Sunday dawned with a clouded, watery sky. All the morning the threat of rain held. Then, at lunch-time, a wind sprang out of the northeast, and the atmosphere grew dry and crisp, and the clouds lightened. The grey North Sea changed its hue to a lighter green, and at long intervals whitecaps broke up the oily aspect. The breeze had freshened by three o'clock and a chill swept over the moorlands, and the feel and aspect of winter settled upon the dull-tinted landscape. As evening began to close in the breeze dropped, and with it fell the temperature.
Two figures paced the winding footpath at the edge of the cliffs. Both were clad in heavy civilian ulsters, and their coat-collars sheltered the lower portions of their clean-shaven faces. In their shaded eyes was that far-off gaze which is only to be found in the eyes of men of the sea. It is an expression which must ever betray the man who belongs to the sea the moment he approaches that element, which is at once his friend and his bitterest foe.
Sir Reginald Steele paused and pointed out at the already darkening horizon.
"What a target," he cried. "Look at her, with her absurdly proud and vaunting four funnels. Look at the great upstanding chest like some vain pouter-pigeon. Man, give me an armored submarine, with a brace of heavy guns on it, and wirelessly controlled torpedoes, and I'd—sink her cold. I'd sink her before she got my range. I'd sink her while she fumbled amongst her cumbersome armaments."
He laughed the merry laugh of a man who wishes to probe the open wound of disagreement between two close friends.
"You're welcome to the submarine, Reggie. I'll take the 'pouter' every time. I'll give you a dozen shots with your wireless controlled as a start, and your pop-guns can amuse themselves indefinitely. She's a handsome craft. Town class, isn't she? She'd make you hate it in spite of your steel-clad hide."
Both men were smiling pleasantly as they watched the distant cruiser steaming slowly and sedately upon the wintry waters. The challenge had been replied to, and neither of the men seemed inclined to carry the debate further. Admiral Sir Reginald Steele had hurled every argument in favor of his submarine beliefs at the head of his friend and chief, during official hours, and they had agreed to differ. Now, in friendly intercourse, he was ready to add his pin-pricks, but he knew there was nothing important to be gained.
"The Farlows are smart men," he observed presently, obviously following out his train of thought aloud. "The old man is something unusual in the way of a shipmaster. One doesn't associate these shipping princes with real understanding of naval force. But once or twice yesterday I thought there were things he could teach me."
"Yes."
Sir Joseph was intent upon the movements of the cruiser. She had displayed no lights and the dusk was creeping on.
"I suppose it is the old man who is the genius of Dorby. What about young Ruxton? Harborough is keen on him. So is Lordburgh. I confess to a weakness that way myself. That was a great stroke of his, getting the secrets of that place in the Baltic. Apparently there's some one also who shares your faith in—underwater."
Sir Reginald had become absorbed in the horizon. He produced a pair of glasses and peered out in the gathering gloom.
"All far-seeing people do. These Farlows for instance," he replied. "What's that beyond the cruiser? She's low in the water."
Sir Joseph produced glasses. For some silent minutes they remained scouring the sea with eyes long trained to the work. Finally it was Sir Joseph who spoke.
"You should recognize it," he said.
"Yes. Underwater, and—a foreigner."
They relapsed into a long silence. The stars came out and a light frost was settling upon the moor. The air was brilliantly clear. Their glasses revealed the two distant objects.
"She's hove-to," observed Sir Reginald later on.
"The cruiser—yes. That's a mistake."
Sir Joseph made a sound of impatience with his tongue.
Again a prolonged silence fell. Both men were absorbed. The passage of time seemed of no consequence. The cold of the night seemed to concern them not at all.
"I don't know," Steele said much later, in answer to his chief's remark. "You can't tell what's doing from here. Nor what arrangements young Farlow has made. Ah!"
"Lights." Sir Joseph waited.
"Green astern. White ahead. Red amidships. The foreigner has shed a pinnace. It's coming ashore. It's getting interesting. That boy seemed pretty clear. I hope things are all right."
The boat was racing towards the shore at a point to the right of the two watchers. Sir Reginald was following it closely with his night glasses. The other continued his survey of the vessels beyond.
Presently he spoke.
"She's steaming again—the cruiser."
"Yes." The other's glasses were raised towards the horizon again.
"She's covered the foreigner's lights." Sir Joseph lowered his glasses. "What's the time?"
His companion lowered his glasses. He glanced at his watch.
