There had been no final understanding between Constans and Piers Major as to the precise line of the attack upon the citadel. That must depend upon the successful carrying of the defences at the boundary and upon the duration of the skirmishing in the streets. Both had agreed, however, that a night assault offered the better chances of victory. The Stockaders had no siege artillery with which to batter down the gates at long range; they would have to march straight to the walls, and the darkness would be in the nature of a protection from the missiles of the enemy. The moon, a little past the full, rose about nine o'clock, but its light was liable to be obscured by clouds. One of the sudden changes characteristic of the month of May was in progress, and a cold wind was blowing from the northwest. It promised to be half a gale by midnight, and already the sky was partially overcast. The initiative lay, of course, with Piers Major, and Constans must use his own judgment in making the diversion in the rear.
"They are throwing up an inner barricade," said Piers Minor, at Constans's elbow. He looked, and saw that the space immediately in front of the storehouses was being enclosed by a barrier of earth and paving-stones. The Doomsmen were prepared, then, for the possible carrying of the main walls by assault. What could be the weak point in the defence?
"The gate," suggested Piers Minor.
Constans levelled his glass and examined the barrier with attention. The vaulted archway through the walls was about sixteen feet long by ten wide and as many high. At the street end it was closed by a gate consisting of two wooden leaves, swung on hinges in the ordinary manner, and having as a central support a stout post firmly sunken into the ground. The timber construction was of the heaviest, but axe and sledge would make short work of it could they be brought near enough for effective use.
At the inner entrance to the archway was suspended a portcullis of wrought-iron bars. This was the real barrier, for, even if the attacking party succeeded in battering down the outer gate, they would find themselves cooped up in the passageway and exposed to missiles discharged both through the grating and from trap-doors in the vaulted ceiling. A well-conceived theory of defence, but its present practice was complicated by an unexpected difficulty—the portcullis, long unused, had become jammed in the ways and refused to descend. A squad of men were sweating at the task, but so far they had accomplished nothing.
"You are right," said Constans, letting the glass fall and turning to Piers Minor. "What can they be thinking of—wasting time in that hopeless tinkering? The one important thing is to close the passageway—if possible, by means of the portcullis; failing that, to block it up. If Piers Major but knew—nay, hemustknow."
Piers Minor nodded; he understood the appeal.
"I am going to tell him," he said, imperturbably. "I will be careful about keeping out of sight until well away from the vicinity of the 'Flat-iron.' So as not to spoil sport for you," he added, smiling.
Constans accompanied Piers Minor to the street entrance, going over in detail the message that he was to bear to his father. A final admonition of caution, and they parted. It was still broad daylight, and Constans returned to his post of observation.
Of course, the expected happened. A report of the portcullis's unserviceable condition had been finally made to Quinton Edge, and already he was on the scene—a master indeed. The confusion, the contradictory babel of voices, dies away into order and silence, and, as Constans had foreseen, his orders were to suspend operations on the portcullis and proceed with all speed to the blocking-up of the archway. Choked to the ceiling with loose stones and other débris, it would be a formidable barricade to carry by assault.
Constans strode up and down the room, devoured by impatience. Piers Minor had been gone now upward of half an hour, and yet there was no sign of preparation in the camp of the allies. It would take possibly an hour longer to make the vaulted passage impassable; Piers Major must advance within half that time if he would take advantage of this secret weakness in the defence. Failing to do so, he would be thrown back upon the desperate adventure of the scaling-ladders, and the whole issue would then hang upon the effectiveness with which Constans could bring off his attack from the rear.
The restless fit passed, and Constans leaned out uponthe window-sill, watching the darkening sky. A fierce revulsion seized him as he pictured to himself the scene upon which the morning sun would look—the kennels red with blood, the horrors huddled in every corner, all the dreadful jetsam cast up by the ensanguined tide of war. Of necessity, perhaps, must such things be—the endurance of a lesser evil that the greater wrong might be forever blotted out. And yet his heart was heavy.
He looked out again upon the ruined wilderness of stone that hemmed him in. How he hated this monstrous city of Doom, infernal mother of treacheries and spoils! How weary he was of wandering through its stony labyrinths, fit symbol of his own oft-thwarted hopes! A vision of green fields and quiet waters rose before him, he seemed to be walking knee-deep in the lush grass starred with purple asters and the sweet meadow-flag—it was the old home paddock of the Greenwood Keep; there was the copse of white beeches, and through it came the flutter of a woman's gown. Eagerly he watched as she came to meet him—Issa; then she turned her face full towards him, and he saw that it was Esmay. He sprang forward.
A roll of drums beating the charge, and Constans started. "At last!" he said.
Piers Minor, keeping as closely as possible to cover, worked his way slowly to the northward and towards the Stockader camp, on the Palace Road. But, being unfamiliar with the topography of the district, he insensibly kept edging into dangerous proximity to the Citadel Square; suddenly he found himself within ashort block of its eastern front. He turned to retreat, and came face to face with a slender, black-eyed youth who must have been following close upon his heels. Discovered, he tried to dodge, but Piers Minor was too quick, and they closed. The youth struggled gallantly, but the Stockader had all the advantage in strength; in another moment Piers Minor had his antagonist crushed helplessly into a corner. He looked at the boy contemptuously.
"Not a sound, mind, or I'll twist your throat as I would a meadow-lark's. Why were you following me?"
The black eyes snapped back at him unwinkingly.
"Let me speak, then—you hurt me."
Piers Minor loosened his hold upon the slender throat.
"Go on."
"You are a Stockader, and there is a young man with you, fair-haired and with dark eyes—Constans by name? Do you know him?"
"Well, and if I do?"
"Will you tell me where and how I can see him? Just a word, or, if not, then to send him a message."
"It is impossible," said Piers Minor, stolidly. "This is a time of war, and only for life and death——"
"It is a question of that," insisted the youth.
Piers Minor shook himself impatiently.
"Speak out, can't you? What is it that he would care to know?"
"Tell him, then, that last night Esmay disappeared, and yet still remains in Arcadia House. He will understand, for he knows Quinton Edge."
"A woman!" ejaculated Piers Minor, in supreme disdain. "Always that."
"Yes, always that," retorted the boy, and Piers Minor burst into a laugh.
"You are a bold one," he said, half admiringly. "Well, I will tell him; I promise you that. And now what am I to do with you?"
The boy made a grimace. "We may part as we have met, with no one the wiser."
"I am not so sure of that," said the other, suspiciously. "You are a Doomsman, and you know me to be a Stockader—a spy, if you like. If it were for myself alone I might trust you, but so much may hang——"
He stopped abruptly and his eyes darkened. "The only sure way lies at my knife-point." He scanned intently the face which paled before his gaze, yet changed not in the smallest line.
