert and keeping herself well in hand, she would force him to the first move. And Quinton Edge realized that he would have to make it.
"It won't be any news to you that there are several people who would be glad to be informed of your whereabouts. There's Boris, for one, and young Ulick—we spoke of them some time ago."
"But to no purpose, sir; you remember that."
"Perfectly. Still, in three months a woman may change her mind many times."
"But only for her own satisfaction."
"Then it is hopeless to expect a decision from you?"
"Evidently."
"In that case it may become necessary for me to act for you."
"Oh!"
The exclamation told its own story, and the girl in her vexation bit the lip that had betrayed her. Quinton Edge smiled.
"Don't distress yourself," he said, smoothly. "I am only giving you the warning that courtesy entitles you to receive."
Esmay reflected. Whatever his intentions concerning her, she could not be the worse off for knowing them. So she went on, steadily:
"Since you have already decided upon my future, argument would be useless. But perhaps I may assume that you have acted with some small regard for my interests."
"Not the least in the world," returned Quinton Edge, and Esmay smiled involuntarily at frankness so unblushing. Whereupon and curiously enough, Quinton Edge became suddenly of a great gravity, the flippancy of his accustomed manner falling from him as a cloak drops unnoticed from a man's shoulders. He rose to his feet, strode to a window, and stood there for perhaps a minute looking out upon the moonlit waters of the Lesser river. When he turned again to the girl there were lines of hardness about his mouth that she had never noticed before. Yet, in speaking, his voice was soft, almost hesitating.
"Why should I tell you of these things, and then again why not? We are both children of the Doomsmen, and the matter concerns us nearly. Not equally, of course, but listen and draw your own conclusions."
"There are clouds in the political sky, and our little ship of state is in danger of going upon the rocks, coincident with the death of Dom Gillian, its old-time helmsman. And that contingency in the natural course of events cannot be long delayed.
"Now there are two nominal heirs—Boris and Ulick. Each deems himself the chosen successor to his great-grandfather, and each is incompetent to play the part. In the past the reins of power have been held by the man who stands between them. I am that third man."
"As everybody knows now."
"No; and for the simple reason that there are fewto care who rules so long as the figure-head remains a presentable one. But let me continue.
"Dom Gillian will formally nominate one of his grandsons as his heir. It makes no difference whether Boris or Ulick succeeds—the outcome must be the same. Both have personal followings, and that of the disappointed one will form a minority insignificant in numerical strength, but capable of being kneaded by strong hands into a compact mass."
"A revolution, then?"
"By no means. I accept the situation as it is and simply turn it to my own advantage—as third man. This makes it necessary that the disappointed one should become my absolute property. Now I hold the price that he will demand for the surrender of his rights and freedom—nothing less than yourself."
"I shall not affect to be surprised," said the girl, coolly. "But are you quite sure that I am valued at so high a figure? It would be mortifying for you to go into the market and find that your currency had depreciated on your hands."
"I am not afraid," he answered. "The passion with Boris and Ulick alike is genuine enough, albeit of somewhat different sort. As you care for neither, it should be a matter of indifference whose property you become."
The blood burned redly under the girl's brown skin. "No one but a woman could know how unforgivable is that insult," she said. Then, with a suddenly conceived appeal to the man himself:
"But why a bargain at all? You have the strength, the courage, the brains—why chaffer when you have but to strike once to win all? You stand betweenBoris and Ulick; crush them both in a single embrace and take their birthright of power."
"Bah!" said the Doomsman, contemptuously. "Do you think that the mere possession of the wolf-skin is the object of the hunt? It is the game that amuses me and not the final distribution of the stakes. The game, I say, and it happens to suit my humor to play it in this particular way. You are simply a piece on the board, and I may win with you or lose with you, or conclude to throw you back in the box without playing you at all—just as it pleases me."
"The means are at least nobler than the end," retorted the girl. "A lofty ambition, truly, to stand behind a screen and pull the strings of a puppet, who in turn lords it over a handful of rick burners and cattle reivers. Even my uncle Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, cuts a better figure when, clad in his state robe of silver-fox fur, he presides over his parliament of shopkeepers."
"Granted," returned Quinton Edge, "but one and all dance together when I choose to pipe. Is it such a contemptible thing to rule a small world, if, indeed, it be the world? I take all that there is to be taken. Could Alexander or Cæsar do more?"
"I am beginning to comprehend," she said, slowly. "An ambition that confessedly overleaps all bounds is at least not an ignoble one."
He turned and searched her eyes.
"You will play the game with me?"
"No."
"Yet a moment ago you were considering it—the possibility, I mean."
"For the moment—yes. After three months ofArcadia House dulness almost any amusement would seem worth while. But, frankly speaking, it is the nature of the risk that appalls me. I cannot afford to lose my stake nor even to adventure it."
"To speak plainly?"
"Well, then, you contribute to the common capital but one thing—your brains. Later on, if the play goes against us, you may have to throw on the table your liberty, and, in the last extremity, your life. But that is the utmost limit of your losses. I, on the contrary, must contribute myself to the hazard, and no man understands what that means to a woman."