"Nearly half-past six," he said significantly. Then in a moment his glasses were levelled at a point much nearer into land. "Ah, here she comes," he said, in his quick way. "Now the play begins. The curtain's going up. No lights. A good many regulations are being broken to-night. Shall we need an enquiry into it, Chief?" Sir Reginald laughed. "Well, Lordburgh is to blame if any trouble occurs. He forced us to lend our powerful aid in this thing. The odds are on that boy Ruxton. I'd bet my hopes of pension on it. He's keen and confident. Such romance never came our way, eh? I haven't heard before of units of the British Navy being used to secure a man a wife."
Sir Joseph laughed shortly.
"There's a good deal more than a woman in this. According to Lordburgh this trifling naval episode may secure the person of Germany's strong man—criminally engaged. It would be worth while. Sparling's a good man. If they pull it off it'll be his best day's work. Hello!"
At that moment a great white beam of light shot athwart the sky. It moved swiftly and rigidly. It swept in a great arc and settled on the face of the cliff away to their right.
"Look. Three lights just below us." Sir Reginald pointed out upon the water. "Green astern. White ahead. Red amidships. It isn't the foreigner from outside. It's——"
"Hark!" Sir Joseph held up a warning hand.
The two men listened acutely. Far away, remote but distinct, the sound of a pistol-shot reached them.
"That's the second," said Sir Joseph. "Come along, let's go and see what's happening."
Prince von Hertzwohl gazed about him. His tall figure was bowed. He was no longer clad in the working costume which had been his disguise for so many days in Dorby. His lean face was shaded beneath a wide, soft-brimmed hat which entirely concealed that wonderful forehead which had so impressed Ruxton. But the shaven cheeks added years to his age. Beneath his chin were displayed those fleshy cords which do not belong to anything up to the middle life. He certainly looked older than ever in the foreign-designed clothes which he was now wearing.
The cold breath of the moor swept by him, it penetrated the lightish overcoat he was wearing. Once or twice he shivered as he gazed this way and that, searching the already hazy sky-line for a sign of any movement.
For some time he seemed in doubt. Then at last he drew in towards the black shelter of the old mill, which stood out in the grey light, keeping its ancient watch over the cove below. He glanced within its shadowed interior. It was inhospitable. But it was as he had always known it. Everything was undisturbed. He drew his coat about him and buttoned it up. The air was so keen, and he had little relish for it. Presently he sat down upon a fallen timber under the shelter of the wall. He must wait. Nothing could be done until the arrival he was expecting.
It was a desolate spot, and the influence of it was not unfelt. But the solitude was not altogether unappreciated. If there were eyes watching they failed to make their presence felt, and he was glad. He lit a cigar and sought comfort in it from the bleak northern air. His thoughtful eyes wandered in every direction his shelter permitted. To the east, across the sea. To the south, over the rolling moor. To the west, where the dying light of day was melting steadily before the grey obscurity of coming night.
The minutes passed slowly, slowly, as they ever pass to the anxious mind. But the dark of evening gathered with all the rapidity of early winter.
The long journey was drawing to its close. Long since, the great North Road had been left behind. Now the powerful car swept along, with its monotonous purr, over the winding coast road, which split the wide-spreading moorland, and headed on in the teeth of the bitter northeasterly breeze.
The chill penetrated to the snug interior of the car. Vita was forced to draw the heavy overcoat more closely about her. She shivered, but it was not with the actual cold. Her thoughts were a-riot. They were full of an intense and painful dread.
She had made the journey north in the company of the man whom she knew she was now condemned to marry—condemned beyond reprieve. The only gleam of light which had struggled through the darkness of her despair was that he had spared her his company in the car. He had dismissed the driver of the car at Bath, and taken upon himself that duty. Thus Vita had been spared an added torture to the desperate feelings assailing her.
She had no thought of revolt. She felt that destiny loomed before her in overwhelming force. Escape had no place in her thought. She had entered into a contract. A sordid contract, she felt. A contract which had perhaps been forced upon her, but which had been accepted by her through an invincible desire to be permitted to drag out the weary years of life, rather than face bravely the harsh consequences and penalties of truth and loyalty to the demands of honor. She admitted the dreadful cowardice which had driven her, and a wave of loathing for herself left her crushed under a burden of bitter contempt.
But during the journey, in communion with her own wretched thoughts, she had searched the future as only vivid imagination permitted, and the picture she had discovered was perhaps a thousandfold more dreadful than her earlier anticipations. Panic had urged her in the first place. But now the original panic which had driven her into her contract had passed, leaving her only the skeleton, which, in the first place, had been clothed in the brilliant flesh and raiment inspired by the yearning for life. To think of the right she had given that square, fleshy figure sitting before her beyond the glass partition of the car! The right to control her destiny; to be always near her, to—caress her. And all the while another image lay treasured in her heart, another voice was always in her ears, another hand lay in hers, and other lips—— It was beyond endurance—the thought. To think that way lay madness. Her eyes grew haggard with dry tears. She was left beyond ordinary emotion. She could only stir restlessly, with brain heated almost to fever by the pressure of dreadful thought.