"Good!" said Piers Minor, heartily. "Although, indeed, I could never have done it. Yet I must bind and gag you," he added.
The boy pouted. "No; I will not have you touch me." He tried by a sudden movement to slip under Piers Minor's detaining hand. The shock displaced his cap, a fastening gave way at the same instant, and a mass of long, black hair tumbled down upon the youth's shoulders. Even then Piers Minor, being of masculine slow wit, might not have guessed the truth but for a bright blush that overspread brow and cheek, a confession that even his dull senses could not misinterpret.
"A woman!" he said, confusedly, and blushed as unrestrainedly in his turn.
Beholding his embarrassment, Nanna was relieved of her own.
"You will have to trust me, you see," she said, coldly.
The abashed Piers Minor murmured an indistinct assent.
"And you will not forget my message?"
"No, no! He shall have it at the earliest possible moment."
"Very good—it is understood, then. Now you may go."
Piers Minor had not a word to say. He had been meditating upon a thousand possible explanations, excuses, apologies, and his tongue would not utter one of them. He accepted his orders meekly, but as he turned to go he managed to stammer out, "Of course—to meet again."
Nanna, to her own infinite amazement, answered with a look that meant yes, and knew that he had not failed to so understand it. As she walked over to the Citadel Square she could feel that he was standing where she had left him and looking after her. She would have turned to fittingly rebuke behavior so indecorous, but something told her that her insulted dignity would be better saved by removing it to a greater distance.
Nanna entered the Citadel Square after some parley with the sentinels on the walls, who grumbled at the trouble to which they were put to let down a rope-ladder; but, being a daughter of the Doomsmen, she could not be denied.
A little crowd of women and elderly men gathered about an ox-cart in the centre of the square attracted her attention. They were listening to a speaker who, standing upright in the wagon-body, was haranguingthem earnestly. Nanna recognized him—Prosper, the priest.
It was the old story—repentance, the wrath of the Shining One, and the imminence of the judgment. The men of the garrison, absorbed in their preparations for defence, paid no heed; only this handful of old men and fearful women, who crept a little closer together as they listened and sought one another's hands. "To-day, to-day, even to-day, and Doom is fallen, is fallen!"
A disquieting thought flashed into Nanna's mind, the remembrance of those carefully arranged broken wires in the empty house not more than a block away from the Citadel Square. Then of those other wires in the temple of the Shining One, spluttering their wicked-looking sparks. She strained her ears to catch the humming drone of the engines in the House of Power, but there was no sound to be heard—they could not be running.
"Yet there will be mischief worked to-night if the priest has his way," said Nanna to herself, and shook her black-polled head safely. "I almost wish that I had toldhimof that, too." And then, unaccountably, she blushed again, for all that it was dark and no one was looking at her.
It did not take long for Constans to arouse and collect his men; tired of inaction, they were only too glad to respond to the summons. And at the last, Constans, unable to withstand the entreaty in Red Oxenford's eyes, ordered his release.
"But, with the others, you must wait upon my word," he said, sternly, and Oxenford, fearful above all things of being left behind, gave ready assent to the condition.
Under the south rampart of the citadel they halted. There were but two guards on duty here, and they were easily surprised and secured before they could give an alarm. As one by one the rest of the company ascended the scaling-ladder, they were ordered to throw themselves prone on the flat top of the wall, to await the final signal. Over at the north gate the clamor grew momentarily—there were blows of axes on wood, and clash of arms, and the confused crying of many voices.
"The snapping-turtle must be at his work," said Constans to himself. "Wait until his teeth show through that flimsy wooden screen."
Piers Major had advanced promptly upon receivingthe message brought by his son. The chances of a frontal attack had already been discussed between him and Constans, and the latter had devised a formation which, in theory at least, should make such an undertaking feasible. In its basic idea it was the Romantestudo, described by Julius Cæsar in the Gallic Commentaries. The phalanx of marching men were protected from arrows, darts, and ordinary missiles by a continuous covering formed of their ox-hide shields, the latter being held horizontally above the head and interlocked. The overlapping shields bore a fanciful resemblance to the scaly carapace of a tortoise—hence its name; and, so long as the essential principle of unity of action was maintained, it might be reckoned an effective engine of warfare.
As thetestudomoved down the Palace Road and towards the wooden barrier of the north gate, it was to be observed that the front-rank men and the file-closers carried their shields in the ordinary fashion, in order to ward off horizontally flying missiles. Once under the shelter of the walls, the leaders would immediately discard their now useless bucklers and begin to ply their axes, protected from overhead assaults by the overlapping shields of their comrades. The formation advanced steadily; there was a suggestion of terrific irresistibility in the very slowness of its progress; to the eager fancy it might have been the veritable recreation of some prehistoric monster, the illusion being heightened by the torchlight that flickered uncertainly over the rounded bellies of the shields of greenish leather and was reflected redly from their copper bosses.
The defence had been quick to recognize the character of the assault, and had done their best to repelit. The catapults had been brought into action, and their huge projectiles hurtled constantly through the air, but for the most part innocuously, the machines not being in the best of order and the artillerymen unpractised in their use. It was not until thetestudohad advanced to within fifty yards that a shot discharged by a machine, worked by Quinton Edge in person, took effect, the missile striking thetestudoon the left wing and disabling three men. Before the advantage could be followed up the files had been closed again and the formation had advanced so far that the catapults became useless, it being impossible to depress them beyond a certain angle. The front rank had now reached the barrier, and the axes fell furiously upon the wooden leaves of the gate. The Doomsmen on the walls renewed the attack with hand-weapons, the slingers and archers hurling their missiles vertically downward and the spearmen watching their opportunity for an effective body-thrust. The affair would be short and sharp, for thetestudocould not be expected to hold its position for longer than a few minutes—it was not in flesh and blood to withstand indefinitely that fierce and deadly shower. Already there were gaps in the protective roof of shields—impossible to repair, for in that close-packed mass the bodies of the wounded and dead impeded the progress of those who would otherwise have taken their places. Yet the struggle went stubbornly on.
A sharp-eyed youth who was lying next to Constans touched him on the arm, directing his attention to a squad of the defenders who were working to dislodge one of the massive coping-stones of the gateway arch. Already it was oscillating under the heave of the levers;if it fell, a score of men might be crushed beneath its weight, and the destruction of thetestudowould be a certainty. Constans raised his rifle. It was a long shot, but he could not wait to take deliberate aim; he fired.
The bullet had found its mark, for one man was fallen where he stood and another nursed a broken wrist. The workers at the gate were thrown into confusion and the stone settled back into its bed. The assailants redoubled their efforts, and the thunder of the axe-blows became continuous.
