And Goritz told her of the women he had met in the performance of his duty from London to Constantinople, women of the secret service of England, France, Russia, who had set their wits to match his. Some of them were ugly and clever, some were stupid and beautiful, but they had all been dangerous. He had passed them by. No woman in the world that he had ever known had had the nobility of spirit, the courage, the self-abnegation of the Countess Strahni.
It was in these moods of adulation and self-revelation that Marishka found him most difficult. But she managed to keep him at arm's length by the mere insistence of her spirituality which accepted his friendship upon its face value, telling him that she forgave the past, and vaguely suggesting hope for the future. With that he had to be content, though at times he was dangerously near rebellion. She promised him many things but denied him her lips, hoping day by day for the rescue which came not, and praying night after night that the God who watched over her would forgive her for her duplicity and for the hatred of him that was in her heart.
But there came a day when the walks beyond the causeway ceased, and from the window of her bedroom she learned the reason. Far, far below her in the valley along the road which wound through the Pass, she saw the figures of marching men. Austrian soldiers! What did their presence mean? They were going toward the other end of the pass—thousands of them. Had the Russians crossed Galicia? That night there were no lights in the side of the castle toward the gorge save the candle in her room, which was screened by heavy hangings. And when at dinner she questioned Goritz he gave her the briefest of replies. The Cossacks were coming? Perhaps, but they would not take Dukla Pass. He warned her not to show her figure at the castle windows or above the wall of the rampart, and she obeyed.
For several days Goritz disappeared, and she gained a breathing space to think over her position. She ventured out many times into the courtyard in the hope of finding an opportunity to elude her guard, but each time she approached the drawbridge she saw the chauffeur Karl seated in the shadow of the wall, smoking his pipe. And so she knew that any attempt to pass him would be impossible.
At the end of the fourth day, Captain Goritz joined her at the supper table. He had now discarded his Austrian uniform and wore a rough suit of working clothes, similar to the peasant costume which Ena's husband wore. He greeted her gladly, but she asked him no questions as to his absence, upon her guard as she always was against the unknown quality in the man, which held her in constant anxiety. But after he had eaten, the cloud which had hung over him seemed to pass, and he leaned forward, smiling at her across the table.
"You have been obedient?" he asked.
"What else is left for me?" she smiled. "I have wondered where you were."
"Ah," he laughed, "you missed me? That is good. You wondered what would happen to you if I did not come back." He laughed as he lighted his cigarette. "I am not so easily to be lost, I assure you. I have been through Dukla Pass."
"Many soldiers have gone through the pass today—many this morning—many more this afternoon."
"Yes, I saw them."
"And the Russians?"
He was silent for a while, and then spoke very quietly. "They are coming."
She made no sound and seemed to be frozen into immobility by the import of the information.
"The Austrians have fortified the other end of the Pass, but it is said that the Russians are in great numbers, sweeping everything before them——"
"Przemysl—! Lemberg—!"
"Lemberg has fallen. The fate of Przemysl hangs in the balance." He shrugged. "Tomorrow, perhaps, may see the Cossacks at Dukla Pass."
"And then——"
"I do not wish to alarm you," he said gently. "Six hundred years have passed over Schloss Szolnok, and it still stands. I am not going to run away."
"But you can do nothing—against so many."
"They will not bother us, I think. The Austrians, you see, have passed us by. They are taking all their artillery to Javorina and Jägerhorn and mounting them upon the old emplacements of the ruins. The defense will be made there where the gorge is narrower."
"But if they should come—here—the Cossacks—!" she whispered fearfully.
He laughed easily. "Ah, Countess, I am not a half-bad jailer, after all?"
"The Cossacks!" she repeated.
"They shall not come here."
"What can you do?"
"The place is impregnable—sheer cliffs upon all sides—the causeway two hundred meters long. I could pick them off one by one from the top of the keep. With the drawbridge up, we are as safe as though we were in Vienna."
"But their artillery?"
"They will not think us worth their while. In the armory there are six repeating hunting rifles and four shotguns, ammunition plentiful——" He broke off and, rising, came over and stood beside her. "But we will not think of unpleasant possibilities. It has been so long since I have seen you—too long."
She let him take her hand and press it to his lips, but tonight that condescension did not seem to be enough. He fell to one knee beside her and would have put his arm about her waist if she had not risen and struggled away from him.
"You forget, Herr Hauptmann, the dependence of my position here—alone with you. Whatever our personal relations, a delicacy for my feelings must warn you——"
"Marishka!" he broke in. "What does a man who loves as I do, care for the conventions of the sham world you and I have left so far behind. I adore you. And you flout me."
"For shame! Would you care for me if I were a woman without delicacy or dignity? I beg of you——"
But he had held her by the hand and would not release her.
"I adore you—and you flout me—that is all that I know. Your indifference maddens me. Perhaps I am not as other men, and must not be judged by other standards than my own which are sufficient for myself as they should be sufficient for you. You know that I—I worship you—that by staying here I have forgotten my duty to my country at a time when I am most needed. Does that mean nothing to you? Can you be callous to a love like mine which lives only in your happiness and hangs upon your pleasure? I worship you, Marishka. Just one kiss, to tell me that you care for me a little. I will be content——"
She struggled in his grasp, her fear of him lending her more strength. Her lips—? Hugh's! Never—never—as God witnessed.
"One kiss, Marishka——"
She struggled free and struck him with her clenched fist furiously, full in the face, and then ran to the window, as he released her, breathing hard, trembling, but full of defiance. The suddenness of the affair and its culmination had driven them both dumb, Marishka with terror, Goritz with chagrin at his mistake and anger at her temerity. He touched his face with the fingers of one hand and stared at her with eyes that burned with black fire in the pallor of his face.
"You have struck me," he muttered. And then, with a shrug, "That was not a love tap, Countess Strahni."
She could not speak for very terror of the consequences of the encounter, but stood watching him narrowly, one hand upon the window-ledge beside her.
"Well," he asked presently, "are you dumb?"
"You—you insulted me," she gasped.
"Whatever I have done, you have repaid me," he muttered.
She glanced out of the window into the black void beneath.
"I—I am not afraid to die, Herr Goritz," she said.
He caught the meaning of her glance and her poise by the window-ledge, and their significance sobered him instantly. He drew back from her two or three paces and leaned heavily against an oaken chair.
"Am I so repellent to you as that?" he whispered.
"My lips—are mine," she said proudly. "I give them willingly or not at all."
His gaze flickered and fell before the high resolve that he read in her face. And her courage enthralled him.
"Herr Gott!" he muttered, "you have never been so beautiful as now, Marishka!"
She did not reply or move, but only watched him steadily.
He paced the floor stiffly, his hands behind him, struggling for his self-control. And the better instinct in him, the part of him that had made life possible for Marishka at Schloss Szolnok, was slowly triumphant.
"A kiss means much or little," he said quietly at last. "To me, the consecration of a love which has leaped the bounds of mere platitude. A woman of your training perhaps cannot grasp the honesty of my unconvention. I have meant you no harm. But that you should have misunderstood—!"
