THE AVENGER ON THE TRACK.
When Dacres had sprung aside into the woods in the moment of his
fierce rush upon Girasole, he had been animated by a sudden thought
that escape for himself was possible, and that it would be more
serviceable to his friends. Thus, then, he had bounded into the woods,
and with swift steps he forced his way among the trees deeper and
deeper into the forest. Some of the brigands had given chase, but
without effect. Dacres's superior strength and agility gave him the
advantage, and his love of life was a greater stimulus than their
thirst for vengeance. In addition to this the trees gave every
assistance toward the escape of a fugitive, while they threw every
impediment in the way of a pursuer. The consequence was, therefore,
that Dacres soon put a great distance between himself and his
pursuers, and, what is more, he ran in such a circuitous route that
they soon lost all idea of their own locality, and had not the
faintest idea where he had gone. In this respect, however, Dacres
himself was not one whit wiser than they, for he soon found himself
completely bewildered in the mazes of the forest; and when at length
the deep silence around gave no further sound of pursuers, he sank
down to take breath, with no idea whatever in what direction the road
lay.
After a brief rest he arose and plunged deeper still into the forest,
so as to put an additional distance between himself and any possible
pursuit. He at length found himself at the foot of a precipice about
fifty feet in height, which was deep in the recesses of the forest. Up
this he climbed, and found a mossy place among the trees at its top,
where he could find rest, and at the same time be in a more favorable
position either for hearing or seeing any signs of approaching
pursuers.
Here, then, he flung himself down to rest, and soon buried himself
among thoughts of the most exciting kind. The scene which he had just
left was fresh in his mind, and amidst all the fury of that strife
there rose most prominent in his memory the form of the two ladies,
Minnie standing calm and unmoved, while Mrs. Willoughby was convulsed
with agitated feeling. What was the cause of that? Could it be
possible that his wife had indeed contrived such a plot with the
Italian? Was it possible that she had chosen this way of striking two
blows, by one of which she could win her Italian, and by the other of
which she could get rid of himself, her husband? Such had been his
conjecture during the fury of the fight, and the thought had roused
him up to his Berserker madness; but now, as it recurred again, he saw
other things to shake his full belief. Her agitation seemed too
natural.
Yet, on the other hand, he asked himself, why should she not show
agitation? She was a consummate actress. She could show on her
beautiful face the softness and the tenderness of an angel of light
while a demon reigned in her malignant heart. Why should she not
choose this way of keeping up appearances? She had betrayed her
friends, and sought her husband's death; but would she wish to have
her crime made manifest? Not she. It was for this, then, that she wept
and clung to the child-angel.
Such thoughts as these were not at all adapted to give comfort to his
mind, or make his rest refreshing. Soon, by such fancies, he kindled
anew his old rage, and his blood rose to fever heat, so that inaction
became no longer tolerable. He had rest enough. He started up, and
looked all around, and listened attentively. No sound arose and no
sight appeared which at all excited suspicion. He determined to set
forth once more, he scarcely knew where. He had a vague idea of
finding his way back to the road, so as to be able to assist the
ladies, together with another idea, equally ill defined, of coming
upon the brigands, finding the Italian, and watching for an
opportunity to wreak vengeance upon this assassin and his guilty
partner.
He drew his knife once more from a leathern sheath on the inside of
the breast of his coat, into which he had thrust it some time before,
and holding this he set forth, watchfully and warily. On the left side
of the precipice the ground sloped down, and at the bottom of this
there was a narrow valley. It seemed to him that this might be the
course of some spring torrent, and that by following its descent he
might come out upon some stream. With this intention he descended to
the valley, and then walked along, following the descent of the
ground, and keeping himself as much as possible among the thickest
growths of the trees.
The ground descended very gradually, and the narrow valley wound along
among rolling hills that were covered with trees and brush. As he
confined himself to the thicker parts of this, his progress was
necessarily slow; but at the end of that turn he saw before him
unmistakable signs of the neighborhood of some open place. Before him
he saw the sky in such a way that it showed the absence of forest
trees. He now moved on more cautiously, and, quitting the valley, he
crept up the hill-slope among the brush as carefully as possible,
until he was at a sufficient height, and then, turning toward the
open, he crept forward from cover to cover. At length he stopped. A
slight eminence was before him, beyond which all was open, yet
concealed from his view. Descending the slope a little, he once more
advanced, and finally emerged at the edge of the forest.
He found himself upon a gentle declivity. Immediately in front of him
lay a lake, circular in shape, and about a mile in diameter, embosomed
among wooded hills. At first he saw no signs of any habitation; but as
his eyes wandered round he saw upon his right, about a quarter of a
mile away, an old stone house, and beyond this smoke curling up from
among the forest trees on the borders of the lake.