"Through! they are through!" shouted Constans, and sprang down upon the banquette. In his excitement he entirely forgot about the new weapon that had but just now rendered such signal service; he threw aside the rifle for the more familiar sword. And he noticed that his followers had acted under the same primitive impulse; the fire-stick might be given the honor of drawing first blood, but it was for cold steel to finish the work.
Shoulder to shoulder the men raced across the square to the gate. The attempt to block up the passage, had failed for lack of time, and the Stockaders were pouring through pellmell, intent on securing foothold in the open. The Doomsmen, forsaking the now useless walls, met them man to man; there was the clash of opposing bucklers, and through the din pierced the keen, clear ring of blades in play—the Song of the Sword.
The diversion in the rear came at the opportune moment. The Doomsmen had so far greatly out-numbered the Stockaders, and the latter were being forced back into the vaulted passage, thereby blocking itagainst the main body of their comrades. But now the Doomsmen, attacked from behind, were obliged to devote part of their attention elsewhere, the pressure at the gateway was relieved, and reinforcements, with Piers Major and Piers Minor at their head, made their way through and took active part in the struggle. Even then the defenders were slightly superior numerically to the invading party, and the issue remained in doubt.
Constans felt himself carried into the thickest of the press; he fought on mechanically, thrusting and cutting with the rest, and yet hardly conscious of what he was doing. His mind would not work easily; he found himself dwelling upon inconsequential trifles—what had become of his cap? and how tall was that big fellow with the broad-axe who seemed so anxious to come to close quarters with him? He was not in the least afraid, but he wondered if it were possible for him to come out of all this alive. It seemed unthinkable that the ring of steel surrounding him could be broken by any mortal power; sooner or later it must contract and crush him. Even the momentary vision of Ulick, stripped to the waist and with a broad, red streak across his forehead, failed to arouse him. He could think only of a thresher with his flail as Ulick, bludgeoning right and left, won clear from the press of Stockader foes surrounding him and rejoined his own ranks. A confused idea that he wanted to speak to Ulick suddenly oppressed Constans; he half started to follow him. Piers Minor, at his elbow, held him back and shouted a caution.
"Keep up your guard, man, or that big chap will have you yet! And let them come to you—don't rush them!"
In a hand-to-hand encounter there can be but little opportunity for strategy or leadership, except in the purely physical sense. Yet, on either side, the men fought as though animated by a common instinct, the Doomsmen striving to force the Stockaders back into the gateway passage, and the latter endeavoring to cut their way bodily through the mass of the defenders and so divide its strength. For a while the tide began to run with the allies, and the Doomsmen were obliged to fall back slowly towards the interior barricade on the east side of the square that protected the women and children. Constans, panting from his exertions, snatched at this moment of respite to regain his breath. A moment before he had stumbled against a small keg that was rolling about under the feet of the struggling men; this he up-ended and mounted for a better look around.
It was true; the Doomsmen were really giving way, and the victory was all but won. Yet not quite, for even as he gazed the onrushing line of the triumphant Stockaders sagged backward at the centre, and the Doomsman yell broke out. What was it? What had happened?
Emerging from the portal of the White Tower came half a dozen bearers carrying between them a chair in which sat a man—an old man with a shock of snow-white hair covering his massive head. And those shoulders needed no identification from the familiar wolf-skin that lay across them. This could be none other than Dom Gillian, Chief and Overlord of the Doomsmen, Father of the Gray People. He wore no armor and carried no shield, but his hand gripped a great war-mace studded with silver nails, fit emblemof the authority supreme that its own weight had created. But that had been full half a century ago.
The old man made a movement as though to rise. Two of the attendants attempted to assist him, but he waved them back. Ah, the wonder of it as that huge bulk reared itself to full height! An ordinary man might stand comfortably under his out-stretched arm and barely join the tips of his fingers in measuring around the monster's girth. But there was more than mere bigness with which to reckon. The close observer might notice that his armpits and the corresponding parts under the knee were not hollow, as is ordinarily the case, but were filled with a solid mass of muscle and tendon. And this was Dom Gillian, with the weight of ninety-odd years upon his back. What manner of man must he have been in the noonday of his strength!
As though by common consent the conflict came to an abrupt end; the two lines drew apart and silence fell between them. Dom Gillian took two or three forward steps. He seemed to be uncertain of where to plant his feet, as is the natural consequent when one has not walked for a long time; but once squarely set, he stood solidly—like a column of masonry. The bent shoulders had straightened up and the chest had filled out; there was no evidence of decrepitude in the ease with which he manipulated his ponderous mace, swinging it from side to side in great, slow circles. Only Constans noticed that he kept his head turned constantly in one direction, where there was a great flare of light, a dozen cressets and link-torches burning together. Could it be that his eyesight had failed save for the mere distinction between light and darkness? It might be well to know surely, and, stepping down from his vantage-point, Constans forced his way to the front. Quinton Edge was speaking, and Constans listened with the rest.
"If there is one among you," he said, with smooth distinctness, "who thinks himself a man, let him stand forth and make answer to our father, Dom Gillian, face to face, so that our lord may particularly inquire concerning these dogs of Stockaders who dare to show a naked blade in the inmost citadel of Doom the Forbidden. You have tracked the gray wolf to his lair, now send you out a gallant who will clip his claws."
Constans, intent upon his theory, noticed that Dom Gillian had turned his head in the direction of Quinton Edge's voice when he first began to speak, but almost immediately his attention had flagged and his eyes had wandered back to the lights. Now, as Quinton Edge stopped, the old man's face changed suddenly, the eyebrows contracting and the jaw setting itself rigidly. It seemed as though he were about to speak, but there was only that murmur in his throat, hoarse and unintelligible. Then Constans understood that this was no longer a man that stood before them, but merely a wild beast in leash. The monster seemed annoyed by the silence. He moved forward uncertainly for a few steps and stood still; one could hear him purring softly like a big cat.
"We are waiting," said Quinton Edge.
A man brushed by Constans and stepped into the open. It was Oxenford the "Red."
"This belongs to me—to none other," he said, and looked about him.
No man moved.
"I am ready," he continued, and threw his upper coat on the ground behind him. Constans stood for an instant at Oxenford's ear.
"The old wolf is nearly blind," he whispered. "Take care not to get between him and the light yonder and you have a chance."
Oxenford nodded. His manner was quiet and collected, and his face, though pale, had lost the strained look that had characterized it for these last few days. "Stand clear!" he said, and Constans moved away and stood watching.