"How long is it since the woman has understood?" he asked, mockingly, but Esmay was silent.
"Well, then, if I cannot have you with me I want you actively against me—the more balls in the air, the better sport for the juggler. And at least we understand each other."
"There is just the one question—perhaps an obvious one."
"Yes."
"Boris or Ulick? For of course you know which of them is to be the old Dom's heir."
"I do."
"I am to be informed of my purchaser's name—after the bargaining is over? And only then?"
"Since you choose to put it in that way—yes."
Neither chose to break the silence that fell between them, and Esmay, catching up her skirt, turned to go.
"Good-night," she said, but Quinton Edge did not answer. Apparently he had forgotten her very existence; he sat with feet out-stretched to the fire, hiseyes fixed upon the curl of blue smoke that hung above his pipe bowl.
Esmay went up to the room on the second floor which she shared with her sister. Nanna was already in bed and asleep, but she started up as Esmay entered, like a dog that has been listening in its dreams for its master's footsteps. "Are you coming to bed?" she asked, drowsily, and fell back among the pillows without even waiting for the answer.
Esmay, unconscious of the cold, remained seated at the window looking out upon the river, her mind busy with the ultimatum which had just been presented to it. That it was an ultimatum, she could not doubt; Quinton Edge had been in deadly earnest in confronting her with her fate—a double-faced one, as she thought, with a little shiver. She could not avoid seeing it, no matter which way she turned.
A waning moon in a clouding sky. Even as she looked the two faces seemed to start out from the uncertain shadows—Boris, the Butcher—involuntarily, she shrank back from the window—never that!
Ulick? Yes, she had been fond of Ulick; they had been comrades and friends for so long as she could remember. But Ulick in this new light—ah, that was different again. Strangely enough she found herself contemplating this last possibility even more fearfully than she had the first. If the "Butcher" but laid a finger upon her, surely her arm was strong enough to drive the dagger home. But if it were Ulick, what could she do but turn the weapon against her own breast.
Plan and counterplan, and the argument invariably came back to where it began—she must call uponConstans for the aid which he had promised to place at her disposal. Hardly two hours had passed since they had made the compact, and now she was come to ask for its fulfilment. What would he think of her? How interpret a precipitancy so foreign to the cool assurance of her bearing in the garden? She frowned; the instinct that urges a woman to any folly short of the supreme blunder of unveiling herself to masculine eyes took possession of her. But only for a moment, for again the imminence of the peril in which she stood broke over her like a wave. There was but one thing to do; the signal must be set this very night. The returning expedition from the south might even now be encamped at the High Bridge, and if Constans could help her at all it must be at once.
Without waiting to parley further with herself, Esmay went to the door opening into the hall and looked out. The hour must be close upon midnight; the house was quiet and dark.
A piece of white cloth had been the signal agreed upon, and a fluttering handkerchief should answer the purpose well enough without being too conspicuous to alien eyes. Nanna still slept, and Esmay, slipping into the hallway, stood listening for a moment. Then she went on boldly; the moon was still high, and she would not need a light.
It had been arranged that the signal should be displayed from the southwestern window of the cupola crowning the main roof. But the stairs to the third story and attic were in a wing; to reach them she must traverse a long corridor which led past the apartments occupied by Quinton Edge. Esmay noticed a gleam of yellow light upon the threshold of his half-closed door as she passed it on winged feet, but there was nothing extraordinary in that—it often burned there throughout the entire night. But he was talking to somebody; she could hear distinctly the opposition of the two voices. Who could it be? for none of the servants ever entered these rooms, and she had never known of any stranger being invited thither. She stopped and listened for a moment or two. But she could make out nothing distinctly, and then she flushed hotly to think that she had been tempted to eavesdropping. Let her be satisfied in knowing that Quinton Edge was in his room and busily engaged; at least, he would not disturb her.
The upper stories of the house had not been occupied for many years, and it took all the girl's courage to carry her through the shadow-haunted garret and up the ladder leading to the cupola proper. But she accomplished the task of putting the signal-cloth in position, and, still shaking with cold and excitement, began to retrace her steps.
At the entrance to Quinton Edge's room she stopped again, not out of curiosity, but as though yielding to the pressure of an invisible hand. The door still stood ajar, but there was no sound of voices. Again it was the invisible hand that seemed to draw the door away, permitting the girl to look within. An empty room, save for the figure that sat at the table, his head buried in his hands, the whole attitude one of intense weariness and dejection. Even as she stood there he looked up, and she saw his face mirrored in the glass that hung suspended from the opposite wall. It was Quinton Edge's face, indisputably; but couldshe ever have imagined that such capacity of pain lay behind the mask she knew so well? The dark eyes seemed to seize and hold her fast; then she realized that they saw nothing beyond their own mirrored reflection. Again the head sank forward into the hollowed hands, and only the slow heave of the shoulders made certain that it was a living man who sat there in the silence.
Noiselessly closing the door, Esmay regained her room and, all clothed as she was, crept into bed. Nanna stirred sleepily and put out a protecting arm. How blessed the comfort of that strong, warm clasp!