"One thing only I understand—that you have violated the hospitality of Schloss Szolnok."
"I beg of you——"
"It is true. Was your kindness, your courtesy, your consideration, but the means to this end? I can never believe in you again."
"Do you mean that?"
"I do——"
"It is a pity."
"It is the truth. Fear and affection cannot survive together."
"Fear?"
"I can never trust you again. Let me go—I beg that you will excuse me."
He bowed. "If that is your wish——" and turned and walked to the window opposite, while Marishka found her way up the stairs and so to her room where she lay upon her bed fully dressed, in a high state of nervous excitement.
Hugh Renwick in his borrowed plumage, strode forth before dawn, and reaching a spot where the valley narrowed into the gorge and marked the grim outline of Schloss Szolnok against the lightening East, slowly climbed the rugged slope of the mountain on his left which faced it. He meant to spend the morning in a study of the approaches to the castle, and if possible devise some means by which he could inspect it unobserved at closer range. Daylight found him perched in a crevice of rock among some trees, through the leaves of which he could clearly see the distant mass of stone which rose in solitary dignity, an island above the mists of the valley, a grim relic of an age when such a situation meant isolation and impregnability.
Indeed, it scarcely seemed less impregnable now, for upon two sides at least, the cliffs rose sheer from the gorge until they were joined by the heavy buttresses which tapered gracefully until they joined the walls of the crenelated towers and bastions. In the center of the mass of buildings rose the square solid mass of the keep, with its crenelated roof and small windows commanding every portion of the space enclosed within the gray walls. He marked the dim lines of a road which ascended from the valley upon the further mountain, now scarcely visible because of the vegetation which grew luxuriantly on the hillsides, and he studied this approach to the castle most attentively—the straight reach of wall, built to span a branch of the gorge beyond, perhaps two hundred feet deep and six hundred wide. This was the main entrance to the castle, a narrow causeway, that terminated at the gate where he marked a drawbridge now raised, which hung by chains to the heavy walls above.
The only means of access? Perhaps, and if the gate were guarded, impassable by night as well as day. But Renwick was not sure that there was no other means of ingress. To the left of the keep, and on a level with the top of the long curtain of wall, the building fell away in ruins, for portions of old bastions were missing, and there was a breach in the northern wall, which had tumbled outward over the precipice into the ravine below.
As daylight came Renwick watched the windows and ramparts intently. There was no sign of life, but remembering that here there was no need for early rising, he waited patiently, gazing steadily through the leaves across the valley. At last his patience was rewarded, for from a building in the courtyard near the central mass, he made out a thin pale blue line which ascended straight into the sky. Smoke! Breakfast was cooking. His heart gave a leap. There were no devils in Schloss Szolnok—but Goritz! In a short while, still watching intently, he saw a figure pass from the gate toward the main buildings, where it disappeared. Renwick would have given the remainder of his hundred-kronernotes for a good pair of field glasses, by which it might have been possible to distinguish the identity of any figure that could be seen. But he realized that he had accomplished the object of his visit, for the raised drawbridge indicated that whoever occupied the castle, seclusion was important to him. Deciding that he knew enough to warrant closer investigation, Renwick moved slowly along the mountain side into the gorge, under the cover of rocks and undergrowth, slowly descending toward the road, with the idea of crossing the stream and climbing the rugged cliff beyond, from which he could gain a nearer view of the northern and ruined end of the castle.
But after an hour of careful progress, as he reached a projection of rock which hung over the road below, he crouched, suddenly listening. For he heard the sound of voices, a rumble of wheels, and the creaking and clanking of heavy metallic objects. The sounds came nearer, swelling in proportion, now clearly distinguishable; and so lying flat upon his stomach, he parted the bushes at the edge of the rock and peered over. There was a cloud of dust and the clatter of iron-shod boots against the flints of the road, and in a moment he made out long ranks of soldiers, marching rapidly to the northward into the Pass. Renwick knew that the northern end of the Pass was already strongly guarded, for his host had told him that many soldiers had gone through during the weeks before; but the sight of these hurrying men, the shrouded guns which lumbered amidst them, and the long line of motor trucks and wagons which followed, gave Renwick a notion that events of military importance were pending in the Galician plain beyond. He tried to form some idea of the number of men that passed. A regiment—two, three, four—artillery—three batteries at least. For an hour or more they passed, and then at last, silence and solitude.
Although adequately disguised, Renwick was in no position to be stopped and searched, for if he wore no marks of identification, his automatic, and the money pinned in his trousers lining, would have made him an object of suspicion, the more so in a country where soldiers were moving in so precarious a military situation.
And so he descended slowly, hiding in a copse at the base of the rocks where he waited for a while listening, and then peered cautiously out. Then matching his footsteps to those of the soldiers, he crossed the road obliquely and plunged through the bushes down over the rocks to the bed of the Dukla, where he waited and listened again, crossing the stream at last by a fallen tree and reaching the protection of the undergrowth upon the farther bank.
Though he had been able to learn little in Budapest of the military situation, even from Herr Koulos, the sight of Austrian soldiers marching toward the northern end of the Pass assured him that the Russians must have won important victories in Galicia, thus placing all the passes of the Carpathians in jeopardy. But whatever his interest in conjectures regarding the possibility of victory or defeat, his own business was too urgent to admit of other issues, and so he made his way forward cautiously through the underbrush, which in places was almost impenetrable. Four-footed things, startled by this unusual invasion of their hunting ground, started up almost beside him and fled—rabbits, squirrels, a wolf, and a brown bear, which rocked upon its four legs dubiously for a moment, and then lumbered comically away. These creatures and the pathless woods advised him that however frequented the mountain road below, the inhabitants hereabout were not in the habit of traversing the wooded mountain sides. Moving forward slowly he climbed the hills in the general direction of the castle, the sunlit bastions of which suddenly appeared through the foliage above him and to the right.
He moved more warily now, for if Goritz were in hiding within Schloss Szolnok, he would of course take pains that every avenue of approach should be watched. But a careful inspection of the crag upon which the castle was perched, and from this new angle, led Renwick to the conclusion that Goritz might be so sure of its inaccessibility from the north that no guard at the ruined end would be thought necessary. At first glance, indeed, Renwick was inclined to that opinion himself, for the rocks, though fissured and scarred as though by the blasts of winter, though not so high, were scarcely less precipitous than upon the southern side. At his very feet, perhaps already buried for years in the loam and moss, were the huge blocks of stone which had fallen from the northern towers and rolled down the steep slope of the natural counterscarp which the conformation of the mountain provided.