Man to man, Oxenford, though by no means a weakling, was yet outclassed in every particular of height, weight, and reach. But he possessed one inestimable advantage—that of agility. Quick footwork should save him at even the closest pinch—that and his wits. Then, if the giant were really blind!
Realizing the futility of trying to meet Dom Gillian with weapons similar to his own, Oxenford had provided himself with a simple truncheon of lignum-vitæ, while in his belt was stuck a broad-bladed, double-edged knife. The latter was for close quarters, but it would require some manœuvring to get there, and Dom Gillian would ask opportunity but for one clean stroke.
The men faced each other steadily for perhaps a minute. Then Oxenford rapped his antagonist smartly across the knuckles and sprang back out of reach. The colossus, with a growl, swung his mace to right and left, striking at random, for Oxenford had cunningly contrived to turn Dom Gillian so that the light was at his back. Quinton Edge must have noticedthe ruse, for he beckoned to an attendant and ordered that every available torch and cresset should be placed about the arena. But the affair was over long before the command could be obeyed.
Again the giant struck out, and this time so strongly that he came near to losing his balance. Oxenford, rushing in, discharged a quick half-arm blow on the Doomsman's right wrist, and the mace dropped from the suddenly paralyzed grip. Confused and terror-stricken, Dom Gillian dropped on all-fours, groping about in the darkness for the weapon that had rolled away and out of immediate reach. Oxenford, drawing his knife, struck downward, aiming for the angle of neck and collar-bone. But in his eagerness he overshot the mark, the blade making only a trifling flesh wound, and the next instant Dom Gillian had him in his clutch. The two stood up together.
It seemed a long time, hours indeed, that Dom Gillian waited for his injured wrist to recover its strength, holding Oxenford easily in his left hand and shaking the other incessantly to restore the interrupted circulation. Even when at last satisfied that the wrist could be trusted to do its duty, he did not appear to be in any hurry; he seemed to be meditating upon the most effective use to which he could apply the advantage that he had gained. Then, suddenly, Dom Gillian bent down and grasped his victim by the ankles, swinging Oxenford into the air as easily as a thresher does his flail. With every muscle starting to the strain, the Doomsman whirled his enemy's body once, twice, and thrice, at full sweep about his head, then downward into crushing contact with the pavement. A final superhuman effort, and the inert masswas hurled clean over the heads of the on-lookers, falling with the dead sound of over-ripe fruit against the wall of the White Tower.
A full minute passed, and still every eye remained fixed on Dom Gillian. He had not moved, except to turn his head again in the direction of the light—a dumb instinct like to the compass-needle that seeks the magnetic pole. A colossal statue, but Constans fancied that it was swaying at its base, then he saw the great chest heave convulsively and a bubble of reddish foam issuing at his lips.
But the man was dying hard; in another moment he had straightened up, and was resolutely swallowing back the salty, suffocating tide, beating the air with his hands as he strove for breath. Only for an instant, however, for now the tide had become a flood, and, with a little fretful moan, like to that of a tired child, Dom Gillian, Overlord of Doom, sank to earth, not falling headlong, as does a felled tree, but quietly settling into a heap, just as an empty bag collapses into itself.
The fighting had begun again; no man could say why or how. True, the Doomsmen had been disheartened by the fall of their champion, but they were not yet ready to yield themselves; they had retreated to the shelter of the interior barricade, and would make there a final stand. The Stockaders, flushed with anticipated triumph, drove blindly, recklessly at the barrier. Constans felt the blood singing in his ears, then a weight suddenly lifted from his brain; his eyes cleared and the fierce joy of conflict captured him. He forced his way to the front, gaining foothold onthe barricade. Ten feet away stood Quinton Edge, and Constans's heart was glad. At last!
A hand caught at the skirt of his doublet, and impatiently he jerked himself loose. Again the detaining grasp; he bent down to strike and looked into Ulick's eyes. Obedient to the unspoken request, he knelt down and tried to move his friend into a more comfortable position. The crushed chest sank horribly under his hands, and he was obliged to give over.
"Close to me," whispered Ulick, and Constans bent his head to listen.
"It is of Esmay," he said. "Nanna but just now told me—a prisoner—Arcadia House—you will go to her?"
"Yes," said Constans.
But Ulick had followed the direction of his eyes and seen that they rested on Quinton Edge.
"At once; it must be now—else too late."
Constans did not answer.
"Now!" reiterated Ulick, insistently.
"I cannot."
"Yes."
"I will not."
"Yes."
Constans's voice was hard; he rose to his feet.
"I have been waiting upon this chance for years—you do not understand."
"Yes—I understand."
"All along; it was you who loved her."
"But you—whom she loved."
"No," said Constans, sullenly.
"It is—true."
"No!" again cried Constans. Then, suddenly, itseemed that a great light shone about him. But the wonder of it lay not in this new knowledge of Esmay's heart, but in the revelation of his own. He loved her, he knew it now, and not as in that brief moment of passion at Arcadia, when even honor seemed well lost. For this was the greater love that draws a man to the one woman in the world who has the power to lift him to the heights whereon she herself stands. A supreme joy, that humbled even while it exalted, swept over Constans. "I will go," he said, and took Ulick's hand in both his own.
The storm-centre of the fighting had moved away from them; above their heads the stars shone serenely. Constans could not speak, but he pointed them out to his friend.
Piers Minor, fighting in the press at the gate as became his stout breed, chanced to rescue a boy from being crushed to death. The lad had been crowded up against a projecting angle and was quite breathless when the Stockader, arching his back against the pressure, broke the jam by sheer strength and pulled the stripling out of his dangerous position. But what a fine color came back into the white cheeks as the twain recognized each other!
"You!" said Nanna, and at that moment she would have given all she possessed in the world for just a skirt.
"You!" re-echoed Piers Minor, and immediately a horrible dumbness fell upon him.
The thunder of the captains and the shouting filled their ears, but they heard not, the red light of battledanced before their eyes, but they saw not. Some miracle swept them clear of the struggle, and guided them to the shelter afforded by a half-completed barricade of ox-carts. And here Piers Minor, seeing that she trembled and edged closer to him like any ordinary woman, took on a wonderful accession of courage.
"Little one!" he murmured, in his big, bass voice, and laughed contentedly, just as though death were not standing at his other elbow. But then Piers Minor was not a man to think of more than one thing at a time.
"I have seen Ulick," whispered Nanna, "and he promised to give the message to Constans. Surely he will do so—tell me?"
Piers Minor put his arm around her. "Of course," he answered, stoutly, without comprehending in the least who Ulick was or what the message could be about. But he did understand that she wanted comfort in her trouble, and so he said and did precisely the right thing. All of which was exceedingly clever for Piers Minor.