Constans climbed to his observatory on the roof of the "Flat-iron" as usual that next morning. It was a fine, bright day and so clear that he could see for miles without the use of his glass. And there was something to see—far away to the north he discovered a thin thread of smoke that must mark the spot of a newly extinguished camp-fire. At last the raiders were back from the Southland; they would be within the city boundaries by this time and should arrive at the Citadel Square by noon at the latest.
Glancing down into the fortress he saw that already tidings of the return must have been received. Torch signals had probably been sent during the night from the High Bridge announcing the fact of the arrival, and now all was bustle and excitement.
It was a colorful and inspiriting scene—soldiers engaged in polishing their accoutrements or clouting up hitherto neglected rents in cloak or tunic; musicians tuning their simple instruments; negro slaves grooming horses; women busy over saucepans that bubbled upon extemporized furnaces of piled-up bricks; children and dogs on all sides, chattering, squealing, under everybody's feet, alternately and impartially cuffed and caressed. An air of joyous expectancy lightenedevery face, for now the long months of waiting and of anxiety were past; the outriders of Doom had returned from the Southland with goodly store of corn and wine and of fat beeves for future feasting. It was, indeed, chilled and aged blood that did not run the faster on this day of days.
Outside of the White Tower stood a groom, holding the bridle of a horse whose housings were of the most gorgeous description, a blaze of crimson cloth and gold thread. The owner's spear, with its pennon of embroidered silk, stood close at hand, its iron-shod shaft wedged tightly into a convenient crack in the pavement. Upon the banneret, Constans, with his glass, made out the symbol used by Quinton Edge, a raven in mid-air bearing a skull in his beak. Evidently he was to command the guard of honor who would escort the returned warriors down the Palace Road, and the hour must be close at hand. A few moments later and Quinton Edge himself appeared, issuing forth from the White Tower. A splendidly gorgeous figure he presented, for over his close-fitting suit of claret cloth he wore a surcoat of white velvet ornamented with gold lace and buttons of amethyst. His hat of soft felt was decorated with a white ostrich-plume, exquisitely curled and secured by a jewelled clasp, and in his left hand he carried an ivory truncheon tipped with gold, the emblem, doubtless, of his high position in the councils of the Doomsmen. Apparently he was in good-humor this morning; he chatted animatedly with those nearest to him, and once or twice he even laughed aloud.
A trumpet sounded, and, without much pretence at military smartness, the escorting party scrambled intotheir saddles and the cavalcade moved forward through the north gate and up the Palace Road. By noon at the latest they should return, and preparations immediately began for the feast that was to be given in honor of the long-absent warriors now happily restored to the society of their families and friends. A score or more of wine-casks were rolled out from the public stores and made ready for broaching. In the centre of the square the board flooring had been removed from a huge circular pit that measured twenty feet across by six or eight in depth; it was lined and bottomed with flat paving-stones. A fire of hard-wood had been burning in it for hours, the preliminary to a gigantic barbecue of fat oxen. Upon the open space in front of the guard-huts, slaves were erecting long trestle-tables to serve as the banqueting-board. The day had turned so warm that there would be no discomfort in dining out-of-doors, for all that the date was March 22d and the last snow-fall still lay a foot or more in depth in the side streets. The square itself had been thoroughly cleaned, or it would have been a veritable sea of slush. Astonishing! but as the sun's rays became more and more inclined to the vertical, it became apparent that the day would not only be warm but actually hot.
Constans had grown tired of making his observations at long range; he resolved to descend and mingle boldly with the people in the square. He had only Quinton Edge to fear, and it should be easy to keep out of his way. Moreover, this was a golden chance for him to pick up some intimate information about the defences of the Citadel Square.
Carefully adjusting the details of his ecclesiasticalcostume, Constans prepared to descend. His last act was to cast a perfunctory glance in the direction of Arcadia House, and it seemed that his eye caught the flutter of something white. He raised the binoculars—it was true, the signal was there, a handkerchief tied to the lattice-blind of the cupola window.
Constans frowned and reflected. It was only last night that the girl had asserted her entire ability to look after herself—it was like a woman to be so soon of another mind. And there was Ulick—Ulick who would have shed the last drop in his veins to serve her. Yet she would have none of him, and she had deliberately tied Constans's hands in exacting the promise that he should not reveal her whereabouts to the man who of all things desired to serve her. There could be no reasoning with this wilful young person; she would have her way in spite of all the masculine logic in the world, and he realized the fact with a growing resentment.
Yet there was his promise and it must be kept. He would go again to Arcadia House sometime during the afternoon or evening, for the matter was not one of absolute urgency. In the latter case two signals would have been displayed, and there was but the one. So, dismissing the matter from mind for the present, he made his way to the street and joined with the crowd that was continually passing in and out of the north gate.
With an air of easy unconcern, he directed his steps towards the entrance. A harsh croak greeted him, and he recognized the crippled sailor who called himself Kurt the Knacker. He glanced up to see that worthy ensconced in a snug corner of the gateway andsurrounded by his accustomed cronies the warders on duty. Plainly, there had been more than one replenishing of the black-jack that stood on the settle beside him, for his face was flushed and the purple veins in his high, bald forehead presented an inordinately swollen appearance.
