CHAPTER VIII

ON THE WAR-PATH

At four o'clock in the morning, the streets were almost empty. A few

fruit and vegetable-carts were making their way between the demolished

houses and the shattered pavements. But from a neighbouring avenue

there emerged a little cavalcade in which Simon immediately

recognized, at the head of the party, astride a monstrous big horse,

Old Sandstone, wearing his rusty top-hat, with the skirts of his black

frock-coat overflowing either side of a saddle with bulging

saddle-bags.

Next came Antonio, _alias_ Lynx-Eye, likewise mounted; then a third

horseman, perched like the others behind heavy saddle-bags; and lastly

three persons on foot, one of whom held the bridle of a fourth horse.

The three pedestrians had brick-red faces and long hair and were

dressed in the same style as Lynx-Eye, in soft leggings with leather

fringes, velveteen breeches, flannel girdles, wide-brimmed felt hats,

with gaudy ribbons: in short, a heterogeneous, picturesque band, with

many-coloured accoutrements, in which the adornments dear to circus

cow-boys were displayed side by side with those of one of Fenimore

Cooper's Redskins, or one of Gustave Aymard's scouts. They carried

rifles slung across their shoulders and revolvers and daggers in their

belts.

"What the deuce!" exclaimed Simon. "Why, this is a martial progress!

Are we going among savages?"

"We are going into a country," replied Antonio, gravely, "Where there

are no inhabitants, no inns, no victuals, but where there are already

visitors as dangerous as beasts of prey, which is why we have to carry

two days' provisions and two days' supply of oats and compressed

fodder for our mounts. This, then, is our escort. These are the

brothers Mazzani, the elder and the younger. This is Forsetta. Here is

Mr. Sandstone. Here, on horseback, is one of my personal friends. And

here, lastly, for you, is Orlando III. a half-breed by Gracious out of

Chiquita."

And, at a sign from the Indian, a noble animal was led forward, lean,

sinewy and nervous, standing very high on its long legs.

Simon mounted, much amused:

"And you, my dear professor?" he said to Old Sandstone: "Are you one

of the party?"

"I lost my train," said the old fellow, "and on returning to the hotel

I met Lynx-Eye, who recruited me. I represent science and am entrusted

with the geological, geographical, crographical, stratigraphical,

palaeontological and other observations. I shall have plenty to do."

"Forward, then!" commanded Simon. And, taking the lead with Antonio,

he at once said, "Now tell me about your companions. And you,

Lynx-Eye, where do _you_ hail from? After all, if there are still a

few specimens of Redskins left, they're not out for a good time on the

highways of Europe. Confess that you are, all of you, made up and

disguised."

"They are no more made up than I am," said Antonio. "We come from the

other side. For my part, I am the grandson of one of the last

remaining Indian chiefs, Long Carbine who ran away with the little

daughter of a Canadian trapper. My mother was a Mexican. You see that,

though there's a mixture, our origins are beyond dispute."

"But afterwards, Lynx-Eye? What has happened afterwards? I'm not

aware that the British government provides for the descendants of the

Sioux or Mohicans?"

"There are other concerns besides the British government," said the

Indian.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there are concerns which are interested in keeping us going."

"Really? What are they?"

"The cinema-firms."

Simon struck his hand against his forehead:

"What an idiot I am! Why didn't I think of that? Then you are. . . ."

"Simply film actors from the Far West, the Prairies and the Mexican

frontier."

"That's it! That's it!" cried Simon. "I have seen you on the screen,

haven't I? And I've seen . . . hold on. I remember now, I've seen the

fair Dolores also, haven't I? But what are you doing in Europe?"

"An English company sent for me and I engaged a few friends over

there, who, like myself, are the very mixed descendants of Red

Indians, Mexicans and Spaniards. Now, M. Dubosc, one of these friends

of mine--the best, for I can't say much for the others, and I advise

you, if the occasion should arise, to be very careful with Forsetta

and the Mazzani brothers--the best, M. Dubosc, was murdered the day

before yesterday by Rolleston. I loved Badiarinos as a son loves his

father. I have sworn to avenge him. There you have it."

"Lynx-Eye, grandson of Long Carbine," said Simon, "we will avenge your

friend, but Rolleston is not guilty of his murder. . . ."

For a man like Simon, to whom practical navigation, in the air or on

the sea, had given a keen sense of direction and who, moreover, kept

on consulting his compass, it was child's play to reach a spot whose

latitude and longitude he was able to determine more or less exactly.

He galloped due south, after making the calculation that, if nothing

forced them to turn aside, they would have to cover a distance of

about thirty miles.

Almost immediately, the little troop, leaving on their left the line

of ridges which Simon had followed a few days before, struck off

across a series of rather lower sand-hills, which nevertheless were

high enough to overlook immense beds of yellow mud, covered with a

network of small, winding streams. This was the slime deposited by the

rivers of the coast and carried out to sea by the tides and currents.

"Grand alluvial soil," said Old Sandstone. "The water will form

channels for itself. The sandy parts will be absorbed."