The scene startled him. It was so quiet, so lonely, and so deserted
that it seemed a fit place for a robber's haunt. Could this be indeed
the home of his enemies, and had he thus so wonderfully come upon them
in the very midst of their retreat? He believed that it was so. A
little further observation showed figures among the trees moving to
and fro, and soon he distinguished faint traces of smoke in other
places, which he had not seen at first, as though there were more
fires than one.
Dacres exulted with a fierce and vengeful joy over this discovery. He
felt now not like the fugitive, but rather the pursuer. He looked down
upon this as the tiger looks from his jungle upon some Indian village.
His foes were numerous, but he was concealed, and his presence
unsuspected. He grasped his dagger with a firmer clutch, and then
pondered for a few minutes on what he had better do next.
One thing was necessary first of all, and that was to get as near as
he possibly could without discovery. A slight survey of the situation
showed him that he might venture much nearer; and his eye ran along
the border of the lake which lay between him and the old house, and he
saw that it was all covered over with a thick fringe of trees and
brush-wood. The narrow valley along which he had come ended at the
shore of the lake just below him on his right, and beyond this the
shore arose again to a height equal to where he now was. To gain that
opposite height was now his first task.
Before starting he looked all around, so as to be sure that he was not
observed. Then he went back for some distance, after which he
descended into the valley, crouching low, and crawling stealthily
among the brush-wood. Moving thus, he at length succeeded in reaching
the opposite slope without appearing to have attracted any attention
from any pursuers. Up this slope he now moved as carefully as ever,
not relaxing his vigilance one jot, but, if possible, calling into
play even a larger caution as he found himself drawing nearer to those
whom he began to regard as his prey.
Moving up this slope, then, in this way, he at length attained the
top, and found himself here among the forest trees and underbrush.
They were here even denser than they were on the place which he had
just left. As he moved along he saw no indications that they had been
traversed by human footsteps. Every thing gave indication of an
unbroken and undisturbed solitude. After feeling his way along here
with all the caution which he could exercise, he finally ventured
toward the shore of the lake, and found himself able to go to the very
edge without coming to any open space or crossing any path.
On looking forth from the top of the bank he found that he had not
only drawn much nearer to the old house, but that he could see the
whole line of shore. He now saw that there were some men by the door
of the house, and began to suspect that this was nothing else than the
headquarters and citadel of the brigands. The sight of the shore now
showed him that he could approach very much nearer, and unless the
brigands, or whoever they were, kept scouts out, he would be able to
reach a point immediately overlooking the house, from which he could
survey it at his leisure. To reach this point became now his next aim.
The wood being dense, Dacres found no more difficulty in passing
through this than in traversing what lay behind him. The caution which
he exercised here was as great as ever, and his progress was as slow,
but as sure. At length he found himself upon the desired point, and,
crawling cautiously forward to the shore, he looked down upon the very
old house which he had desired to reach.
The house stood close by the lake, upon a sloping bank which lay
below. It did not seem to be more than fifty yards away. The doors and
windows were gone. Five or six ill-looking fellows were near the
doorway, some sprawling on the ground, others lolling and lounging
about. One glance at the men was sufficient to assure him that they
were the brigands, and also to show him that they kept no guard or
scout or outpost of any kind, at least in this direction.
Here, then, Dacres lay and watched. He could not wish for a better
situation. With his knife in his hand, ready to defend himself in case
of need, and his whole form concealed perfectly by the thick
underbrush into the midst of which he had crawled, he peered forth
through the overhanging leaves, and watched in breathless interest.
From the point where he now was he could see the shore beyond the
house, where the smoke was rising. He could now see that there were no
less than four different columns of smoke ascending from as many
fires. He saw as many as twenty or thirty figures moving among the
trees, made conspicuous by the bright colors of their costumes. They
seemed to be busy about something which he could not make out.
Suddenly, while his eye roved over the scene, it was struck by some
fluttering color at the open window of the old house. He had not
noticed this before. He now looked at it attentively. Before long he
saw a figure cross the window and return. It was a female figure.
The sight of this revived all that agitation which he had felt before,
but which had been calmed during the severe efforts which he had been
putting forth. There was but one thought in his mind, and but one
desire in his heart.
His wife.
He crouched low, with a more feverish dread of discovery at this
supreme moment, and a fiercer thirst for some further revelation which
might disclose what he suspected. His breathing came thick and hard,
and his brow lowered gloomily over his gleaming eyes.
He waited thus for some minutes, and the figure passed again.
He still watched.
Suddenly a figure appeared at the window. It was a young girl, a
blonde, with short golden curls. The face was familiar indeed to him.