"Hola! shipmet," said the Knacker, in a tone that was doubtless intended to be affable. "It is to be a brave show to-day and you are come in good time to see it. Seven thunders! but one always sees the black-jackets flocking thick as flies in a pudding when the smell of the saucepan is in the air. Your master yonder was of too proud a stomach to clink can with us, but you will be more amiable. There's a fresh cask on the trestles and not a token to pay."
Constans, following the direction in which a stubby forefinger pointed, caught sight of the tall form of Prosper, the priest. He was moving slowly along in the press and only a few yards away. Now Constans had no desire for a meeting with his ecclesiastical superior; so, without troubling himself to reply to the Knacker's hospitable invitation, he tried to edge forward and again seek concealment in the crowd. But Kurt reached out and caught his sleeve. "No skulking, reverend sir," he said, maliciously. "Which shall it be, a swig from my black-jack or a full toss of the horn? For drink you must, if you would enter here."
One of the guardsmen held out a full ox-horn of wine, and the Knacker seized it and forced it into Constans's hand.
"After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipple for women, boys, and priests. Downwith it right cheerfully or take a sousing in the butt itself—to drown there or drink it dry."
It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing the ox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor's face, and Kurt, the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathing stertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of the by-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up, and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through the crowd and so reach the open square. Stepping into one of the empty guard-huts he quickly divested himself of cowl and cassock, and rolling them up into a bundle he tossed them into a dark corner. His under suit was made of the ordinary gray frieze worn generally among the Doomsmen, and now neither Prosper nor the witnesses of the fracas at the gate would be likely to identify him.
Constans gazed about him with lively interest. Yet so accurate had been his previous bird's-eye observations that he found but little to add to them. He noticed, however, that a banquette of earth, rammed hard, ran around the inside periphery of the walls, affording vantage for the defenders to discharge their arrows and other missiles over the parapet. But, as Constans quickly saw, this same terrace would give useful foothold to the besiegers should once the top of the wall be gained. Instead of being obliged to draw up their scaling-ladders, or risk the sixteen-foot drop to the hard surface of the enclosure, they had only to jump onto the banquette and from thence to the ground. He would have liked to investigate what engines of defence could be brought into service by the garrison,but there was nothing to be seen beyond two machines, sadly out of repair, which were intended for the casting of heavy stones through the force of twisted ropes. So Constans turned his attention again to the scene before him.
A gang of carpenters were putting the finishing-touches to an elevated platform which stood near the entrance to the White Tower. A crimson canopy warded off the sun's rays, and the structure was probably intended for the accommodation of the more distinguished guests. A large chair stood in the centre of the dais, and over it a gray wolf-skin had been draped; certainly this must be the official seat of Dom Gillian himself. But as yet it stood empty.
How hot the sun was! And yet this was only the day of the vernal equinox; it was most extraordinary. Everywhere the gutters ran streaming with water, the snow melting under the unexampled heat of the solar rays like wax in a candle flame. The trees growing in the square were leafless, and the tropic sun's rays blazed mercilessly through their naked branches. Constans found himself panting for breath.
As the hours dragged on Constans felt a vague uneasiness pressing down upon him, and he could see that the people also were growing restless under the unaccountable delay. The laughter and talk little by little died away; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, up the long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under their hollowed hands. Would they never come!
With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litter issued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking that greathead with its mane of coarse, white hair—the old Dom Gillian. With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting the unwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The people looked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance of their lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard his people; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon the arms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood on either hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed to collapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.
Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed the zenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-line rested a cloud in bigness like to a man's hand and of the blackness of night itself. Would they never come!
Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against the snowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figure of a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of the slippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowd pressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops falling from his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform. And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from the saddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still slept placidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.
Standing at Dom Gillian's side Quinton Edge bent down and whispered a few words in his ear, inaudible even to those who stood nearest. And yet the people knew that woe had fallen upon Doom. Like flame upon flax the voiceless signal leaped from heart to heart; here and there in the crowd appeared little centres of disturbance, the strong pushing the weak forcibly aside that they might the quicker fill their own gasping lungs; an inarticulate murmur rose and swelled, like to the stirring of forest leaves under the breath of the rough north wind. Quinton Edge heard, and turned to face the people.
"It is true," he said, and gripped hard upon the rail on which his hand rested. "A child's trick it was, but the Southlanders are men of smooth tongue and our brothers were encumbered with the cattle and perhaps overconfident now that their faces were turned at last towards home. Six-score brave men"—he stopped and swallowed at something in his throat.
"The ambuscade was well-planned, and the Southlanders had enlisted the aid of the Painted Men, to their shame be it said. So our brethren found themselves hemmed in at every point. Yet they sold theirlives at a good price, and they are mourning to-day in the Southland, even as we here. Not a Doomsman set out upon his long journey to the shadowland but that a Southron was forced to bear him company. It was well done—a good fight, the sword-point driven home, and then the dropping of the curtain. Hail! a hail! to our brothers who have passed beyond."