Renwick scrutinized the beetling wall of rock above the incline with a dubious eye, seeking a possible path or succession of footholds by means of which he might make his way to the breach in the stone rampart above. The task seemed hopeless, but he knew that the most formidable difficulties are often solved by the simplest devices, and so he studied the wall patiently, his gaze suddenly focusing upon a fissure in the cliff, a little to his right, which went upward at an angle, its apex passing a projection of the rock which extended for a hundred feet or more to the southward. Above that precarious platform, the cliff was splintered and torn as though the agencies which had devastated the wall above had wreaked their vengeance here too. But there were finger holds and footholds, a desperate climb even in the daylight to a member of an Alpine club. But Renwick from his ambush studied the face of that rock foot by foot, and at last decided that when night came, the possibilities of entrance having been denied him elsewhere, he would make the effort.
He did not know what he would find among the ruins above, their connection with the habitable part of the castle having probably been walled up by Baron Neudeck, and granting that Renwick succeeded in making his way to the top, his chances of reaching the main buildings might be slim indeed. And suppose after all this effort, that Marishka were not here—that Goritz had gone on—!
But how could he have gone on? Surely not by a road guarded by an army at its other end. And it was only last night that he had seen Goritz's fellow assassin and hireling. Marishka was within, and Renwick had not permitted a doubt of it to enter his mind since yesterday.
But to make certain of the matter he decided upon further investigation, retracing his steps for some hundred yards down the declivity, making sure of his landmarks as he went, until he reached the lower level of the valley, where crossing a brook he began climbing the steeper slope of the northern mountain. Here a greater degree of caution was required, for the rock upon which the Schloss was built was close to the northern slope and it was over the eastern reaches of the northern crags that the road passed which led to the causeway. To make his investigation more difficult of accomplishment, most of the mountain side was in bright sunlight while the castle was in shadow. And so, it being now the middle of the afternoon, he decided to move slowly at first, find a secluded spot and eat of the bread and cheese which was to be both his breakfast and supper.
From his position, well up among the rocks, he had a view of the tree-tops of the valley below with a glimpse of the road a short distance from the spot where he had crossed it in the morning. The ruined end of the castle he commanded, too, from a new angle. He was now above the level of the crag and made out among the twisted mass of stone the vestiges of what had once been a chapel, and a watchtower. There was an arch which seemed to lead into a vaulted structure, but from his position he could not see within it.
Renwick's eyes were good and they searched the valley below him ceaselessly. He thought he heard a rumble as of thunder in the distance, but as the sky was clear he knew that he must have been mistaken, but after a while along the road below him more soldiers passed, riding rapidly and silently—into the deeper shadows of the gorge. Their clattering wagons followed, and this, Renwick decided, was the cause of the distant sound that he had heard. Once or twice he thought that he saw motion among the undergrowth at some distance below him, but decided that he had been mistaken. Again—nearer and to his right. There was no doubt of it now. Renwick crawled deeper into his place of concealment and peered out.
Some one was climbing up over the rocks below him, mounting slowly a little farther up the gorge. He heard the crackling of twigs and the sound of voices in a subdued murmur. There were two of them. Venturing his head beyond the leaves he got a glimpse through the trunks of the pine-trees—a tall man and a shorter, stouter one. They were more than a hundred yards away and moving up the mountain side away from him, but to Renwick's mind, fixed only upon the men he sought and those who sought himself, the figures, though wearing rough clothing like his own, seemed strangely like those of Herr Windt and Spivak. Of course he might have been mistaken, for within two miles of this spot at least two hundred people lived, but the profusion of game in the valley confirmed the report of his host of last night that the peasants who lived in the vicinity of Dukla were not in the habit of venturing into the Pass. And if not peasants and not the men he had imagined them to be, who were they and what were they doing here? He lay quietly, listening for the sound of their footsteps which seemed to pass toward the castle above him and at last died away in the distance.
Windt here? It seemed incredible that he had traced Renwick so quickly. Or was it as Herr Koulos had said, that the same sources of information which had been open to Renwick had been open to Herr Windt also? Was he seeking Goritz or Renwick or both, trusting to the relations between Renwick and Marishka to bring all trails to this converging point? If the strangers among the rocks above him were Windt and Spivak, he was indeed in danger of detection and capture, and the fate of an Englishman taken armed in a region where Austrian troops were massing was unpleasant to contemplate. And yet Renwick decided that before he made the rash attempt to mount the cliff he must further investigate. And so he lay silent until nightfall when with drawn automatic he emerged from his hiding place and quietly made his way along the mountain side. He searched the undergrowth eagerly, as a man only can when his life depends upon the keenness of his senses, and without mishap reached a point opposite the castle where he commanded both the courtyard and the mass of buildings around the central tower. The distance across the narrow gorge at this side of the castle was perhaps two or three hundred yards, and Renwick from the shelter of a bush could see the windows quite distinctly. As the night grew dark two lights appeared—both, he noted, upon the side of the buildings toward where he sat—lights which could not be visible from the deeper, wider valley upon the other side or from the road below. He saw figures moving—the small bent figure of a woman in the building upon the left which seemed to be the kitchen, a man in the courtyard near the gate which Renwick had seen from the other side. The room upon the right near the keep, seemed to be the Hall, for the windows were longer than any others and denoted a high ceiling within. There was a light here too, and Renwick watched the windows, his heart beating high with hope. In his anxiety to see who was within the apartment he forgot the strangers upon the mountain side, the danger of his position, the hazardous feat before him—all but the hope that Marishka was here.
He had almost given up hope of seeing her when she appeared. He knew her instantly, though he could not easily distinguish her features. She sat in a chair at a table, conversing with some one whom he could not see. A pang of jealousy shot through him. Goritz—!
What if believing him dead Marishka had learned to tolerate the German agent, even to the point of friendship. There they were, sitting face to face at table, as they had done for two months or more. What were their relations? Prisoner and captive? And which was which? How could he have blamed Marishka,—Renwick, a dead man?
He knew that she had grieved, that she must have hated the man who had done him to death—perhaps still hated him as Renwick did. He peered at the fragment of Marishka's white dress, the only part of her that was visible to him, and upbraided himself for his unworthy thoughts of her.
And when the dead came to life what would she say to him?
Hedged about with difficulties and dangers as he was, the sight of the girl so near him and yet so inaccessible was maddening. Now that he had discovered her, every impulse urged him to the feat of scaling the wall. And yet, as though fascinated, he still sat, his gaze fixed on the bit of white drapery which was a part of Marishka. He tried to imagine what Goritz was saying to her, for he seemed to know that Goritz was her companion, seemed to hear the murmur of their voices. He waited long and then the white drapery vanished, reappeared, and Marishka's figure stood in the window, leaning with one hand upon the casement, in silhouette against the light. And now quite distinctly against the velvety soft background of the breathless night the sound of her voice, refined by the distance between them, but fearful in its tone and significance.
"I—I am not afraid to die, Herr Goritz," it said.
Renwick started to his feet as though suddenly awaking from a dreadful dream into a still more dreadful reality. Marishka still stood in the window motionless, but the words that she had spoken seemed to be ringing endlessly down the silent gorge and in his brain, which was suddenly empty of all but its echoes. He wanted to shout to her a cry of encouragement—and hope, but he remained silent, grimly watching and listening.