Could he ever forget it? There it was full before him, turned toward
him, as though that one, by some strange spiritual sympathy, was aware
of his presence, and was thus turning toward him this mute appeal. Her
face was near enough for its expression to be visible. He could
distinguish the childish face, with its soft, sweet innocence, and he
knew that upon it there was now that piteous, pleading, beseeching
look which formerly had so thrilled his heart. And it was thus that
Dacres saw his child-angel.
A prisoner, turning toward him this appeal! What was the cause, and
what did the Italian want of this innocent child? Such was his
thought. What could his fiend of a wife gain by the betrayal of that
angelic being? Was it possible that even her demon soul could compass
iniquity like this? He had thought that he had fathomed her capacity
for malignant wickedness; but the presence here of the child-angel in
the power of these miscreants showed him that this capacity was indeed
unfathomable. At this sudden revelation of sin so enormous his very
soul turned sick with horror.
He watched, and still looked with an anxiety that was increasing to
positive pain.
And now, after one brief glance, Minnie drew back into the room. There
was nothing more to be seen for some time, but at last another figure
appeared.
He expected this; he was waiting for it; he was sure of it; yet deep
down in the bottom of his heart there was a hope that it might not be
so, that his suspicions, in this case at least, might be unfounded.
But now the proof came; it was made manifest here before his eyes, and
in the light of day.
In spite of himself a low groan escaped him. He buried his face in his
hands and shut out the sight. Then suddenly he raised his head again
and stared, as though in this face there was an irresistible
fascination by which a spell was thrown over him.
It was the face of Mrs. Willoughby--youthful, beautiful, and touching
in its tender grace. Tears were now in those dark, luminous eyes, but
they were unseen by him. Yet he could mark the despondency of her
attitude; he could see a certain wild way of looking up and down and
in all directions; he noted how her hands grasped the window-ledge as
if for support.
And oh, beautiful demon angel, he thought, if you could but know how
near you are to the avenger! Why are you so anxious, my demon wife?
Are you impatient because your Italian is delaying? Can you not live
for five seconds longer without him? Are you looking in all directions
to see where he is? Don't fret; he'll soon be here.
And now there came a confirmation of his thoughts. He was not
surprised; he knew it; he suspected it. It was all as it should be.
Was it not in the confident expectation of this that he had come here
with his dagger--on their trail?
It was Girasole.
He came from the place, further along the shore, where the brigands
were around their fires. He was walking quickly. He had a purpose. It
was with a renewed agony that Dacres watched his enemy--coming to
visit his wife. The intensity of that thirst for vengeance, which had
now to be checked until a better opportunity, made his whole frame
tremble. A wild desire came to him then and there to bound down upon
his enemy, and kill and be killed in the presence of his wife. But the
other brigands deterred him. These men might interpose and save the
Italian, and make him a prisoner. No; he must wait till he could meet
his enemy on something like equal terms--when he could strike a blow
that would not be in vain. Thus he overmastered himself.
He saw Girasole enter the house. He watched breathlessly. The time
seemed long indeed. He could not hear any thing; the conversation, if
there was any, was carried on in a low tone. He could not see any
thing; those who conversed kept quiet; no one passed in front of the
window. It was all a mystery, and this made the time seem longer. At
length Dacres began to think that Girasole would not go at all. A long
time passed. Hours went away, and still Girasole did not quit the
house.
It was now sundown. Dacres had eaten nothing since morning, but the
conflict of passion drove away all hunger or thirst. The approach of
darkness was in accordance with his own gloomy wishes. Twilight in
Italy is short. Night would soon be over all.
The house was on the slope of the bank. At the corner nearest him the
house was sunk into the ground in such a way that it looked as though
one might climb into the upper story window. As Dacres looked he made
up his mind to attempt it. By standing here on tiptoe he could catch
the upper window-ledge with his hands. He was strong. He was tall. His
enemy was in the house. The hour was at hand. He was the man.
Another hour passed.
All was still.
There was a flickering lamp in the hall, but the men seemed to be
asleep.
Another hour passed.
There was no noise.
Then Dacres ventured down. He moved slowly and cautiously, crouching
low, and thus traversing the intervening space.
He neared the house and touched it. Before him was the window of the
lower story. Above him was the window of the upper story. He lifted up
his hands. They could reach the window-ledge.
He put his long, keen knife between his teeth, and caught at the upper
window-ledge. Exerting all his strength, he raised himself up so high
that he could fling one elbow over. For a moment he hung thus, and
waited to take breath and listen.
There was a rush below. Half a dozen shadowy forms surrounded him. He
had been seen. He had been trapped.
He dropped down and, seizing his knife, struck right and left.
In vain. He was hurled to the ground and bound tight.