A few wavering and uncertain voices took up the cry, but it quickly died away before the uplifted hand of Prosper, the priest. He had pushed his way through the crowd and was now standing in its outmost rank directly opposite the platform.
"There were six-score who rode away," he said, addressing himself directly to Quinton Edge. "Six-score, and how many have returned?"
An insolent question in the manner of its asking, but the Doomsman's answer matched it well.
"Four that I counted, but there may be a straggler or two to come in later. Does the Shining One no longer know where his own thunderbolts have struck, that he sends his hired servants to gather up the gossip of the market-place?"
"The All-Wise both sees and knows," retorted the priest. "It is the people you deceive who have need to look and listen, if haply they may understand. You have dared to take the name of the Shining One upon your lips; stand forth now like a man, if you would face him in his wrath."
During the past few minutes it had grown suddenly dark; the sun had disappeared and a curtain of opaque cloud was rapidly overcasting the sky; a peculiar, yellowish light had replaced the radiance of day.
"And what does your god demand that his anger may be turned away?" asked Quinton Edge. "Doubtless the daily offerings upon which his faithful priests depend for their easy, unearned living. Sides of fat beeves and measures of wheat, not forgetting a cask or two of apple-wine or corn brandy."
But the priest, disdaining to answer the taunt, had turned and was speaking directly to the people.
"Is it that you seek a deliverer and find none? But how shall the Shining One keep faith with you who turn your feet away from his sanctuary and bring no victims to his altars? Has he not called to you daily, and have you not stopped your ears? And now that ye call in turn, shall he indeed hear? Already is your woe come upon you, children of Doom. Look and listen!"
A flash of lightning accompanied the priest's last words and the crash of the thunder came almost simultaneously. The obscurity was momentarily increasing, and the gigantic, nimbus cloud-band now reached far beyond the zenith, its slate-blue edges contrasting vividly with the green-and-saffron tints of the narrow strip of clear sky that still remained visible. And in another moment that, too, had disappeared; such was the darkness that a man could not see his neighbor's face, though their elbows might be touching.
"To your holes and dens!" shouted the priest, now quite beside himself in his fanatical exaltation. "He speaks again, he speaks again! Woe, woe to the city of Doom!" Once more the firmament seemed cleft in twain, and the earth trembled under the reverberations of the tremendous electrical discharges. Theeffect upon the overwrought nerves of the throng was instantaneous; as one man the crowd turned and made for the exits from the Citadel Square. Even the personal attendants upon Dom Gillian were affected by the panic, and leaped over the guard-rails of the platform into the mass of humanity below. In half a score of minutes the enormous square was deserted save for a few infirm and crippled stragglers, and Constans himself thought it prudent to withdraw to the shelter of one of the guard-huts from whose doorway he could still watch the progress of events.
Only Prosper, the priest, remained in the open, standing there with uplifted hands and gazing steadfastly into the sable vault above him. Quinton Edge called to him, but he answered not. Then the Doomsman, leaning far over the balustrade of the platform, struck the priest sharply on the shoulder with his truncheon of office.
"Come up here and help me with the Lord Keeper. These dogs have all sought their kennels and left us to shift for ourselves."
Gathering up his long, black robe, Prosper ascended the steps of the platform and passed to the Lord Keeper's side. He looked eagerly into Dom Gillian's eyes, but the old man's face might have been a mask in its impassive stolidity. Plainly he had neither heard nor understood aught of all that had passed.
"It is too late," muttered the priest. "The crash of steel is now the only music to which the old lion will prick his ears, and the Shining One must strike for his own honor."
Suddenly the obscurity lightened. A downpour of rain was imminent, but the sky had lost its terrifyingaspect of abnormality; the yellowish haze that in superstitious eyes presaged some dreadful convulsion of nature had drifted away before the rising wind—it would be a pelting shower and nothing more. Quinton Edge looked around, smiling.
"So it was only a player's effect—a few fireworks and the rattling of a big drum—an opportune conjunction of bad news and bad weather that is hardly likely to occur again. The next time that the Shining One condescends to forge his thunderbolts——"
"They will fall from out of a cloudless sky," interrupted the priest, with a vehemence that in spite of himself shook the cool confidence of the Doomsman. Yet the latter flung back the challenge contemptuously.
"Words, words—painted bladders with which to belabor the backs of fools and children. It calls for a buffet of sturdier sort to convince a man."
The priest measured his adversary. "Let it be a blow, then," he said, coldly, "since a prating mouth knows no other argument than the mailed fist. But you shall not see the hand that smites, nor even know the quarter from whence it comes. Build high your walls and your bulwarks; they shall but prove the greater peril when they crumble under the impact of our lord's hammer. You will believe; yes, when trencher-mate and bedfellow are stricken at your side, and yet no man shall be able to say at what instant the avenger's shadow passed between, or catch the faintest sound of his retreating footsteps. All in his good time to whom a day and an hour and a cycle of the ages are as one."