Marishka said something else and then turned into the room, while through another window he saw the dark figure of Goritz pass away from her toward the outward wall. Of Marishka he saw no more, but at intervals he saw Goritz pacing to and fro....
How much longer Renwick watched he did not know, but after a while he found himself stumbling along the face of the mountain, descending by the way that he had come, Marishka's words singing their message through and through him. It was as though the words had been meant for him instead of Goritz, that Renwick even in death should know of her danger and come to her aid. He was coming now, not as an avenging spirit, but in the flesh, armed with righteous wrath and a fearful lust for vengeance. He understood what the message meant. Hers was not a cry of despair but of defiance.... What had happened? He had not seen.
"I am not afraid to die." Nor was Renwick—but to live were better—to live at least for tonight. Fury gave him desperation, but for the task before him he needed coolness, too. And realizing that haste might send him hurtling to the bottom of the gorge, he moved more cautiously, stepping down with infinite pains until he reached the brook, which he crossed carefully, and then moved back up the declivity toward the castle.
The night was clear, starlit but moonless, and the cliff as he reached it looked down upon him with majestic and sullen disdain. The ages had passed over and left it scarred and seared but still defiant and inaccessible. Renwick paused a moment to be sure of his ground and then boldly crawled up over the chaos of tumbled bowlders and broken masonry, until he reached the wall of solid rock, where he stopped again to regain his breath and examine the fissure that he had studied earlier in the day. It was a cleft in the rock, the result of some subterranean upheaval which had caused the whole crag to settle into its base; a fissure, originally a mere crack which had been widened and deepened by the erosion of time. Upon closer inspection, it was larger than it had appeared from below, perhaps ten feet in width at the outside, and tapering gradually as it rose.
He entered and ran his fingers along its sides, penetrating to its full depth until there was just room enough in which to wedge his bent body. Then rising cautiously, seated, so to speak, upon the incline which seemed to be about thirty degrees from the vertical, he dug the iron-shod toes of his peasant's boots into the roughnesses of the wall before him and rose, pushing with elbows and arms where the wall was too smooth for a foothold. It was hard work, and at the end of ten minutes, perspiring profusely, and leg and arm weary, he stopped upon a projecting ledge, where he found a perfect balance for his entire body, and relaxed. But he had gained fifty feet.
Above him was the long streak of pallid light shimmering against the gloom of the rock like the blade of a naked sword, with its point far above him among the stars. For a full five minutes he rested, and then went upward again, feeling with his finger ends while he braced his body, taking advantage of every foothold before and behind. At one spot the fissure widened dangerously, but he struggled inward; at another it went almost straight upward, requiring sheer strength of fingers; but at last he found another ledge and braced himself with his feet for another rest. He did not dare to look downward now, for fear of dizziness, but he knew that he had already come high. The sword blade was shorter, curved now more like a scimitar at its tip, which showed that the angle was greater.
But what if before he reached the rocky platform, the cleft should grow too narrow to admit the passage of his body? It was too late now to think of any such impediment. He struggled upward again, slipping back at times, clawing like a cat, with toes and fingers, fighting for his breath, but always mounting higher, his gaze upward toward a star in the heavens near the point of the scimitar. Would he ever reach the top? Bits of the rock crumbled, broke off and flew out into space, and once he slipped and slid outward, only saving himself from destruction by the aid of a jutting piece of jagged rock which caught in his clothing. A desperate venture—but successful, for with one final effort, with fingers torn, and knees and elbows bruised and bleeding, he hauled himself up to the level of the flat projection of rock upon which he dragged himself, exhausted and breathless, but so far, safe.
He lay there for a long time, flat on his back, his eyes dimmed with effort, his gaze on the stars, which now seemed to blink in a friendly way upon his venture. To succeed so far—failure was now impossible. Fearfully he peered over the edge of the cliff upon the velvety tree-tops of the valley below. Three hundred feet, four perhaps, and beyond to the left where the crag fell down to the very bed of the Dukla itself, black void—vacancy.
Above him still was the hazardous climb up the broken face of the rocks, but he did not fear it. His nerves were iron now. There were roots growing here, and small bushes, stunted trees, growing in the interstices of the rocks, and he climbed steadily, always looking upward, toward the breach in the wall now so very near, fifty feet, forty—and then the wall seemed to hang over him smooth and bare. So he hung there by a sturdy branch, one foot clinging, and studied the surface, descending a few feet carefully and then rising again to the left in a fissure, swinging himself along a narrow ledge where the masonry of the bastion joined the rock. Over this he climbed, finding solid footing at last, and then rest and a breathing space within the broken walls.
He lay behind a pile of rocks which had fallen from the walls of the watchtower, recovering his breath again, and the strength of his fingers, every bone of which was crying out in protest. He peered over into the depths below, trying to measure the distance he had come—three hundred feet—perhaps more. Could he find a rope of that length within the castle—? After a while he straightened in the shadow of the wall and peered cautiously up at the dark bulk of the keep and the tower, beyond the ruined chapel, searching its roofs and window for a sign of life. Silence. The ruin was deserted. For half an hour he watched and waited, and then sure that there was no chance that he had been observed, rose to his feet and moved forward stealthily into the shadows of the chapel. The roof had long since fallen in and been removed, but Renwick stumbled over a dusty tomb, toward the fragment of altar with the reredos still showing traces of sculpture, partially protected by a fragment of roof over the apse which had been spared by the wind and storm. To the right of the altar was a Gothic door, which had at one time led into the building adjoining, but upon investigation he found that it had been built in with solid blocks of stone. The other arch of the vaulted structure outside which he had noted from the mountain side was also filled by a wall. So far as Renwick could see, the ruined part of Schloss Szolnok was isolated, with no mode of egress from the habitable part.
Renwick had screened his movements as far as possible from view of the windows in the keep and other buildings, and now discovered that the lowest one was at least fifteen feet above the level of this rampart; and so before planning any action, he investigated the guardhouse, a fallen ruin upon the north bastion. He seemed to make out the forms of what had once been the stone treads of a circular stair in a tumbled mass. At first the appearance of the place discouraged him, for it seemed too far away from the main mass of buildings to furnish any communication with them, but as he peered among the fallen masonry he thought he detected a darker spot in the obscurity, and bending forward was aware of a heavy smell, as of mold and dampness. Upon investigation he discovered an irregular hole under the mass of stone, a little wider than his body.
He dared not strike a match for fear the glow of it might be observed from one of the windows of the keep, but testing the balance of the heavy stone steps, he decided to investigate, and so lowering his legs into the dark aperture he let himself hang from his waist and found that his toes encountered solidity. He tested his footing with his weight, and then let go, descending into the hole, which seemed to be a stairway, leading from the tower into the bowels of the rock. With a touch of fingers upon the efflorescent walls he moved cautiously down, step by step, sure now that this was the ancient corridor by which the men-at-arms passed from the guardhouse to the other rampart. Sixty-two steps down he counted, and then he reached a level, where he paused a moment to look at the vague blotch of gray which was the starlight. Even with eyes that had now grown accustomed to the darkness he could see nothing, and so deeming himself safe from observation, he struck a match, which struggled a moment against the foul air and then went out. But in the brief moment of partial illumination, Renwick made out a corridor extending straight before him, slightly downward. He followed it cautiously his hands stretched out, his toes feeling for pitfalls, and at last came to a rough wall.