So the miles had been devoured by the senseless, softly droning wheels. Merciless wheels they became. Nothing could stop them, nothing could deter the progress towards that maelstrom of horror in the direction of which she was gliding.
Then came the familiar breath of the Yorkshire moorlands. She remembered it. She remembered every aspect of the scene about her. It was not possible for it to be otherwise. She writhed under the lash of memory. Was it not here she had first looked down upon the prone figure and upward-glancing dark eyes of Ruxton Farlow? Was it not here she had poured out to him the vaunting story of her desires to serve humanity? Had she not witnessed the light of sympathy leap into his eyes here—here, at the passionate profession she had made to him? And now—oh, the pity of it!—the miserable, cowardly sequel to all her protestations.
The grey of evening filled the car, and somehow Vita was glad of it. She felt she could hide her worthless self beneath it. The moorland scene faded, and the great dark gorse banks merged into one blackening world. Then, directly ahead, the aged landmark of the skeleton mill rose sharply out of the dusk.
Her pulses quickened. The journey was at its end. Her father would be there awaiting her, and she must face those wide, understanding eyes as she told him the story of her cowardly yielding. She shrank further into the corner. She knew the fearless spirit of the man, and she dreaded his contempt. The secret of her contract with the man driving the car was still her own, but, in a few minutes, it must be revealed to one whose contempt would deal the final crushing blow.
She nerved herself as the car drew up. Then, with ashen lips and frightened eyes, she became aware of a tall, lean figure standing out against the sky-line.
She waited for no assistance. She flung the door wide, and, in a moment, she was enfolded in her father's embrace.
But she dared not yield to the joy of reunion. She freed herself, and began to talk. Not a moment must be lost in telling him her story, the story of all the dread and horror she had lived through. She knew she dared not risk delay, or her last vestige of courage would vanish into thin air.
She poured out the story of the machinations, in the toils of which they had been caught. She told him the story of the jeopardy in which he stood; of the power which had been transferred from Berlin to bring about his final destruction. She told him of the death sentence which had been passed upon her by the terrible Von Berger, and how, in the last moment of her despair, succor had been proffered in the last quarter from which it could have reasonably been expected. And then came the story of her pledge.
To the long story the old man listened with the closest attention. He gave no sign, he offered no interruption. At its conclusion Vita paused, breathlessly awaiting the verdict in the man's luminous eyes. She watched them. She searched them, seeking that faint spark which might hold out the smallest hope. She was living for that alone—now.
The Prince stood for a moment, his eyes gazing past her at the sides of the travel-stained car. Then one long thin hand went up to his forehead, and his soft hat was thrust back on his head. The hand pressed down upon his brows and moved across them, as though brushing aside some sense of weariness. His eyes shifted their gaze towards the man standing near the car. They took in the square, burly figure from the crown of its hat to the soles of its feet. Then they came back to Vita, and the smile in them suggested a final sympathetic decision overriding the natural antagonistic feelings towards the man whom he looked upon as his enemy.
"Where is he—Von Salzinger?" he demanded.
Vita caught her breath. It was the crisis.
"Here, father. He drove the car."
The Prince's eyes again sought the man. Then he spoke, and the tone of his voice eased the woman's tension.
"You have done me a service, Herr von Salzinger. A service I could hardly have looked for. It is to be paid for, I understand, and the price is high. However, the risks you have taken, the sacrifices you have made are doubtless great, from your point of view. Therefore I can only—thank you. Come. The vessel should be lying off by this time. What will you do with the car?"
Von Salzinger stepped forward. The night was dark, and it was impossible to observe the expression of his face.
"The car can remain. It is—not mine."
The Prince inclined his head.
"Then we will go down to the cove. Vita!"
At the gentle tone of his voice the woman moved at once to his side. Whatever his innermost thoughts and feeling's, he had conveyed to her troubled heart the assurance of his perfect love and sympathy.
A man stood in the steel doorway of the clumsy tower which supported a pair of periscopes. The vessel was an early type of submarine. It was crude in finish and severe in fashion. Its flush deck was narrow, and a mere rail protected its sides.
His attention seemed divided between a group of men in oilskins engaged in launching a motor pinnace, and the movements of a war-craft standing off some distance astern.
Night was closing upon an oily sea, which lolled in listless fashion beneath the starry sheen of a now almost windless evening. The threatened "northeaster" which had been developing all the afternoon had suddenly died out under the influence of a sharp frost. There was a certain satisfaction in the luck of the weather. This man knew quite well what he might have been called upon to face on the bitter northeast coast of Britain.