A dozen big raindrops splashed down, and from thedistance came the patter of the advancing hail. Quinton Edge drew himself up stiffly; the necessity of immediate action was a relief more welcome than he would have cared to own. He stepped to Dom Gillian's chair, and, putting his hands under the armpits of the old man, lifted him unresisting to his feet.
"Help me with him to the White Tower," he said, with curt command, and Prosper obeyed in silence. Together they managed to get Dom Gillian down the steps and across the open space to the entrance of the tower, barely gaining the shelter when the storm broke in earnest, the rain coming down in great, gray masses as though the clouds had been literally torn asunder by the weight of their burden. For a few moments everything was blotted out by the deluge, then it lightened again with the coming of the hail, and Constans drew in his breath sharply as he saw a little cavalcade trotting slowly through the north gate from the Palace Road. First came a few of the escort-guard and behind them three or four troopers, survivors of the ill-fated expedition, followed by a couple of horse-litters, improvised from fence-poles and blankets. In these rough beds lay two grievously wounded men, and Constans gazed, half in hope, half in fear, upon their wan faces upon which the stinging hail beat down. Soldierly men they were, too, for they made no complaint, but Ulick was not one of them. A moment later Constans saw him bringing up the rear on a big bay horse. He had a bandage about his head, and looked thin and careworn, but he was alive, and Constans felt glad at heart for his friend. He managed to catch Ulick's eye as the train swept by, and for an instant the latter drewrein, bending low over his saddle-bow as he whispered to Constans, standing in the shadow of the guard-hut:
"In half an hour at the old library," and then, with passionate eagerness, "Esmay—have you seen her?"
"Yes," answered Constans, and the next instant could have bitten his unthinking tongue in twain.
It was late that night when the friends finally parted. Their interview had been a trying one; it might have ended in a serious estrangement had Constans been of nature less straightforward or Ulick of disposition less generous. Friendship between men is a beautiful thing, but of such delicate poise that only the touch of a finger is needed to displace it. And the disturbing hand is generally that of a woman. Esmay had come between them, and it needed but the mention of her name that a certain constraint should at once manifest itself.
"We'll have to drop the subject, then, or, rather, leave it where it began," said Ulick, breaking the final pause. "Perhaps it's just as well that I don't understand the reason why—it's even possible that you don't know clearly yourself. I sha'n't ask you to tell me."
Constance flushed, and was angry with himself, at this evidence of a weakness so unexpected. "It can't go on in this way," he said, decidedly. "Neither of us could wish that, and it lies with me to make it plain—to her, you know. Of course, you must have guessed that there are certain contingencies——" He stopped abruptly, as the remembrance of what Esmayhad said rushed back upon him. "I don't see that Boris is with you," he continued, gravely.
"He lies under the shadow of the southern pines—one of the first to fall that morning when the storm of gray goose arrows drove down upon us. A good end and perhaps the better one."
Constans was silent. Here was one of his contingencies that existed no longer; with Boris out of the way, the decision that Esmay must make was enormously simplified. Or was it still more infinitely complicated? With a woman to consider, the question was not so easy to answer. Nor would he attempt it. He rose, and put out his hand, "I am going to tell her," he said, simply, and Ulick, in his turn, had no further word to say; so they parted.
It was not until noon of the following day that Constans found opportunity to set out for Arcadia House, for all that morning he had been kept in close attendance at the temple. The old priest had displayed a new and astonishingly practical interest in the mysterious power that had been for so long under his nominal control; he had even joined Constans in the latter's daily task of cleaning and polishing up the working-parts of the machinery, and, as they worked, he had questioned him searchingly.
"The Shining One may be a god or no," he said, cunningly, "but it is meet that I should know him better, if only to serve him the more faithfully. You, my son, are wise, and you will tell me what you have learned from your books, that it may be added to all that our fathers have handed down by word of mouth. So shall our lord have great honor, and the unbelievers be put to shame."
Constans had no recourse but to obey, and for several hours they worked steadily, experimenting with the intricacies of switch-board and commutator, stringing various wires about the hall and noting the conditions under which they might be charged and discharged from the central source of power. Dangerous work, as they came to realize after Constans had narrowly escaped being burned by contact with a live wire. Yet undeniably fascinating, this uncovering of a great world secret, this sense of growing mastery over a power that could be none else than twin-brother to the thunderbolt. But the face of the old man gave no sign, no one could have guessed whether he now believed all or believed nothing. Certainly he was proving himself an astonishingly apt pupil, his years of practical experience with the machines admirably supplementing Constans's theoretical knowledge. It was not until mid-day that he gave the order to shut down the engines, and Constans was at liberty.
He walked rapidly in the direction of Arcadia House, for this was the hour of the principal meal with the Doomsmen, and the streets were entirely deserted. The abnormally high temperature of yesterday still prevailed, although the sky was clear, and everywhere could be heard the sound of running and dripping water. The snow, that twenty-four hours ago lay a foot deep upon the ground, was now a mass of slush, making locomotion exceedingly disagreeable. How hot the sun was! it might have been midsummer instead of the last of March; how oddly sounded the premature chirping of the birds in the leafless trees!