Was this the end—a wall which shut off communication with the ruins? Emptiness to the right. He turned and followed the wall blindly, down its tortuous way, aware of a difficulty in breathing, and a throbbing at his temples down which the moisture was pouring profusely. In a while which seemed hours, the rough wall stopped, and his fingers encountered a wooden upright—a doorway—open. And testing the stone floor carefully he passed through it, the echoes of footfalls advising him that he was in a larger space. He peered in all directions, seeking a sign of light within, for it seemed that the air had now grown fresher, but he saw nothing, and so striking a third match which burned more brightly, he held it over his head for a moment and looked about him.
It was a kind of crypt in a good state of preservation, octagonal in shape, about twelve feet high, and the ceiling was supported by arches which sprang from dwarf columns of stone at the angles. From the center of the ceiling by a heavy chain hung an ancient iron lamp which still contained the remnants of a candle. There was a heavy wooden table at one side, and two heavy chairs, but Renwick's gaze passed these quickly to a partition of rough boards in one of the walls opposite, and then his match burnt his fingers and expired.
He stood in the middle of the stone floor, matchbox in hand, trying to decide what he must do next. As nearly as he could judge by his observations during the afternoon, and the direction of the steps and passageways, the vault was somewhere under the main group of buildings, the keep or one end of the Hall, two or three stories below the level of the chapel floor. Part of the corridor through which he had passed was hewn from the solid rock, and part was built of masonry. The wooden partition opposite him was obviously the beginning of the used part of the castle, but admitting that he could pass it, in which direction would it lead him? He feared to strike another match, for beyond the door perhaps someone might be moving. It was now, as nearly as Renwick could judge, about one o'clock in the morning. He crossed the crypt carefully and found the partition, feeling its surface, which was made of rough boards loosely nailed together. He put his eye to one of the cracks and peering in, could see nothing; but a current of warmer air which came through the slits, slightly aromatic in odor, warned him that the space beyond was surely connected with the habitable part of the castle—a wine cellar perhaps, or a storage room. He debated for a moment whether it was wise to use another light and then at last decided to take the risk, and as matches were scarce, found the ancient candle in the iron lamp, which after sputtering feebly for a moment, consented to burn. By its aid he examined the dust upon the floor of the crypt, which showed the imprint of no footsteps but his own; then the walls of the crypt, discovering immediately another door which his eyes had missed in the earlier glow of the match,—a narrow door open to the left, of thick wood, with heavy iron hinges, the flanges of which formed the braces of the door itself. He blew out the candle and put it into his pocket. Peering through the keyhole and seeing nothing, he lifted the latch and tried to open it.
His efforts proved that it had been unused for many years, for the hinges had sagged, and some of its weight rested upon the stone floor. But with an effort, he managed to move it an inch or so. Another effort swung it clear of its stone sill, and at last he managed to open it wide enough to admit the passage of his body. But with this last attempt the rusty hinges rasped horribly; and so he waited in silence, listening fearfully for any sounds in front or behind him which might indicate alertness above.
Another passage lay before him, a narrower one, which soon developed a straight flight of narrow stairs leading upwards. He stood for a moment staring, for the gloom above him seemed to lighten. He sat upon the lower step and took off his heavy boots, then crept up the stairs noiselessly, reaching a landing dimly lighted by a small slit of a window which looked out upon the night. Pausing here, he was enabled definitely to establish his position within the castle walls. Below him was the narrower gorge, opposite him the cliff upon which he had crouched this afternoon. He was beneath one end of the Hall, and from all indications, in an ancient secret passageway, the existence of which from its condition had for years been forgotten. At the landing there was a heavy wooden door upon his left. This he examined as minutely as possible by the dim light of the loophole, peering through the keyhole, from which exuded a faint odor of gasoline. It must be here that Goritz kept the car. The platform was near the level of the rampart, then. Renwick did not pause here long for he saw that the stairs turned and mounted again in the opposite direction.
Renwick felt for his automatic, and leaving his shoes on the landing by the window, again climbed into the darkness. Another landing—and before his eyes, now sensitive to the slightest lessening of the gloom, a thin thread of light crossed the narrow passage, terminating at his right in an illuminated spot upon the wall. It did not emanate as he had at first supposed, from a keyhole, but from a crevice between two stones, where the joints had turned to powder. He peered through eagerly, but his range of vision was small, covering merely a section of paneled woodwork, a mullioned window, and a chair or two. He held his breath and listened, for he fancied he heard the sound of footsteps. Yes, there they were again, the slowly moving footsteps of a man pacing to and fro—and then the footsteps halted suddenly and a voice spoke. It was that of Leo Goritz.
"Are you sure that you saw them?"
"There is no mistake. My eyes are good."
"Did they remain long?"
"For twenty minutes or so, but they saw that the thing was impossible and went away."
"The situation becomes interesting," said Goritz.
"Rather too risky, I should say," put in the other. "If the Herr Hauptmann had only taken my advice last week——"
"I never take advice. But you may have been mistaken. I can scarcely believe that Herr Windt had the skill to trace us here—unless——"
"But it was he. I was peering through the slit in the postern, not twenty feet away. I could have killed him easily."
"But twenty feet is a long distance when two hundred feet yawn beneath. Let him come. We have food enough for a siege—ah, there it is again!"
There was a significant silence between the two men, but Renwick listened the more keenly, for he heard the deep rumble, as of thunder, which had perplexed him in the afternoon—a reverberation, repeated and continued, which seemed to make the very flags beneath him tremble. But since he could hear and feel it within these solid walls, much nearer and louder, he realized now that it meant the roar of artillery—the defiant blasts of the Austrian guns at the end of the Pass, or the triumphant salvos of the Russians. And the voice of Goritz confirmed him.
"The thing has come rather sooner than I expected," he growled. "Donnerwetter!Why couldn't the Russians have put off the attack for a week!"
"And if they win the Pass——"
"Perhaps it is just as well for us if they do. Herr Windt may neglect us in the general scramble for safety."
"He is not of that sort, Herr Hauptmann."
"Then let him come. Twenty feet is a long jump even for the legs of the Windt."
Goritz laughed at his joke and then yawned sleepily.
"You may go now, Karl. Is Strohmeyer at the gate?"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
"You are sure that he will not go to sleep?"
"I think not."
"The signal is one stroke of the postern bell. He understands?"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann. Any other orders?"