Some one brushed rudely against them, and Piers Minor turned in anger. But Nanna laid her hand upon his arm. "Hush!" she said, "it is Prosper, the priest."
The old man stood motionless for an instant surveying the wild scene before him.
"It is the third day," he muttered, "the day of Doom. The day and now the hour. So be it, lord; it is thy will, and I obey."
With the last word he wheeled and disappeared into the shadows. An intuitive sense of the impending peril seized the girl. "Come!" she panted, and dragged at her companion's sleeve. "It is the vengeance of the Shining One. But there is a chance—if we follow."
Piers Minor did not hesitate. "As you will," he said, briefly, and Nanna flashed back at him a brilliant smile, hand-in-hand they sped through the now deserted passageway of the north gate.
For the last time Constans bent his lips to the ear of the dying man. "Ulick!" he called. There was no answer, and Constans felt that the hand that lay in his was growing cold. Then for one brief instant the soul looked out from the hollowed eyes.
"The sun!" he said, and smiled as one who, having kept the watches of a long night, looks upon the dawn. "The sun!" he cried again, and his spirit went forth to meet it.
Constans rose unsteadily to his feet.
The sun! A vivid glare beat down upon him. The sun! and rising in the west!
A vast shaft of fire shot upward to the zenith, and all along the western horizon pinnacles and roof-line stood out etched in crimson. Constans saw that the entire quarter of the city west of the Citadel Square was in conflagration, and the flames, borne on the wings of a northwest gale, came driving swiftly down. A rain of red-hot cinders fell about him.
A shout of terror went up from Doomsmen and Stockader alike, and the fighting ended abruptly. Then began a rush for the gate, victors and vanquished mingled indiscriminately together, constrained only by the one common impulse to seek refuge in flight. To add to the confusion, fresh explosions were heard on the north and south, followed almost immediately by the appearance of flames in these latter quarters. Where, then, led the path to safety?
Constans, running towards the southern rampart, where he knew he should find his ladder, saw a tall figure just ahead of him. He recognized Quinton Edge, but the Doomsman had reached and scaled the wall before Constans could overtake him. Yet he caught a glimpse of his enemy proceeding rapidly in a northeast direction. Constans followed immediately, tightening his belt for the hard run that lay before him.
Prosper's start upon Piers Minor and Nanna had been a short one, and under ordinary circumstances he could hardly have retained his advantage. But in her nervous confusion Nanna made two wrong turns, and so many precious moments were wasted.
A quarter of a mile away from the citadel they were halted by the sound of a heavy explosion. Piers Minor spoke his astonishment frankly.
"Thunder on a cool night in May! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"It is the voice of the Shining One," said Nanna to herself, and hurried on the faster.
"Yet the lightning must have struck somewhere," persisted Piers Minor, "for the sky is red. There! look for yourself."
Half a dozen blocks away to the westward they could see flames shooting from the windows of a warehouse. Its contents must have been highly combustible, for they were burning like chaff in a furnace draught. As they stood and watched the conflagration a second explosion occurred, and so close at hand that the ground seemed to rock beneath their feet. And with that Nanna's heart grew faint within her,for now she knew certainly that they were too late. The Shining One had spoken, and Doom was falling.
Piers Minor looked at his companion with troubled eyes. What was this devil's work?
"The Shining One," she whispered, and clung to his arm. "See how his tongues of fire lick up the dust of Doom."
"But who is the Shining One?" demanded the young man, wonderingly.
"Listen!"
Deep under the crackling of the flames vibrated the diapason of the great dynamo. Piers Minor turned pale.
"He speaks," whispered the girl. "And now look, look!"
A little distance away stood one of the ancient telegraph-poles carrying a tangled mass of wire ends. The pole had been swaying dangerously in the rising gale; now with a loud crack it broke off close to the ground and fell so that the wires were brought into naked contact with a copper cable suspended on the opposite side of the street. Instantly the "dead" wires awoke to life, spluttering and hissing like a bunch of snakes; a cataract of yellow-blue sparks poured from the broken ends.
"The tongues of fire," said Nanna. "You may have seen them devour a single tree in the forest or suck out a man's life with a touch, but to-night they are hungry and they are eating up the world."
A terrifying conclusion that was not so far away from the truth. During the last few minutes the area of the conflagration had increased tremendously and the whole central portion of the city, including theCitadel Square, was now a vast furnace in which no life could possibly exist. For the moment the general direction of the wind had shifted, and the flames were not bearing down so rapidly as before upon the two fugitives. They would be in comparative safety for some time yet unless the gale veered back to its former quarter.
"We can never get through to the north," said Piers Minor.
"There is no necessity," returned Nanna. "I know of a wharf on the Lesser river where the shad-fishers keep their boats. We can reach it from here in a quarter of an hour."
"Good," said Piers Minor, and waited for her to lead the way. Then, as she still held back, he went on, impatiently, "The wind may change at any moment, and it is foolish to wait."
"It is my sister," explained the girl. "She is here in the city—a prisoner——" Her voice shook and failed her.
"But what can we do?" asked the young man. "You do not even know—in Quinton Edge's house, you say? But that is a mile or more away, and the road is already blocked. It is impossible."
"Yes, I know, but suppose there should be a chance—the hand that has moved the Shining One to strike, may it not be lifted again to repair the evil?"
"I do not understand," said Piers Minor.
And thereupon Nanna described as clearly as she could the part that Prosper, the priest, had played in the impending tragedy. Surely he might be prevailed upon to avert the judgment from the innocent. He who had released the flames could as easily restrain them. Or, at least, Arcadia House might be spared.
"But where are we to find him?"
Nanna pointed down the street. "There—in the House of Power."
"Come," he said, and they went on quickly.
At the entrance to the temple of the Shining One they stopped and listened. The air was all tremulous with the hum of the rapidly revolving dynamos, the thud of the reciprocating machinery, and the grinding of the badly lubricated shafting.
Piers Minor knew that he was horribly afraid, but for very shame he could not hold back. Together they stole a little way within the vaulted entrance and listened again. Nothing but the roar of the machinery. The vast hall would have been in utter darkness save for the glare of the conflagration; as it was, they could see clearly that there was nobody within.
"The little room beyond," said Nanna, and shivered. These were forbidden sights for a woman's eyes, and the god would be very angry. Yet it must be done. They joined hands like two children and went forward.
Now they stood, wondering, within the little room with its low ceiling and bare white walls. Could it be that so great a god as the Shining One could dwell here? An empty room, save for the oak chair standing in the middle of the floor and that curious-appearing board fixed against the wall, with its multiplicity of keys, knobs, and levers. That was all, and yet a vague terror laid its hand upon them; they remained motionless and speechless.