The stone-grey eyes of the man were no less keen than the bitter air. Nor were they less watchful than the peeping stars already beginning to stud the sky. The rest of his face was lost in the folds of a woollen scarf, which was in turn enveloped in the high collar of his overcoat.
There was the sound of footsteps behind him coming up the steel companion, and in a moment he was joined by a man in oilskins. The latter were carelessly adjusted about the neck, and from beneath them peeped the details of a uniform which was foreign to the coast off which the vessel was lying.
The newcomer joined in the survey of the war-craft's dim outline against the horizon.
"She's not there by chance, Excellency," he said warningly, in the deep guttural of the Teutonic language.
For some moments the other made no reply. His eyes were upon the men at work. The boat was launched, and the engine was being started.
"No," he said at last. Then his eyes came sharply to the other's face. "You have had to take big chances in your time. You've got to take a greater chance now. This is not war."
"No, Excellency. This is peace." The man laughed deep-throatedly.
"That is why the warship does not matter. She will not break the peace, and we are beyond the home-water limit. We are free to do as we please."
"And yet she is watching us. It interests me what she intends. These British naval men are a different race from those ashore. They will do as they think, in spite of—peace."
"Yes." There was a speculative look in the stone-grey eyes.
Finally he gave his whole attention to the men on the deck. He seemed to have put all speculation aside.
"Von Hertzwohl's submersible will soon be along now. We shall see her lights. She will carry lights. She must do so for the shore boat. You have your orders."
"Yes, Excellency. When you have left in this boat the other will be prepared. I shall take a party and board Hertzwohl's vessel, and make myself master of it. Meanwhile, this vessel will lie off with lights out, standing by in case of accidents to pick you up. If all goes well you will return from shore and come aboard Von Hertzwohl's vessel. Instantly she will submerge and lay a course for Heligoland Bight. It is clear, and should be simple."
"It should be simple. Hertzwohl's vesselmustgo back with us. She has the U-rays lamp on her." The grey eyes were turned questioningly in the direction where the war-vessel had been lying. The darkness had become such that its outline was scarcely visible. Then he went on. "This vessel will follow us to the Bight. Ha!" He thrust out a pointing hand. "The lights. Red. Green. White." He turned again, and his eyes were hard and stern in the light of the conning-tower. "Make no mistakes. Your orders to—the letter."
"Yes, Excellency."
Both men moved off down the gently swaying deck towards the break in the rail where the pinnace, with its complement of four men, was waiting. The man with the stone-grey eyes leapt into the boat. The next moment its crew had cast off, and its head had been swung round shorewards in response to the race of its powerful motor.
Suddenly a great beam of light shot athwart the sky. It lowered slowly, and, a moment later, it fell upon the submarine, on the deck of which a number of men had replaced those which had just left. For a moment the officer in charge of them looked up, and his eyes were caught in the dazzle of the blinding light. Then the light was raised and swept away landwards. It described a great arc and fell upon the shore. A moment later it was withdrawn. Again it settled upon the submarine.
The officer waited for it to pass. A look of deep anxiety began to fill his eyes. He was thinking of his orders, and of the man who had given them. But the light remained focussed full upon his deck, and presently it dawned upon him that the warship was steaming, steaming slowly and almost noiselessly towards him. A feeling of impotence took hold of him. He thought of his torpedo tubes, but the thought passed, thrust aside with an impatient remembrance that it was peace and—not war. His impotence grew. He could only stand there helpless and stupid.
The great vessel came on slowly, slowly. Soon its outline became clear, even in the darkness. The silent threat became unnerving. The officer ordered his men to desist from their work. The vessel drew abreast. Then she hove-to. But the terrible glare of the searchlight remained full upon the long, narrow deck upon which the officer stood.
His eyes sought for a sign. But the blinding light held him. He could see nothing. Just a shadowy, sombre hull. The great guns were not visible to him in the painful light.
There was no alternative. He turned to the conning-tower, and his men were sent below. The next moment the engines were at work, and the vessel submerged. Minutes later a swirl of water a quarter of a mile distant, and a great bulk rose to the surface out of the watery depths. The steel door of the conning-tower opened again, and the officer looked out. The beam of light from the war-vessel was gliding over the lolling surface of the water. It was moving towards him slowly, as though searching carefully. Again his vessel was caught in its silvery shaft. Again it held. Again the great vessel began to move towards him.
With a bitter oath the officer turned back into the conning-tower and slammed to the heavy steel door.
Vita and her father were standing at the water's edge. A pace or two behind them stood Von Salzinger. None of the three seemed inclined for speech. Von Hertzwohl was gazing out at the narrow opening to the open sea beyond. His thoughts were busy with the unexpected phenomenon he beheld.