"None except these. That he is on no account to fire unless attacked. But this fact is to be understood. No man is to pass into Schloss Szolnok tonight."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
The chauffeur, Karl, passed across Renwick's range of vision and the steps of Goritz resumed their pacing of the floor—more slowly now. The Englishman had been kneeling, scarcely daring to breathe, and now he wondered what he had better do next. Taking infinite pains to make no sound he investigated the wall of the Hall with his finger tips. There was a door here, a secret door, he thought, hidden from the interior of the Hall in the paneling of the wainscoting. Did Goritz know of its existence? The floor of the crypt, it was true, had shown no sign of footsteps, and the door below, Renwick was sure, had not been opened for many years. But if Goritz knew of this passage, there was a chance of his entering and finding him. Renwick dared not strike matches now, and determined to go on until he had mastered all the architectural details of the passage, and then devise some plan to reach Marishka. Balked in other directions he could return to this secret door into the Hall, and awaiting the departure of Goritz, force an entrance and trust to luck.
But there might be some other and less dangerous means of reaching Marishka. Even if he entered the Hall, he would have no idea which way to turn. Better to follow the passage to the upper floors, if it were possible, and enter above, thus creating a diversion which might add to the advantage of his surprise. But did the passage mount higher? Or was—? His advancing toes touched something solid. Bending forward, he found steps, and immediately began mounting them on all fours.
The sleeping-rooms, he had supposed, were on the two upper floors of the keep and in the buttressed building toward the south which was a part of it. This was the direction in which he was going now. He reached another landing, as nearly as he could judge by the steps he had taken, almost over the crypt, three levels below. This was the keep, then, upon his left. With pulse beating rapidly he felt for and found a wooden upright—another door. He paused and listened. There was no sound nor any light upon the other side. So he went on slowly until at a distance above him he saw the starlight coming through another loophole, the counterpart of that below the Hall, and mounted noiselessly, peering out upon the wider valley to the south. He had therefore traversed the castle from one side to the other, and was now near the top of the buttressed wing of the keep.
Breathing in deep gasps the keen night air, Renwick waited, listening, and now heard again from outside the thunderous reverberations of the battle at the head of the Pass. He had been so intent upon his mission that he had forgotten it! But now the furious character of the engagement was obvious. It was far distant, perhaps four or five miles away, and yet the wild heavens were aglow with strange flashing fires, the reflections of the bombs and star-shells which paled the ineffectual lights of the firmament. Battle! Schloss Szolnok, too, should see battle—his own with Goritz! But Renwick would take no chances this time.
The heavy reverberations rose and died away, but a fainter spatter of sounds continued, the deadly counter-melody of machine-gun and rifle fire which went on without intermission. Far below the Schloss, in the direction of the road along the Dukla, he heard the clatter of transport, and the calls of men.
All of this Renwick's mind assimilated in his moment of rest and recuperation, but beside the loophole, clearly defined by the flashes in the heavens, his searching glances made out the uprights of another door. Here, perhaps——He bent forward, listening at its cracks, and then knelt, searching for a latch or keyhole. Nothing. But as he turned his back to the loophole, shutting out the starlight, he imagined that he saw something white upon the stone flagging. He leaned forward to pick it up and found that his fingers were softly illuminated. The spot was the reflection of a dim light within the room. He put his face close to the floor and found the aperture, a small hole of irregular shape in the baseboard of the door. A candle. Someone, then, was within? He put his ear to the chink and listened. A muffled sound, faint, but agonizingly definite—a woman's sobs! Renwick straightened and then listened again. Silence. Perhaps he had been mistaken. No. There it was again—fainter now. He ran his fingers softly along the edges of the woodwork, seeking a latch, a handle, but could find none. If there were a secret spring, it was so deftly hidden that he could not discover it. But in the brief moments of his search he had decided that he must enter this room at all costs. And so rising to his feet, he gave up trying to find the secret of admittance and slowly put his weight against the woodwork. It made no sound nor yielded to his pressure. He tried it again with the same results. Then despairing, and desperate, he struck a match and ran it quickly along the jambs. The hinges were concealed, but he found signs of them at the right. To the left, then—another match—a handle, a knob—where? And then just as the third match went out he found it—a flat, iron lever which moved around a swivel, cunningly let into the woodwork. He caught it quickly in his fingers, twisted it down, and then, automatic in hand, he pushed upon the door which opened and swung inward upon its hinges.
Renwick waited for a moment in the doorway, pistol in hand, blinking at the candle upon the table, like a cat emerging from a cellar, searching the vast room for its occupant. A huge room with wainscoted walls, with heavy hangings at the windows, massive furniture, a high canopied bed——
He took a few quick steps forward into the room, for a figure clothed in soft white had started up from the bed and was staring at him with startled eyes—Marishka!
Renwick was hatless, tattered, covered with dust, his face streaked with grime and sweat, and the short beard that he wore still further transformed him. But it seemed that a look of recognition struggled with the terror in her eyes.
"You, Hugh—again!" she whispered.
A pang shot through him at the pitiful sound of her voice and at the words. Had her sufferings——
"Your spirit. It has—has been—with me often, Hugh." She went on dreamily.
"Marishka!" he whispered, crossing to her swiftly. "It is I—Hugh. It is no dream, no vision. Awake!"
She brushed an arm across her eyes like one arousing from a deep sleep, and then straightened suddenly and still uncertainly. But he caught her by the arm and brought her face close to his own so that she might see.
"I didn't die, dear. I am here in the flesh—to protect—to take you away from this place."
"Then I—I have not dreamed?"
"Not now?"
She clasped his wrists, his shoulders, his face with her hands to assure herself of the truth, and he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
"Marishka!" he murmured again. And then she seemed to grow heavy in his arms, repeating his name breathlessly.
He was frightened for a moment for her head drooped away from him. She looked so piteously thin and white, and her hands were ice cold.
"Marishka!" he pleaded. "Marishka."
Her eyes opened again and her smile reassured him.
"Forgive me, Hugh. The joy is almost more than I can bear."
"You are safe now," he whispered. "Safe!" And he clasped her close, holding her there in a breathless moment oblivious to their danger.
Then while she still wondered, Renwick suddenly released her, moving quickly to the door by which he had entered, and after examining the mechanism carefully, quietly closed it. Then he turned to Marishka and questioned, while still seated upon the bed, she regarded him with bewildered eyes.
"What men are there at Schloss Szolnok, Marishka?" he asked quickly.
"Goritz—the chauffeur—and Ena's husband," she answered slowly, with an effort.
"Strohmeyer?"
"Yes. The two men—at the farm—are not here—at night."
"Ah, I see——" And then, "That other door," he whispered tensely. "Is it locked?"
"Yes. I—I locked it tonight."
"You feared?"
"Hugh—until tonight——"
She stopped and shuddered, until he came to her and held her for a moment in his arms.
"He will not frighten you again," he muttered between set lips.
"Thank God," she whispered, now starting up as though with the first realization of their position.
"Have you any plan of what you will do?"
"Yes. Goritz is still below in the Hall. I have a plan, but I can do nothing until he goes to bed. Where is his room?"