Something, some one had entered the room—slow footsteps and the rustle of trailing garments. Then the sound of a lever snapped to its connecting points,and the great, shining face flamed out of the darkness. In his intense absorption, the old priest saw nothing of the two who also waited there. Advancing to the centre of the room, he stood and looked upon the countenance of the Shining One, while a man might count twoscore. Then he spoke, slowly and hesitatingly, as one who excuses himself of grievous fault:
"Let the Shining One be content—it is accomplished. And now, O father, have mercy. For the sins of thy people—a sacrifice——"
With unfaltering step he walked to the great chair and seated himself. Then, in a clear voice, "Lord—if indeed thou art lord——" There was the click of a switch-key; the man's body half rose from its seat and sank back again.
Piers Minor felt the girl's dead weight thrown suddenly upon him. "Nanna!" he cried, and she responded bravely, fighting with all her strength against the inflowing tide of faintness. One forward step, taken with infinite precaution, and then another. The stillness remained unbroken.
The great chair stood with its back towards them, and they could not see the seated figure. But Piers Minor caught one glimpse of a hand gripped hard upon the chair arm, and he saw that it was burned hard and black as a coal. Now the door was within reach and they passed out. In the little room, Prosper, the priest, sat upon the knees of the Shining One, and the great, white face looked down upon him.
Not an instant too soon had Piers Minor and Nanna reached the open street. The wind had shifted backto the northwest, and the fire, breaking out in one place after another from the gale-scattered brands, was coming down upon them in great bounds, as though it were some gigantic beast of prey. A suffocating smoke choked their throats and nostrils; they could neither speak nor breathe. Then, by the mercy of God, a fierce counter-current drove the smoke back a little way; they ran at full speed towards the south-east. Now they stopped an instant to refill their panting lungs, then on again, for the air about them was full of flying sparks that stung the unprotected flesh and even burned holes in their clothing of stout woollen. On and on, till their heads felt light as a child's toy balloon and the blood in their ears pounded like a mill-wheel. Piers Minor stumbled and fell.
"I am blind," he gasped. "Leave me." But Nanna would not give over, tugging at the man's weight until she had him to his feet again, with a convenient railing at his back. She picked up some water from the gutter with her hands held cup-wise, and dashed the liquid in his face. Piers Minor straightened up, and from his eyes the darkness cleared away.
"Courage!" she said, and he smiled back at her.
There was the shining of the river; now they could see the pier and the boats of the shad-fishers lying alongside. Piers Minor cast off the largest and most seaworthy-looking of the lot, and, without troubling to bail out the standing water, he brought the craft broadside to the wharf and held out his hand to Nanna. But she, looking to the northward, where the gilded cupola of Arcadia House shone out against the sky, neither moved nor spoke.
"Come," he said.
The girl turned. "She is there," she said, and pointed to the north. "I must go to her—my little sister."
Piers Minor swung himself up on the wharf and seized her.
"You shall not," he said.
She tried to wrench herself free; she struck him full in the face. But Piers Minor only smiled grimly and held on the tighter. And then, to his astonishment, this tiger-cat became suddenly metamorphosed into a dove. Her breast heaved, and she turned her head away; he knew that she was weeping just like any other woman. Whereat Piers Minor smiled again, but not grimly, and held her a little closer.
"Listen," he said, and forced her gently to look at him. "It is impossible to reach Arcadia House; even now the fire is there before you. You must believe that Constans received the message and was able to get there in time. Believe it, because it is I who tell you."
She did believe, but, being a woman, she hesitated again—at the very brink of surrender.
"Let me go," she said, in a low tone, and Piers Minor was so astonished that he immediately complied, and stood looking at her helplessly. But when, coloring like a rose and with downcast eyes, she would have passed him, the masculine instinct of possession awoke again; he barred the way determinedly.
A little distance away an enormous brick storehouse was burning fiercely. A tremendous explosion threw a roof bodily into the air; a shower of incandescent particles descended and drove directly at thefugitives. Nanna felt herself lifted bodily off her feet and swept with a rush down the wharf. One little gulp of regret for her lost independence and she yielded—deliciously. The boat rocked from side to side, then it shot out upon the open river.
Piers Minor had stopped rowing, for the sparks no longer fell about them. The spectacle of the burning city was a magnificent one. The inverted bowl of the sky shone as though it were made of copper, and the gale had flattened out the flames horizontally so that they resembled the flying masses of a woman's unbound hair.
Nanna's eyes filled with tears.
"It was my world," she said, softly, "the only one I knew."
"Nanna!" said Piers Minor. She let her hand rest in his, and the boat floated on.
The streets were as light as noonday, and Constans found no difficulty in keeping the dying figure in sight. But, run as he would, he could not gain a yard.
"Arcadia House," muttered Constans, under his breath, as he noticed the direction taken by the runner. What more natural than that a man should seek his own home at such a time? But Constans's brow was clouded as he followed in Quinton Edge's footsteps.
Arcadia House, and why? There could be but one answer to that question after Nanna's message, conveyed to him through Ulick's dying lips. Esmay had disappeared, and yet had remained in Arcadia House. He, who knew Quinton Edge, would understand.
Constans told himself grimly that he did understand. This insolent wanted the girl, just as he had desired many another thing in life, and it had always been his way to take what he coveted. But this time—Constans set his teeth hard, and now, at last, Arcadia House was in sight.
During this last quarter of an hour the progress of the conflagration had been perceptibly slower, and the great sheaf of flame in the western sky had almostdisappeared. It was like the lull that so often takes place in a storm, a period of sudden quiet in the element strife that should warn the prudent that the worst is still to come. To Constans it was the most fortunate of happenings, the comparative darkness enabling him to keep close upon Quinton Edge without risk of discovery.
As though satisfied that he had arrived in time, Quinton Edge now slackened his pace, making for the gateway on the side street. Whereupon Constans determined to scale the wall at the rear and take the short cut through the garden, so as to intercept the Doomsman at the entrance. Once over the wall, the way was clear. Disdaining caution, he crashed recklessly through the shrubbery, the wet and tangled grass wrapping itself exasperatingly about his ankles as he ran. At the carriage-drive he stopped, flinging himself full length on the ground and close against the wall that marked the sunken way. The run had winded him, and he was thankful for the moment's breathing-space.
From where Constans lay he could command sight of the north terrace that connected the porticos of the river and western fronts. Suddenly it seemed to him that the terrace was occupied by some living thing. A moment before he had noticed a darker blur in the shadows at the river corner; it had appeared to move. He heard a soft padding on the flag-stones as of an animal moving cautiously. He strained his eyes, striving to resolve that dusky blotch into shape intelligible; then a new burst of flame lit up the western sky and he saw clearly—it was Fangs, the hound.