A searchlight was playing over the water, moving at intervals, then it would become stationary. The vessel from which it emanated was a long way out, yet its light hovered persistently, as though its whole purpose was riveted upon the definite area which lay in full view from where he stood.
Vita, too, was gazing out to sea. But though the play of the lights caught and held her attention, they had no power to sway the trend of teeming thoughts which were passing through her brain. The things she beheld meant nothing to her. They could mean nothing. These were her last moments on the land she loved—the land which was the home of the man who had changed her life from a troubled and anxious existence to a dream of bliss such as she had believed impossible. She had sold herself at the price of life. Life? She had gone back again to existence a thousand times more dreadful than the worst nightmare could have conjured. Yes, her father was safe, her beloved father. All their plans would be the safer for their going. She would be free to witness, in due regularity, the progress of future seasons. She had done her duty, and her best. But oh, what a best!
There were moments as she stood there waiting when she could have flung her arms out and screamed till the echoes of the cove rang again. There were moments when she could have flung herself upon the angular figure she knew and felt to be standing behind her, and impotently torn at his hated flesh. He was her master, her future arbiter, the man to whose caresses she must submit.
Quite suddenly her father raised one thin, pointing hand.
"The boat," he said. And Vita's thoughts were swept aside for the moment, and her comprehending gaze became fixed upon a dim object sweeping through the jaws of the cove. The darkness of the place made it impossible to distinguish its outline. It was a shadow, a mere shadow against the moving lights beyond.
Once it was past the jaws, however, the throb of its engine beat against the rocky walls and echoed again. It was as though half-a-dozen engines were thrashing the water. Now, too, a headlight shone out.
Suddenly Von Hertzwohl caught up the lighted lantern at his feet.
"Ach!" he cried. "The madmen! They are heading here—for this light. One would think they had never made the spit before." He turned. "Quick. The spit, or they will drive on the rocks."
He ran along the beach, followed by Vita and Von Salzinger. In a few moments he was standing on the extremity of the rocky spit, waving his lantern and calling instructions.
"Gott in Himmel!" he cried. "Slow, slow. You will break on sunken rocks. Are you mad? This way. Ach! Slower, slower. So. Easy. Bring her nose round. So. Easy. Now!"
The old man stooped, and, with Von Salzinger, assisted in fending off the pinnace. Vita had taken up the lantern. She was holding it to make the most of its feeble rays. Then of a sudden a sharp exclamation broke from the Prince.
"Four!"
He had counted the men in the boat. Vita heard the exclamation without gathering its significance. A man leapt out of the stern of the boat, and another followed him. The light of the lantern fell full upon the leader's face. A cry broke from the woman, an inarticulate cry. It brought her father to his feet.
Then, swiftly and terribly, was enacted a scene unforgettable to those who beheld it. The wide, fearless eyes of the princely Pole gazed with loathing and hate into the stone-grey eyes of the man who had leapt first from the boat. It was only for one paralyzed moment. Then a harsh, furious voice ejaculated a name, and Vita's lantern clattered as it fell upon the rocky spit, and went out as it rolled into the lapping water.
"Von Berger!"
It was Von Hertzwohl's voice; and as he spoke he stepped back from the hated proximity. Once, once only his wide eyes swept over the various figures about him. Then, with a lightning movement, one long arm was flung out. There was no word spoken. There was no mercy in either heart of the antagonists. The penetrating crack of an automatic pistol alone awoke the echoes. They were flung from rock to rock, and, blending with them, came the sound of running feet.
But long before the echoes had reached their climax a second shot rang out—a heavier shot; and as it split the air Von Hertzwohl fell. His knees gave under him, and his tall figure toppled almost into the arms of the man who had fired the shot with such deliberate, deadly effect. To this sound was added swift movement. Vita, standing paralyzed with terror, was seized from behind, and the heavy breath of Von Salzinger fanned the back of her neck. She was supported bodily, and, in an instant, the swaying boat caught her struggling body with brutal force, and for her all sensation abruptly terminated. Then came Von Berger's voice in sharp command, as the shouts of men aroused new echoes in the black arena.
"Quick! Take him! Now cast off!"
The arms of men reached up and caught the inanimate body of Von Hertzwohl. It was dropped urgently into the bottom of the boat. Then, to the accompaniment of scrambling feet, the boat was vigorously propelled backwards into the ebbing tide.
The headlight was extinguished, and the boat vanished like a ghost into the blackness of the gaping cove.
A moment later the racing engine pulsated with a confusion of echoes, and a group of men stood at the water's edge searching for the direction in which the speeding craft was moving. It was hopeless.
Then came a voice—the authoritative voice of a leader.
"Don't fire. Not a shot. You can't be certain who you'll hit. They won't get far."