"In the keep, along the passageway outside."
"I see," thoughtfully; and then, "Do you know where I can find a rope—several ropes, stout ones?"
"I do not know. There is a storeroom."
"Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, I think so."
"And you can find it—in the dark?"
"I think so."
"Is there any way of telling when Goritz goes to bed?"
"I hear his steps sometimes in the corridor outside."
He went noiselessly over to the door, listened a moment and then returned.
"No sounds. There isn't much sleep for anyone here tonight. The noise and the knowledge that Herr Windt is somewhere near——"
"Herr Windt!"
"He has followed us here. I think he found a trace of me at Bartfeld—the village beyond the mountain," he whispered.
"But we might go down through the castle and the courtyard—if we could pass the man at the drawbridge. Does it make a noise when it is lowered?"
"Oh, yes, Hugh—a dreadful noise."
"That's awkward." He crossed to the door into the wainscoting and listened there, then at the other door into the corridor, and returned to her.
"For the present, at least, we're safe."
He caught her in his arms and held her silently. Her arms clinging to him, she raised her head and found his lips.
"Belovèd," she whispered, "how did you——"
"I followed you here—on a mere fragment of a clew—but it was enough."
"But he shot you——"
"I was well cared for—in a hospital."
"You were wounded—dangerously?"
"Yes, but I don't die easily. I'm quite well again."
"Are you sure?"
He laughed. "Could I be here, else? Your cliffs are steep——"
"You climbed——?"
"Yes, up a fissure and through the ruins. I saw you—there in the window—from across the gorge. I heard you call, Marishka——"
"Call——?"
"That you were not afraid to die."
"But Iwasafraid, Hugh—it was so far—so dark below." She shuddered.
He pressed her closer to him. "Has he—has Goritz——"
"Until tonight, Hugh—he has not been unkind," she said slowly. "I was sick; he nursed me. But I've feared him—I fear him still——"
He felt her body trembling against his own, and reassured her gently, pausing a moment to listen tensely for sounds at either door. And then——
"Don't worry, dearest. He cannot harm you. I was not spared from death for nothing."
"I am not frightened now, but tonight has been horrible—the noise—my terror of I know not what. It has been like the end of the world to me."
"The beginning of our world, yours and mine," he said confidently.
She straightened, drew away from him and put a hand before her eyes again. "Even yet I cannot believe." She looked up at him with a wide gaze that still held in it something of the reflection of the long days of helplessness and misery—something more deeply spiritual than he had ever seen. "Hugh, dear," she went on softly, "you will think it strange, but I—I have heard you calling to me—speaking to me, like a living presence here in this room. Not as you are now, belovèd, but paler.... I thought that you were dead.... And so when you came—at the door—I thought—I must have dreamed——"
"You were frightened, dear."
"Yes—terribly frightened, Hugh," she confessed, "byhim—and by the firing. It seemed at times as though the castle were rocking under me. Listen!"
A terrific cannonading began again—louder, more continuous than any that had gone before.
"Yes—they are fighting for the end of the Pass," he muttered; "the Russians——"
"And will they——?"
"God knows. I pray——" he paused and scanned her face anxiously.
"What, Hugh?"
"That the Russians may win."
She started away from him, her eyes widely inquiring.
"Why?"
He smiled slowly.
"It's simple enough. Because if I am taken by the Austrians I shall be shot as a spy."
"You—a spy!"
"No, not really," he said soberly. "But I'm an Englishman, an enemy of Austria armed and in disguise. That is enough——"
"They—my people would shoot you!" She whispered, horror-stricken.
"I have no illusions about my fate—if taken——"
"But you have come here—to help me——"
"Unfortunately that does not change matters."
He put her gently aside and went for a while and listened at the doors, and then came back to her.
"Silence. But we will wait a little longer," he whispered.
Marishka caught him by the shoulders and looked up into his eyes.
"Hugh, what you have said frightens me. You mean that you—that we are enemies—you and I—because our nations are at war——!"
She drew away and held him at arm's length while she scrutinized him in the light of the guttering candle.
"You—my enemy, Hugh? I—yours?" A wan smile came proudly to her lips. "If I am your enemy, belovèd, then love and loyalty have perished from the earth. And you, who have risen from the grave to come to me——!"
"Sh——, dear," he whispered. "You must know the truth. Whatever happens—here in the castle, the Austrian troops are all around us. Herr Windt, too. There is no escape for me unless the Russians come through. That is why I hope——"
Marishka put her arms around his shoulders quickly and kissed him on the lips.
"Then I, too, pray that they may come through," she whispered fervently.
"Marishka! I do not ask you to give up your allegiance——"
"No, Hugh. I give without asking. Belovèd, I want you to understand," she said solemnly. "Those that are your enemies are my enemies. You would have died for me—and I, can I do less for you?"
"Sh——, Marishka," he murmured, "there is no death——"
"Death can be no worse for me than the horrible utter loneliness without you; but whatever comes, I am yours, Hugh—in life—in death. I owe no allegiance, no fealty, but to you, and I have kept the faith, Hugh, even here. I can have no country that you may not share, no compatriots that are not yours also. My kingdom is in your heart, belovèd, there to live while you will have it so."
"Marishka!" He caught her in his arms and held her long in his embrace, and she clung close to him, her lips on his in this final test of their plighted troth. About them the thunder of battle, ever approaching nearer; the rumble and din of groaning wagons on the road below; the hoarse cries of men; the whine and sputter of laboring motors trying to pass in the narrow road—confusion, disorder, chaos; but now they heard nothing. For them the earth stood still. Nations might totter and crash, but their Empire was in each other....
Renwick raised his head at last. "Marishka," he whispered, "it is time that we made a move." He released her suddenly, listened at the doors, and then moved to the table beside her.
"First, we had better put out the light—then perhaps we can see if there is anyone outside."
Marishka snuffed the candle, and they went to a window overlooking the courtyard, drew the hangings and peered out. The din in the valley below them was increasing, a hurrying of wagons, horses and guns in the narrow road. Were more Austrian reinforcements coming up? It seemed so. From the mountains beyond, the rattle of small-arm fire had risen to a steady roar, but the detonations of heavy ordnance were less frequent.
"The Austrians—may be winning," he said calmly.
She pressed his hand. "I am sorry," she said bravely.
But there was a world of meaning for Renwick in the way she whispered it.
"Your people shall be my people," she murmured again. "And your God, my God."
He could only return her pressure in silence.
He would have been little happy if he could have said how much.
Together they peered through the slip of the silken hanging to the rampart below. Flashes of reflections from the end of the Pass played like sheet lightning, and in the fitful illuminations they could see the figure of the old man, Strohmeyer, reclining in the shadow by the postern gate. The drawbridge was still raised, and beyond it they could see in the flashes, the length of the causeway stretching out into the darkness of the mountainside beyond. Strohmeyer did not move. It almost seemed as though he were asleep.
"What makes you think that Herr Windt is here?" asked Marishka suddenly.