Arcadia House was once more in sight, and Constans's first thought was for the signal. It was stillflying from the cupola window, but that fact, of itself, meant little. All or nothing might have happened in the twenty-four hours that had elapsed since its first setting.
The rope-ladder was in its hiding-place, and Constans, by its aid, was quickly on the garden wall. Here he waited for an instant, to look and listen.
All was quiet, and there was no sign of life in the closely shuttered house. The snow in this exposed and sunny enclosure had entirely disappeared; there would be no fear of his footprints being noticed. The dogs—but Esmay had assured him that they would be kept in leash so long as the signal was flying. He wasted no further time in reflection, but descended into Quinton Edge's garden.
The plantation of spruce-trees screened him for the moment; then he ran swiftly across the open space and reached the shelter of the pavilion. It was empty, but he had expected that; he had previously set his answering signal at the window of a house overlooking the garden at the back, and he would now have to wait until Esmay should find opportunity to join him.
An hour passed, and there was no sign of her appearance. Constans grew restless, impatient, uneasy, until finally inaction became intolerable. Certainly Esmay should have come by this time, supposing that she had observed his answering signal. She might be absent, ill, a prisoner.
He looked searchingly at the apparently deserted house; the bold thought struck him to examine it more closely, even at the risk of discovery. He had his rope-ladder with him, and, at a pinch, could make a run for it. Along the northern wall of the enclosurethere was a wind-break of evergreens that would protect him up to the sunken carriageway, and, surely, he could adventure thus far and then trust Fortune and his own wits for the next move.
The piece of open ground was some seventy yards in width; he crossed it at speed and dived into the shadow of the trees, keeping close to the wall as he worked along. He reached the road without misadventure and dropped lightly down upon its stone-paved surface. It was cool and damp in this semi-subterranean causeway; the stone flagging was blotched with lichenous growth, and ferns flourished rankly in the wall crevices. Constans stood for a moment gazing up at the blank façade of the north wing, wondering how best to proceed. Then, suddenly, a face appeared at a window; Esmay herself was looking down upon him in wide-eyed astonishment. She hesitated, then motioned him towards the eastern or river side of the house, and he obeyed unquestioningly. Following the driveway around, he found himself before the pillared portico that masked the front of the main edifice; springing up the steps, he met her standing at one of the long windows that opened off the drawing-room of the mansion. She drew back, inviting him to enter.
"You are very foolish," she said, in a whisper, yet looked upon him approvingly as a woman always must upon the man who dares.
"I told you that I would come," he answered. "Yesterday it was the unexpected that happened, the return of the expedition. Between the storm and Ulick, you and the signal were clean put out of mind until too late."
She flushed. "Then you have seen Ulick?"
"Yes; he is safe and well." He hesitated. How should he tell her the truth about the other? He ended by blurting it out.
"You know that Boris—he will not return."
"He is dead?"
Constans nodded. The girl turned and looked out of the window for perhaps half a minute.
"I was to have decided between them this very day. He who is my master had so determined, and that is why I sent for you. For indeed I cannot——" She stopped; it was so difficult to put into words what must be said. Then she went on, speaking softly:
"If it had finally come to that, I must have named Boris, for I could have gone on hating him just the same as before. With Ulick it is different, for he really cared."
"But now," interrupted Constans, impatiently, "it is no longer a question of choice, but of a decision."
"I have already come to it," she returned. "I must escape from Doom; I cannot stay here for even another day."
In their absorption neither noticed how the door leading into the central hall slowly opened. It remained ajar, its very attitude that of a listener.
"You want my help," said Constans, half to himself. He was casting over in his mind the effect that the death of Boris might have upon Quinton Edge's intrigues, and he could not but conclude that Esmay had become a factor more necessary than ever in their successful development. Ulick was now the sole heir to the old Dom Gillian, and he was hostile to QuintonEdge. Only through Ulick's passion for this slip of a girl could the Doomsman hope to control him. What an admirable stroke, then, to snatch the card from his hand before he had a chance to play it.
"I will help you," he continued, aloud. "But where to find a boat?"
"There is a canoe which is generally kept moored at the garden dock; you can see it from the terrace. It is a good, stout dugout, and, oh——"
"Well?"
"There is Nanna, my sister; I cannot go without her."
"She is in no danger," said Constans, with calm indifference. "The boat will carry only two—is that it?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then; Nanna must remain behind."
"It is impossible to leave her; I have promised."
"No; it is her coming that is impossible, and because I say so."
The girl remained silent. Had she yielded to a will stronger than her own? The door seemed to hesitate; then it closed noiselessly.
Esmay crossed over to one of the windows opening on the garden grounds and flung the shutters open. The coolness of the later afternoon breeze fell gratefully upon her hot cheeks; the horizontal, reddish-rays of the declining sun emphasized the warm coloring of her hair and complexion, and brought out again those curious carmine flecks in her eyes of topaz that Constans had noticed once or twice before. An odd combination, but he realized now that he had thought it pretty. The girl divined the unspoken word and drew back a trifle.