"In five years," said Simon, "we shall see herds of cattle grazing on

the very bed of the sea; and five years later there will be

railway-lines across it and palatial hotels standing in the middle."

"Perhaps; but, for the moment the situation is not promising,"

observed the old professor. "Look here, look at this newspaper,

published yesterday evening. In both France and England the disorder

is complete. Social and economic life has been suddenly paralyzed. No

more public services. Letters and telegrams may or may not be

delivered. Nothing definite is known; and people are saying the most

extraordinary things. The cases of insanity and suicide, it seems, are

numberless. And the crimes! Isolated crimes, crimes committed by gangs

of criminals, riots, shops and churches pillaged wholesale. It's an

absolute chaos; we are back in the dark ages."

The stratum of mud, formerly swept by the ground-wash, was not very

thick; and they were able, time after time, to venture upon it without

the least danger. For that matter, it was already indented with

footprints, which also marked the still moist sand of the hills. They

passed the hulk of a steamboat round which some people had established

a sort of camp. Some were poking about the hull. Others were entering

by the battered funnel, or demolishing the woodwork with hammers, or

breaking open cases of more or less intact provisions. Women of the

people, women in rags and tatters, wearing the look of hunted animals,

sat on pieces of timber, waiting. Children ran about, playing; and

already, marking a first attempt at communal life, a pedlar was moving

through the crowd with a keg of beer on his back, while two girls,

installed behind a tottering bar, were selling tea and whisky.

Farther on, they saw a second camp and, in all directions, men

prowling about, solitary individuals, who, like themselves, were

reconnoitring.

"Capital!" cried Simon. "The prairie lies stretched before us, with

all its mysteries and all its lurking dangers. Here we are on the

war-path; and the man who leads us is a Red Indian chief."

After they had trotted for two hours at a brisk pace, the prairie was

represented by undulating plains, in which sand and mud alternated in

equal proportions and in which hesitating streams of no great depth

were seeking a favourable bed. Over it hung a low, thick, stationary

fog, apparently as solid as a ceiling.

"What a miracle, my dear Old Sandstone!" cried Simon, while they were

following a long ribbon of fine gravel which stretched before them,

like a sunken path winding through the greensward of a park. "What a

miracle, an adventure of this sort! A horrible adventure, certainly; a

disaster causing superhuman suffering, death and mourning; but

extraordinary adventure, the finest that a man of my age could dream

of. It's all so prodigious!"

"Prodigious, indeed!" said Old Sandstone, who, faithful to his

mission, was pursuing his scientific investigations. "Prodigious!

Thus, the presence of this gravel in this place constitutes one of the

unprecedented events of which you are speaking. And then look at that

bank of great golden fish lying over there, with their upturned

bellies. . . ."

"Yes, yes, professor," replied Simon. "It's impossible that such an

upheaval should not usher in a new age! If I look at the future as

people sometimes look at a landscape, with my eyes half-closed, I can

see . . . heavens, what don't I see! . . . What don't I imagine! . . .

What a tragedy of folly, passion, hatred, love, violence, and noble

efforts! We are entering upon one of those periods in which men are

full to overflowing of energy, in which the will goes to the head like

a generous wine!"

The young man's enthusiasm ended by annoying Old Sandstone, who moved

away from his expansive companion, grumbling:

"Simon, the memory of Fenimore Cooper is making you lose your head.

You're getting too talkative, my son."

Simon was not losing his head, but he was possessed by a burning fever

and, after the hours which he had experienced two days before, was

quivering with impatience to return, so to speak, to the world of

abnormal actions.

In point of fact, Isabel's image was before him in all his thoughts

and in all his dreams. He paid hardly any attention to the precise aim

of his expedition or to the campaign which they were undertaking to

recover a certain object. The precious miniature was hidden in the rug

where he was sure to find it. Rolleston? His gang of ruffians? Men

stabbed in the back? A pack of inventions and nightmares! The only

reality was Isabel. The only aim before him was to distinguish himself

as a knight fighting for the love of his lady.

Meanwhile there were no longer any camps around wrecks, nor parties of

people searching for valuables, but only individual prowlers and very

few of these, as though most of the people were afraid to go too far

from the coast. The surface was becoming more broken, consisting, no

doubt, as Old Sandstone explained, of former sand banks which the

seismic disturbances had shaken down and mixed with the underlying

sedimentary strata. They had to go out of their way to avoid not

shattered rocks indeed, nor compact cliffs, but raised tracts of

ground that had not yet assumed those definite forms in which we

perceive the action of time, of time which separates, classifies and

discriminates, which organizes chaos and gives it a durable aspect.

They crossed a sheet of perfectly clear water, contained within a

circle of low hills. The bottom was carpeted with little white

pebbles. Then they descended, between two very high banks of mud, a

narrow gully through which the water trickled in slender cascades. As

they emerged from this gully, the Indian's horse shied. A man was

kneeling on the ground, groaning and writhing in pain, his face

covered with blood. Another man lay near him, his white face turned to

the sky.