A sensation of dreadful pain swept through an eternity of obscurity, impenetrable to all but a subconscious emotion. Horror floated through a world unseen, unknown. Terror thrilled senses dead to all reality. An abyss yawned on every hand, a black abyss in which stirred, all unseen, a threat so overwhelming that the victim remained passive, defenceless; waiting, waiting for the final crushing torture.
The blackness changed. It gave place to a deep, ruddy light. It was a light which inspired a sensation of fierce burning. The scorch of it was devastating, yet the torture went on as if the limit could never be reached.
The ruddy light faded to a grey twilight, through which shot tongues of forked flame, and, with each rift in the grey, pain shot a hundredfold more intense for its broken continuity. A terrified shrinking resulted. The moments of respite became a period of mental torture greater than the reality of the stabs of blinding light.
It seemed that no suffering could ever equal such agony again. It was living death.
Again it all changed. The bodily suffering no longer broke intermittently. Terror had given place to a grinding physical burden of agony in which something approaching consciousness had place. It came with a hammering upon the straining brain, and beat its way through the body, right down to the very depths of the tortured soul. It was unbearable, yet its burden seemed inevitable, and complaint seemed hushed by an irresistible power.
Then in the midst of all the torture a sound reached the victim. It was the sound of a voice, of voices. Harsh, jarring voices, carrying threat in every tone. It was the magic touch which brought about a vague semi-consciousness, and Vita's eyes slowly opened.
The pain went on, burning, throbbing pain, but she did not mind it. She was scarcely aware of it. The voices held her, and she struggled with all her power to grasp and hold their meaning. But the effort was beyond her. Only the words came, and with them a growing, unaccountable fear inspired by the violence of their intonation.
"Trapped like rats in a pit," she heard a voice cry out in thick tones.
"That door. Fool! They must come that way. We can shoot them down as they come. Trapped? They'll pay dearly for the trapping."
What were they talking of? And why in such tones? What were those other sounds she heard? Vita remained unmoving, helpless, and without understanding.
Suddenly a crash overwhelmed every other sound. It left her poor head whirling with uncertainty.
Then something else shivered through her every nerve. Another sound—different. There was a clatter and bumping, and strange, sharp explosions, such as in a vague way she half remembered having heard somewhere before. What was it? Each sound seemed to bite the air, echo, then die out. Then quickly on its heels another followed, and then another. Every explosion gave her a stab of exquisite pain in the head, her aching, throbbing head, in which the sufferings of her body seemed to find a sort of dull, constant echo.
Now came the sound of voices again. But they were indistinct exclamations which conveyed nothing to her. What was that tearing and crunching? A perfect pandemonium had suddenly been let loose, in which voices and biting explosions blended with the rush and scuttling of many feet. A dreadful nightmare of noise disturbed her. The hoarse cries of the voices were distressing. Something, something—— Hark! What was that? That voice. She knew it.
"Hold him! Gad! He's like a tiger. Smash his wrist! Only get that gun from him! Ah! That's it. Now—see if he has any more weapons."
Full consciousness had suddenly awakened. The familiar voice had succeeded where pandemonium had failed. Vita stirred with infinite pain. With a great effort she moved her body. She could have wept with the torture of it. That voice. She must see him. She must gaze upon the face of the speaker. She must—— With a lurch she strove to raise herself upon her elbow. For one dreadful second an agony surpassing anything she had ever endured crowded her brain, and swept through her nerves to every extremity of her body. Then she fell back, engulfed in the black abyss of complete unconsciousness.
Three men were seated in the dishevelled saloon of the gently rocking vessel. Brilliant electric light shone down upon the wreckage about them. At the far side of the apartment lay the still form of a woman stretched out upon a luxurious settee, which was built against the ship's side. In another direction another inanimate form was stretched out upon a lounge. But this was the lean figure of a tall man with grey hair and bushy eyebrows. His face was ghastly, and his eyes were staring. His square jaw was hanging loose, and his lips were agape.
These two figures seemed to have no interest for the three men who sat facing each other. One of them was seated on a chair that was fixed to the deck with its back swung round against the table. He was sitting in a hunched attitude of great pain. One hand was supporting the other arm just above the wrist. His stone-grey eyes burned with a desperate light.
The other men were within two yards of him. One, a youngish-looking man, in British naval uniform, was seated on the edge of a table. With his right hand he was grasping the butt of a revolver, whose muzzle was lying across the fleshy part of his thigh. The other, in civil dress, was astride of a chair.
The man in civil dress was speaking. His voice was stern and cold. And, by the expression of his dark eyes, it was obvious that he was holding himself under a great restraint.