Retreat is the first and essential principle of feminine strategy, and in practice it should suggest the ambuscade to even the most thoughtless of masculine minds. But it never does. Constans stepped up a little closer.
"Nanna must go with me," repeated the girl, hurriedly. "You will help us to get out the boat and tell me in what direction Croye lies. We shall find our way, never fear, for I know the stars, and Nanna can paddle all day long as well as a man."
"And what will you do when you get to Croye?" asked Constans, gently. "Must you hear the whole truth about your uncle, Messer Hugolin? It is not that he is unable but unwilling to turn a hand in your behalf. The humblest shelter, the meanest food—I know what you would say. But not even a night's housing in the cattle-byre or a plate of broken victuals is to be had from Messer Hugolin unless one is prepared to pay, and roundly, too. Remember that I, too, am of his blood, and have dwelt in his house."
The girl's eyes grew cloudy and troubled. "There is the town itself," she faltered. "Surely among so many people there must be some chance for a livelihood—there is work—-"
"Not of the honest kind and for such as you," he retorted. "Must I make you understand? Look at yourself, then, in the glass behind you." Suddenly he took her hand between both his own. "Who would dare hint at work to those fingers so slimly white? But one may live delicately, even in Croye."
The girl recoiled as though from a blow, and Constans felt the shame of having actually struck one. "But not you," he stammered, and raged inwardly athimself. She forgave him in a look. "But, Esmay," he said, humbly. She smiled to him to go on.
"You are thinking of the world beyond, but indeed you do not know it—its cruelty to the weak, above all to a woman. Here, at least——"
"Here the least of all," she interrupted, but would not look at him to make her meaning clearer.
"Yet you see how I could not let you go alone or even with Nanna," he urged.
"Yes, I understand that. What is it that you wish me to do?"
Constans started. Was he, then, prepared to make himself responsible for this young creature's future? Of course she could not remain longer in a position so dangerous and equivocal. But why should she not be reasonable? It was true that Nanna was quite capable of managing the boat; he had only to assist them to get away and give the word to Ulick that he might follow. Ulick would go to the end of the world to serve her.
A thoroughly sensible solution of the problem, and then in a twinkle Constans forgot that he had ever wanted Esmay to be reasonable, forgot the faith owed to a friend and the vengeance sworn against an enemy, forgot times and seasons and the peril in which they stood, forgot all things save that he was a man and she was a woman, and that he had suddenly come to desire her above all else in life.
"A woman, and some day he would come to know what that meant." Now he knew.
Esmay stood waiting for the answer to her question.
"You cannot go alone," he said, in a half-whisper,"and your sister's protection is useless. You will have to trust yourself to me."
Esmay had turned away her head, but a treacherous mirror intercepted the confession in her eyes and flung it back to him who had compelled its utterance. Now a man may never yet have seen that look on a woman's face, but he need not fear lest he fail to recognize it when at last his time comes. Constans saw, and suddenly the primeval passion of the world seized and shook him. "I want you," he said, and would have taken her—then stopped, confounded and appalled.
Through the open window came the sharp, staccato yelp of a hound at field. Yes; the dogs were out, and already they were at work, ranging in great semicircles, alert with the joy of the chase. There was Blazer, with his tawny muzzle, and behind him Fangs, the great, black bitch, half mastiff and half bloodhound, the saliva dripping from her jaws as she ran. Constans drew a deep breath as he watched them. Already they were nearing the pavilion; in a few seconds at the farthest they would be giving tongue upon the striking of his scent. He must decide quickly then, and he turned to Esmay.
A black suspicion gathered in Constans's mind as he looked upon her mute agony and misinterpreted it.
"What is it?" he asked, with rising anger, but she answered no word. The memory of the ancient betrayal rushed back upon him.
"Perhaps another bracelet of carbuncles?" She shrank back as though from a blow.
"Esmay!" he said, roughly, and shook her by the shoulders, not being in fear for himself but intent upon knowing the truth, however incredible. Then as shestill gave no sign he flung her from him and strode away, the flame of a fierce anger in his heart. To die here—the base fate of a runaway slave upon whose trail the master has set his hounds—no, it should not be! Yet, with only his bare hands, for there was not even a billet of wood lying about—well, if it must be— Then he bethought him of the boat that Esmay had told him was always kept moored at the garden landing-stage. He glanced out and saw that the canoe had disappeared. He turned to the girl and announced the fact. "If indeed it were ever there," he added. It seemed as though her eyes pointed to the door leading to the other part of the house, but he shook his head. "I would rather meet it in the open," he said, coldly.
He considered a moment longer, and threw off his black soutane, having determined to take to the water, although it was truly a desperate chance, the current running like a mill-race with the ebbing tide, and, moreover, being choked with ice-floes. Ah, there was Blazer's bay, he must lose no time. Without another glance at that silent, rigid figure, he stepped quickly through the long window and gained the portico. Something snapped in the girl's throat, her lips quivered hysterically, and she laughed aloud, a flood of silvery sound.