The dog stood motionless, her head thrown upwardas though listening. She could not possibly see Constans where he lay, but the smallest noise must betray him.
His revolver was in a side pocket, and he drew it forth with infinite care. Then he discovered that it was unloaded and that he had no more cartridges. His knife also had disappeared from its sheath; he realized that he was absolutely unarmed and helpless.
The hound leaped lightly from the terrace and began ranging in great half-circles. Constans looked on with fascinated eyes. It could be a matter of seconds only when she must cross his scent, and he knew that she would remember it—there was a blood-feud between them—the death of Blazer, who had been her mate.
The pass-key rattled in the lock of the postern-door, and Quinton Edge entered the sunken way. Fangs heard the noise, hesitated a moment, then tossed her black muzzle in the air and bounded forward to meet her master. Constans wiped away the sweat that was blinding his eyes and waited. Quinton Edge, with the hound by his side, went up the steps leading to the terrace.
Some one came forward to meet him—a slim, womanish figure dressed in white. Constans's heart gave a great bound, for who but Esmay carried her small head with so irresistible a grace. She held out her hands as Quinton Edge reached her side, but he crushed her into his arms and kissed her on the lips. They walked slowly along the terrace, turned the corner of the eastern portico, and disappeared. Constans, running up, was just an instant too late; he heard Quinton Edge calling the dog inside, then the sound of the closing door.
By a supreme exercise of will Constans stopped short of the insanity that impelled him to thunder on the barrier and demand admittance. Yet he must gain instant entrance to the house, and he ran around the terrace to the river portico. As he had expected, the hall-door was fastened, but he had no difficulty in forcing one of the long windows of the drawing-room; he stepped into the dark and empty room and stood listening.
There was perfect silence everywhere, but he could not trust to it—eyes and ears might be in waiting at every turn, and, above all, there was the dog. He wondered that the hound had not already detected his presence in the house, and his pulse thumped at the thought; he fancied that he could hear deep breathing and the oncoming of padded feet.
The minutes passed, and the silence remained unbroken. Then the sense of his cowardice smote him; the jaws of the brute would be preferable to this intolerable inaction, and he went forward through the half-opened door and into the main hall.
This, too, was empty, and, having windows that faced the west, it was sufficiently well lighted by the conflagration to make the fact of its desertion certain. And Constans owed it to the friendly flames that he was once more provided with a weapon. There was a rapier hanging upon the wall, slender and yet strong, of very ancient make; in an instant he had it down and was trying the temper of its blade upon the hearthstone.
The touch of the cold steel was like a tonic; heart and blood responded immediately. Its discovery had been a fortunate chance, for again the illumination inthe west died down the final pianissimo before the full crash of the orchestra—and the darkness returned deeper than before.
Constans, with the rapier held shortened in his hand, found his way to the staircase and began the ascent. At the turn of the second landing he stopped, feeling instinctively that there was something in the way. When he could bear no longer to wait and listen, he put his hand down and felt beneath it the smooth, hairy coat of the hound's body. The dog was quite dead, and lying in a pool of her own blood; there was a warm, sickly smell of salt in the air, and Constans's hand was wet when he fetched it away. Who had done this thing, and why?
He went on, with every sense on edge. He could hardly have mistaken his way now, for the door before him stood partly ajar, and there was a light in the room; Constans guessed that it must be the first of the private apartments belonging to Quinton Edge.
He looked in. The room was a large one and luxuriously furnished. An ancient hanging-lamp of brass hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soft radiance; the curtains that concealed the deep window-seat were closely drawn, and, had Constans made his observations with more care, he might have noticed that something moved behind them, an unwieldy bulk that gathered itself as though for a spring.
But he took no account of these smaller things, his eyes being full of Esmay only, and surely that was she who stood there in the shelter of Quinton Edge's arms; now she half turned her head, the better to look into her lord's face, and Constans could trace the outline of her profile—the upper lip, so deliciously short, andthe exquisite curve of her throat. His breath came quick as he watched them, and his grasp tightened upon the rapier hilt. So she had deceived him, after all; she had played the traitress from the very beginning. Twice, now, she had smiled into his eyes and sold him for some piece of trumpery—a bracelet of carbuncles or a kiss from Quinton Edge's lips. Well, he could kill them both, and almost at a single stroke, since they stood with their backs to the doorway and were quite unconscious of his presence. But, upon further thought, he determined to wreak positive vengeance on Quinton Edge alone. It was shame to strike a woman, and unnecessary—it would be her punishment to live.
Dispassionately he reviewed his decision and reaffirmed it; it was now the time for action. But he had delayed just a moment too long. Before he could take that first forward step the one who waited behind the window-curtains had passed before him, an ungainly figure of a man, who limped upon one knee and whose black beard fell like a curtain before his cruel mouth and lips—Kurt, whom men called the "Knacker." A knife was in his hand, and he struck once and twice at Quinton Edge.
"This for the thirty lashes at Middenmass!" he shouted; "and this——"
But here Constans's rapier passed through his throat, and he fell back, gurgling horribly and tearing at his windpipe.
It had all happened so quickly that the two living men could only stare alternately at each other and at the burden that lay in Quinton Edge's arms. A slim, white figure, with that red stain upon her breast—spreading, spreading.
Constans gathered himself with a mighty effort. "Let me help you," he said, and between them they carried her over to the couch and laid her down. On a near-by table stood a ewer of water; Constans fetched it and began moistening the bloodless lips. They parted with a little sigh, and then the eyes of his sister Issa opened upon him. "Little brother," she whispered, and smiled.
Constans looked over at Quinton Edge, but he shook his head and stood back among the shadows.
"Little brother," said Issa again, and put out a wavering hand.
It had been very quiet in the room for a long time. Constans had tried to make the dying woman more comfortable, but every attempt to move her had only resulted in the wound breaking out afresh. It was cruelty to persist, and so he gave it over, waiting for what must come.
Now it seemed that Issa slept, for her eyes were closed and the lines of pain had wholly disappeared from the smooth, white brow. Quinton Edge kept his place at the back, where he could see and not be seen; a statue could not have been more immobile. Constans, kneeling by the couch, still held his sister's hand in his, keeping watch upon the pulse that fluttered so delicately. Once or twice the heavy eyes had opened and she had smiled up at him—contentedly as a child resting after the long day's play.
Constans had not attempted to speak; his mind was still seeking its wonted bearings, and he was afraid. His sister Issa!—the little Issa with whom he had played at fox-chase and grace-hoops. Issa!—the maiden who had gathered her May-bloom in the long ago, and who had given herself and all for love of the stranger within her father's gates; yes, and who had died within that self-same hour upon her lord's breast.