"This is a bad end for a man holding the great position which Prince Frederick von Berger occupies," he said. "I want you to understand, Prince, that it is the end, just as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow. Do you grasp the position? I am not here to taunt you with it. But for your own sake I must make it clear to you. Your fellow-conspirator, Von Salzinger, has by this time been lowered to his last resting-place beneath the waters. For you there will be less mercy."
He paused, narrowly observing the fierce light shining in the desperate eyes. Ruxton had no desire for unnecessary cruelty, but Vita was lying injured and unconscious just across the room, and he had no thought to spare the author of her troubles.
"Make no mistake, Prince," he went on again, continuing his use of the Prussian's own tongue, and fighting down his own deep feelings, "there will be no succor from your countrymen. You have deliberately caused the murder of Von Hertzwohl upon British soil, and for that you will pay the full British penalty. That penalty, Prince, is the rope which awaits every common murderer."
Von Berger threw up his head in a fury of denial. The naval man sat alert, and the barrel of his revolver moved a shade. But the Prussian made no attempt at the violence which was gleaming in his eyes. His wrist had been smashed in the struggle which had taken place, and he knew he had no chance with these men.
"England dare not place me on trial, and condemn me," he cried fiercely.
Ruxton raised his brows.
"Dare not? You can put those words out of your head, Prince. The time has gone by when international relations could affect the administration of our courts of justice. Your own country has taught us the absurdity of such a policy. We have learned the necessity of protecting our own at any cost—even at the cost of war. You will be tried, and hanged for the murder you have committed."
The solemnity of Ruxton's words was not without effect. A curious questioning incredulity crept into Von Berger's desperate eyes. His lips parted to protest. Then they closed again in a spasm of pain. But a moment later his cold voice was speaking.
"There is no power on earth which can give you the right to hand a royal prince over to your police," he said. And his coldness and calmness were a triumph of the man over physical suffering.
"There is no power on earth which will stop me doing so—if you land at Dorby, where we shall presently head for."
Ruxton's manner was frigidity itself. His dark eyes looked steadily into the other's.
Quite abruptly a hard, mirthless laugh broke the silence.
"If I land?"
"If you land."
"Will you explain?"
Ruxton shrugged coldly.
"Is there need? I am prepared to display a lenience which is the only mercy you need hope for. You will be given the freedom of the deck for half an hour. We are lying awash. There is only a bare rail about it, a rail between you and the water. After that we return at once to Dorby—and the authority which deals with every common felon."
The two men sat eye to eye for a few moments. It was a rapier-like exchange of glances. It was the Prince who yielded. He stirred. A sweat had broken out upon his forehead. His physical suffering was beyond words. But he rose to his feet and stood firmly confronting his antagonist.
"I will accept—the freedom of the deck," he said.
Frederick von Berger gazed out over the restless waters. He swayed easily to the added motion of the now stationary vessel. Twenty feet away stood the young naval officer lounging against the steel casing of the doorway of the conning-tower. His eyes never left his charge. Nor could he help a faint twinge of regret. He had been brought up in that wonderful school of the British Navy in which physical bravery counts for so much, and he knew that such was not lacking in the man whose movements he was so closely following.
The night was clear and cold. A great wealth of stars shone down upon the phosphorescent waste of water. So intense was their brilliancy that even the distant sky-line, towards which Von Berger's gaze was turned, stood out with remarkable clearness.
Beyond that sky-line lay Germany—the country whose curious fate it had been to breed a race of brave men and brutes, and to mould them into the single form of a splendid manhood. To that country the motionless figure belonged, an epitome of those curious racial characteristics. Birth had given him the place, and opportunity the power. Thus, through a soulless intellect and courage, he had been able to help in the fashioning of the monstrous machine, as yet unbroken, which was still seeking to plough its furrows through a world's spiritual civilization for its own ruthless ends.
Possibly he yearned for the cradle of his aspirations. Possibly now, now that it lay so far away, hidden beyond the watery limits, he felt something of the futility of the cold striving for earthly power. If it were so his expression gave no sign. The eyes remained the same coldly shining windows of an empty soul. The hard mouth was tightly shut, and the muscles of his square jaw were tense. All he left for the shining eyes of the night to witness were the beads of moisture upon his broad forehead. And these were the simple outward signs of the frailty of the human body, its vulnerability, its narrow limitations. The spirit alone, whatever its quality, remained invincible.
He moved a step nearer the steel rail. He leant against it. Then, for some terrible moments, from the manner in which he nursed his injured member, agony seemed to supervene and shut out every other emotion.
The moments passed. The young naval officer shifted his position. The strain was telling upon him.