"I saw him with Spivak yonder," and he pointed to the north beyond the gorge.
Marishka was silent, her eyes eagerly searching the shadows. Her hand was trembling a little with the excitement of their situation, but her voice was firm as she whispered:
"Perhaps tonight my eyes are uncertain, Hugh. But do you not see something moving in the shadow of the wall?"
"Where?"
"Of the causeway—there, beyond the chain of the drawbridge——"
He peered eagerly in the direction she indicated.
"A shadow——?" he questioned. "I can't—no—yes—it moves—there!"
"Yes—another and still another. And they are carrying something."
Renwick watched again for a tense moment.
"Windt—and his men," he said with conviction. "They are going to try to span the abyss."
"Strohmeyer——"
Here at least was a community of interest with Goritz. "They will win their way across, unless he wakes," said Renwick tensely.
"What is it that they are carrying?"
"Timbers—see! There are at least four men to each. They are putting them in the shadow of the wall. Will the man never wake up?"
"What can we do?" she whispered desperately. "I could call out to him."
"No——" he said, "I don't want to arouse Goritz yet. Ah! They have slunk away again to get more timbers, I think."
"And if they should succeed——?"
"They must not. One man could hold the place indefinitely from the protection of the gate. If the man would only wake!"
But Strohmeyer slept on.
"And Goritz?" she said anxiously. "Surely tonight he cannot be sleeping."
"Perhaps he is so sure of himself—yes—in the passage below I heard—there was to be a signal—one stroke of the postern bell——"
"But if the man sleeps——"
"If they come again—no matter what happens, we must warn him," he decided.
"Sh——"
Renwick felt his arm seized suddenly by Marishka's icy fingers and turned, following her wild gaze into the room behind them listening. The anxieties of the night had made Marishka's senses keen. "The door!" she whispered. "The secret door by which you came!"
Renwick listened. In a brief lull in the commotion outside, he heard a slight sound, near and startlingly distinct like that of a rat in a partition. Then in the blackness of the room, a gray streak appeared, slowly widening. The door into the secret passage had opened, and the starlight from the loophole beyond now showed a dusky silhouette. Renwick felt Marishka's arm clutch his in terror, as Goritz noiselessly stepped forward into the room. Renwick had instinctively drawn the hanging behind him, and he and Marishka were in deep shadow while every move that Goritz made was clearly defined. First he took a pace toward the bed, then paused and turning struck a match and searched for the candle.
He was in shirt sleeves. Renwick had drawn his automatic and could have shot him easily. But murder, in cold blood—even when his life and Marishka's depended upon it! Renwick could not. He saw Goritz turn from the lighted candle and stare toward the empty bed and then quickly search the shadows of the room. It was a long moment before he saw the blaze of the candle beside him reflected in Renwick's eyes which peered down the barrel of his automatic.
"What nonsense is this—Marishka——?" he began.
But Renwick's voice cut the darkness like a steel blade.
"Don't move—Goritz. Hands up—high!"
"Who——?"
"Hands up, I say——" And as he slowly obeyed, "Now turn toward the bed——"
Goritz was now staring at Renwick as though he had seen a ghost, but he knew better than to take his hands down.
"You——" he muttered. "You're——"
"I'm Renwick," said the Englishman crisply. "Now do as I tell you or——"
He paused uncertainly, for at that moment, behind him through the window came the deep boom of a bell.
"The drawbridge!" cried Marishka.
"Ah!" came from Goritz's throat as with an incredibly swift movement he smothered the candle. Renwick fired twice and then threw Marishka to one side, but there was a crash of the door in the wainscoting, and then silence.
"He has gone!" cried Marishka somewhere in the darkness.
"Wait!" shouted Renwick. Some instinct warned him of the trick, and he sprang aside just as Goritz darted at the spot where he had been. He felt the rush of the man's body and turned, but did not dare to fire, for fear of hitting Marishka, so he ran forward toward the window and presently they met, body to body, clutching in primitive combat. The man's hand went at his throat, but he wrenched it away again—again. His arms went around the waist of his adversary low down, in the attempt to raise him and bear him to the ground. Goritz was now striking furiously at his head, and by this token Renwick knew that the man was unarmed. Renwick's furious rush brought them with a thud against the wall, where they fell, oversetting a table to the floor. Amid the broken furniture they struggled, in the pitch blackness, with their bare hands, for Renwick's weapon had been knocked from his fingers. In the rebound from the wall Renwick fell beneath, Goritz with one hand upon his throat with a grip which was slowly tightening, but Renwick managed to tear it away and release himself, striking furiously at the man's face. Goritz was young and strong, and Renwick's struggle up the cliff had taken away some of his staying power, but he fought on blindly in the darkness; grimly, like the bulldog that holds and ever tightens his jaws, no matter what the punishment he suffers. The bulldog against the wolf. Goritz was agile, and his arms were strong and wiry. He struck and tore, but Renwick's arms were cracking his ribs, squeezing the breath from his body. He struggled with an effort to one knee, and in the change of position managed to get the fingers of one hand around Renwick's throat again. They rolled over and over upon the floor, first one uppermost and then the other, but the fingers on the Englishman's throat were strong. Fires flashed before Renwick's eyes and the blood seemed to be bursting from his temples.
His grip was relaxing.... He felt his strength going. Then with his remaining consciousness he was aware of a warm moisture upon one of his wrists. Blood! Goritz had been struck by one of his bullets. With a desperate effort, he let go one arm and struck. The man's grip relaxed and he tore it away, gasping greedily for breath.
Marishka in terror had at first slunk into a corner, listening to the fearful sounds of the combat—following it with her ears from one part of the room to another. What must she do? Gathering courage, she passed the foot of the bed, and grasping for the table found the match box and managed to light the candle.
They were upon the floor near one of the windows over the valley, locked in a deadly grip, breathing in terrible gasps. She must do something to help—something—for as the glow fell upon them they seemed to struggle upward against the wall by the window, upon the sill. She could not make out which was which—but instinctively she seemed to realize their deadly purpose—death for one or both on the rocks below! The hanging at the window came crashing down and enveloped them, but they did not know. They were drunk with the lust of killing—mad!
Out of the confusion she saw Goritz rise smiling, straining with his arms, hauling Renwick over the sill. Death! Hers, too, then! With a cry of despair she reached them, clinging with her arms around Renwick's waist.
Goritz opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. He might have struck her down but he did not. Instead he rose with one foot upon the sill in one supreme effort to throw Renwick over, but the Englishman, already half out of the window, got his right arm loose, and swinging with all the strength left to him, launched a terrible blow at his adversary. It struck him on the point of the chin. Goritz staggered, lost his balance, toppled for a moment in the air, his grip on the Englishman's collar, which tore loose as he fell—out—into the black abyss....
Renwick sprawled half across the wide sill, but Marishka clung desperately, dragging him in—to safety. He toppled in upon the floor and lay motionless while Marishka hovered over him.
"Hugh——!" she cried. "Hugh!"