And yet if this miracle were indeed the truth it accounted for more than one thing that had troubled him. He remembered now the white-robed figure that had appeared to him in the gardens of Arcadia House and the superstitious terror with which he had watched it following upon the unconscious footsteps of the girl Esmay. Then, again, the fair-haired woman who only a few minutes ago had come to meet Quinton Edge on the north terrace, an apparition so ravishing that Constans must needs confound it with the flesh-and-blood presentment of his own dear lady.
She was speaking now, almost fretfully. "Is the night never to be gone? The hangings at the window are so heavy. And where is my father?"
Constans rose and went to the window, intent on flinging it wide open. But Quinton Edge was there before him and stayed his hand.
"No," he said, and Constans obeyed, being greatly troubled in mind and uncertain of himself, even as one who wanders in a maze. This Quinton Edge must have perceived, for he spoke gently, making it plain to him that this was, indeed, the maid whom they had both loved and not some disembodied shadow from the underworld. And having come finally to believe this, Constans was comforted and desired to hear the matter in full. "Tell me," he said, and Quinton Edge went on:
"It was weeks and weeks that she lay weak and speechless upon a pallet of dried fern, her only shelter the thatch of a mountain sheepfold.
"There was no one among us who had any knowledge of surgery, and so I had to be content with simples—cold-water compresses for the wound and atea made from the blossoms of the camomile flower to subdue the fever in the blood. So the days dragged by until the turn for the better came. Little by little I nursed her back to life again, and in time we came safely to Doom.
"Arcadia House was a secure hiding-place for my treasure, and during all these years no one has even guessed at the secret. I had no need to trust my servants, for they knew nothing; the walls had neither eyes nor ears, and I kept my own counsel. Until to-day no man's eye but mine has looked upon her face.
"But even yet you do not wholly understand. Have you forgotten, then, that the body may be in health and yet the soul be darkened? She had come back to life, indeed, but it was the life of a butterfly in the sun, unconscious of aught else than the light and warmth that surrounds it. For her the past had been sealed; to me the future. Do you understand now? A woman grown and yet as a new-born babe in heart and mind. What was there for me to do but to bear my punishment as patiently as I might, the cup of love ever at my lips, but never to be tasted."
Constans kept silence for a little space. When he spoke it was haltingly.
"Then you think—you think——"
"She recognized you. Could you not see it—that note in her voice as of one who wakes from a long sleep? That was why I stopped you from throwing aside the window-curtains. The light of the burning city—it might have brought back the memory of that night at the keep."
"And for the same reason you have kept yourself out of sight," said Constans, coldly.
The man trembled. "Yes; I am afraid," he answered, and Constans, for all his bitterness of heart, was fain to pity him.
A series of muffled explosions startled them. Quinton Edge moved softly towards the outer door. "The fire must be coming nearer," he whispered. "I will make sure of our position and return within a few minutes. Hush! she is sleeping again."
But when Constans went and stood by the couch, Issa was looking at him with wide-opened eyes.
"Constans—little brother," she said, weakly, and yet with an infinite content. He dropped to his knees beside her and tried to answer, but could not.
"Surely it must be close to morning now," she went on, slowly. "I can hear the doves cooing on the tiles, the wind is blowing over the water-meadows, and the lark is in the blue—ah, God! how beautiful this dear world of ours! It is the May-time, little brother, and the arbutus will be in bloom—the shy, pink blossoms that nestle on the sunny slopes of the rocks and at the roots of the birch-trees. We will gather them—you and I—and bring them home to deck our lady mother's chamber. The May-bloom—it is in the air. How sweet—how sweet!"
Constans, following the look in her eyes, saw a low table standing against the opposite wall. Upon it was a bowl filled with the delicate arbutus—fresh and fragrant as though but lately gathered. He went softly across the room and despoiled the bowl of a spray. She took it from him eagerly. Then the violet eyes clouded.
"I cannot remember—it must be that I am still sotired—it is strange. The morning—it cannot be far distant—now——"
Quinton Edge at the threshold held up a beckoning finger, and Constans went to him.
"It is upon us," said the Doomsman. "The out-buildings are smoking already, and the lumber-yard on the north will become a furnace the instant that the first spark falls there. There is but one chance—the river. You will find a boat at the dock. The girl Esmay—ah, you could think that, too, of me. Yet it was natural enough."
Constans would have spoken, but the words tripped on his tongue. Quinton Edge interrupted him imperiously.
"She is there," he said, and pointed to a door leading to the interior apartments of the suite. "I could not leave Issa entirely alone on this last night. So I brought the girl here—for once, she trusted me. For once, you can do likewise."
Constans bowed his head. "But Issa," he said, thickly.
"She would be dead in our arms before we reached the stairs," returned the other. "Can you not leave her to me for just this little while longer?" His voice hardened savagely. "She is mine, do you hear—mine, mine. I have paid the price, double and treble, and now I take what is my own."
His voice rang like a trumpet in the narrow room. And yet, straight through its clamor, pierced the sound of a stifled cry. Constans turned instantly, but Quinton Edge, trembling, kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
Sitting upright upon the couch, Issa looked at thetwo men steadfastly, and then only at the one. The violet depths in her eyes had darkened to pools of midnight, and her lips were like a thread of scarlet against the ivory of her face. A miracle! but Constans would not look again, knowing that for him this hour had passed forever.
Constans went to the inner door and opened it. Esmay was kneeling at the window; he went over and touched her on the shoulder. "Come," he said. She looked up at him, and he saw that her face whitened for all of the glare from the flaming sky that fell upon it. Yet she let him lead her, unresisting, into the other room, where Quinton Edge still stood motionless and looked upon the floor. Constans plucked at his sleeve, drawing him out into the full circle of the lamp-light. Face to face for the last time, and, though no word was said, each knew that there was peace between them.
"Go to her," whispered Constans, and pushed him gently towards the couch.
Now the room had fallen into semi-darkness, for the oil had failed in the lamp, and there was only that dull-red line along the edge of the window-curtains. And there was silence, too, for all that words could say had been said already.
The minutes passed, but the man had ceased to count them. The hand that lay in his was growing cold, but the knowledge had ceased to concern him; the brain no longer registered the messages sent bythe nerves, and he was conscious only of an immense weariness, of an overwhelming desire to sleep. The maiden Issa's hair lay within the hollow of his arm, a pool of rippled gold; it was like looking down into an enchanted well; the waters seem to rise and meet him. The glow at the curtain-edge grew stronger; now it was a lake of liquid fire into which he gazed.