The man at the rail moved again. His gaze was withdrawn from the horizon. It was turned towards the sailor. The officer averted his gaze. He could not face the eyes which were yet beyond his discernment. He knew their expression without seeing it. He understood the man's object. This was the moment he had awaited. The Teutonic mind was silently hurling all the power of hate and defiant contempt of which the distorted spirit was capable at those who had forced him to his final desperate act.
There was the faintest sound of a splash. The young officer's eyes came back, searching for his charge. But where Frederick von Berger had stood there only remained the unbroken line of the rail.
Then a voice spoke sharply behind him. It was the voice of Ruxton Farlow conveying orders to Captain Ludovic in the turret.
"Dorby without delay," he said. "The pilot will pick us up at the Northbank buoy."
The room was very quiet. A wintry sunbeam glanced in through the leaded casement and fell slanting across the floor, lighting up the occupied four-post bed. A uniformed nurse was occupied at a bureau which stood in the window-place, framed in the floral chintz hangings which seemed to suit so well the oaken panelling of the room, and the beams with which the ceiling was so powerfully groined.
The doctor, a benevolent, grey-whiskered, cherub-eyed old man, who had cared for every patient at Dorby Towers since the Farlows came into occupation, was at the bedside talking gently but firmly to his patient.
"It is useless, my dear young lady," he said, with, for him, an almost peevish complaint. "I have done all that a man can do. I have pulled you clear of that wretched brain-fever which threatened you. Your poor, poor arm will soon be out of its plaster, and covered with nothing more disfiguring than a sling, which can at all times be made to match your costume, and yet you will do nothing to helpme. It is really distressing. You should have been on that couch two weeks ago. A week ago you should have been moving about getting your bodily strength back. I really can't understand such obstinacy. Eight weeks in this bed, and you will not, simply will not, pull yourself up sufficiently to allow your being moved. You know it's a case of that woman, Mrs. Somebody, in one of Charles Dickens's books. I don't remember the name. All I know is she died, or did something equally silly, because she wouldn't make an effort."
Vita gazed back languidly into the fresh, wholesome face of the smiling old man. She was so tired. She was weary with thought. She knew that the doctor was making a just complaint. But she knew something more. She knew, half by instinct, the real cause of the trouble of which he was complaining.
She smiled up at him in a wan fashion.
"I am not as much to blame as you think, doctor dear. You have done, oh, so much for me that I feel I can never be grateful enough. May I sit up?"
The doctor summoned the nurse, and Vita was tenderly propped up against a perfect nest of pillows.
"That's better. Thank you ever so much. Now I can talk, and—I want to talk."
Vita remained silent for some moments in spite of her expressed desire.
The medical man watched her closely. She was a mere shadow of what she ought to be. There was a troubled look in her eyes. He felt, somehow he knew, what was coming. It was a request such as he had been forced to deny her so many times before.
His smile died out. But Vita's eyes, when she finally turned them on him, were bright with an emotion which seemed at first unwarranted.
"Do you know why I can't get well?" she enquired wistfully. "It is not obstinacy. It is not lack of effort. It is becauseyouwon't let me. Doctor dear, the time has surely gone by when I may not talk of—that night. You see, you don't understand it—all. My father is dead. I know that. The thought is always with me. But that—that is not all. Everybody here is kindness, kindness itself. Mr. Farlow—Ruxton, all of them. They come here. But they are never allowed to stay. They send me everything which—kindness can dictate. But, under your orders, no one will tell me those things I must know, and I am not permitted to say a word of that which I must tell. Doctor dear, it isyouwho are to blame. Oh, the worry of it all. It seems to take the very life out of me. I must talk," she went on, with growing excitement. "I must tell him all which he can never learn so long as you keep me silent. Send Ruxton to me, doctor dear, and give us leave to talk as much as we want to, and I promise you you shall not regret it. I—I simply must talk or—or——"
But the growing excitement proved too much for her. In her weak state Vita suddenly fell to weeping hysterically. The nurse and doctor leant their energies to calming her, and, by degrees, their efforts were rewarded.
But the little man's face was troubled. This was what he feared, dreaded.
The moment Vita had calmed again he chided her as he might chide some helpless child, but he registered a mental resolve. Somehow Vita must obtain strength or—— Well, he had done all he knew. He must leave medicine and look to the psychological side. Experiment—he hated experiment at his time of life. But there seemed to be nothing else for it. So he reassured her and gave her the promise she asked.
The result was magical. The sick woman's face lit radiantly. Her beautiful grey eyes were filled with such a light as the little man had never seen in them before. He wondered. He was puzzled. It was something which he could not understand.
He left the room, taking the nurse with him, and as he went he shook his head and warned himself that the nervous troubles of modern times were amazing. He felt that he was professionally old—very old.
Nor was it without serious misgivings that he sought Ruxton Farlow.