Antonio and Simon at once sprang from their horses. When the wounded

man raised his head, Simon cried:

"Why, I know him . . . it's Williams, Lord Bakefield's secretary. And

I know the other too: it's Charles, the valet. They have been

attacked. What is it, Williams? You know me, Simon Dubosc."

The man could hardly speak. He spluttered:

"Bakefield . . . Lord Bakefield. . . ."

"Come, Williams, tell me what happened?"

"Yesterday . . . yesterday. . . ." replied the secretary.

"Yes, yesterday you were attacked. By whom?"

"Rolleston. . . ."

Simon started:

"Rolleston! Did he kill Charles?"

"Yes. . . . I. . . . I was wounded. . . . I have been calling out all

night. And, just now, another man. . . ."

Antonio put a question:

"You were attacked again, were you not, by some thief who wanted to

rob you. . . . And, when he heard us coming, he too stabbed you and

took to his heels? Then he is not far away?"

"There . . . there," stammered Williams, trying to stretch out his

arm.

The Indian pointed to footsteps which led to the left, up the slope of

the hills:

"There's the trail," he said.

"I'll follow it up," said Simon, leaping into the saddle.

The Indian protested:

"What's the use?"

"Use? The scoundrel must be punished!"

Simon went off at a gallop, followed by one of the Indian's

companions, the one who rode the fourth horse and whose name he did

not know. Almost immediately, at five hundred yards ahead, on the

ridge of the hills, a man rose from the cover of some blocks of stone

and made away at the top of his speed.

Two minutes later, Simon reached these blocks and exclaimed:

"I see him! He's going around the lake which we crossed. Let's make

straight for him."

He descended the farther slope and forced his horse into the water,

which, at this point, covered a layer of mud so deep that the two

riders had some difficulty in getting clear of it. When they reached

the opposite shore, the fugitive, seeing that there were only two of

them, turned round, threw up his rifle and covered them:

"Halt," he commanded, "or I fire!"

Simon was going too fast and could not pull up.

At the moment when the shot rang, he was at most twenty yards from the

murderer. But another rider had leapt between them and was holding his

horse, reared on its hind legs, like a rampart in front of Simon. The

animal was hit in the belly and fell.

"Thanks, old chap, you've saved my life!" cried Simon, abandoning the

pursuit and dismounting to succour the other, who was in an awkward

position, jammed under his horse and in danger of being kicked by the

dying brute.

Nevertheless, when Simon endeavoured to extricate him, the fallen

rider did nothing to assist his efforts; and, after releasing him with

some difficulty, he perceived that the man had fainted.

"That's odd!" thought Simon. "Those fellows don't usually faint over a

fall from a horse!"

He knelt down beside the other and, seeing that his breathing was

embarrassed, undid the first few buttons of his shirt and uncovered

the upper part of his chest. He was stupefied and for the first time

looked at his companion, who hitherto, in the shadow of his

broad-brimmed hat, had seemed to him like the other Indians of the

escort. The hat had fallen off. Quickly, Simon lifted an orange silk

kerchief bound round the head and neck of the supposed Red Indian,

whose hair escaped from it in thick black curls.

"The girl!" he muttered. "Dolores!"

Once more he had before his eyes the vision of radiant beauty to which

his mind had recurred several times during the past two days, though

no emotion mingled with his admiration. He was so far from any thought

of concealing this admiration that the young woman, on recovering

consciousness, surprised it in his gaze. She smiled:

"I'm all right now!" she said. "I was only stunned."

"You're not in pain?"

"No. I am used to accidents. I've often had to fall from my horse for

the films. . . . This one's dead, isn't he? Poor creature!"

"You've saved my life," said Simon.

"We're quits," she replied.

Her expression was grave and harmonized with her slightly austere

features. Her's was one of those beautiful faces which are peculiarly

disconcerting by reason of the contrasts which they present, being at

once passionate and chaste, noble and sensuous, pensive and enticing.

Simon asked her, point blank:

"Was it you who came to my room yesterday, first in broad daylight and

afterwards at night?"

She blushed, but admitted:

"Yes, it was I."

And, at a movement of Simon's, she added:

"I felt uneasy. People were being killed, in town and in the hotel. I

had to watch over you, who had saved my life."

"I thank you," he said once more.

"Don't thank me. I have been doing things in spite of myself . . .

these last two days. You seem to me so different from other men! . . .

But I ought not to speak to you like this. Don't be vexed with me!"

Simon held out his hand to her, when suddenly she assumed a listening

attitude and then, after a moment's attention, straightened her

clothes, hid her hair beneath her kerchief and put on her hat.

"It's Antonio," she said, in a different tone. "He must have heard the

firing. Don't let him know that you recognized me, will you?"

"Why?" asked Simon, in surprise.

She replied, in some embarrassment:

"It's better. . . . Antonio is very masterful. He forbade me to come.

It was only when he was naming the three Indians of the escort that he

recognized me; I had taken the fourth Indian's horse. . . . So, you

see. . . ."

She did not complete her sentence. A horseman had made his appearance

on the ridge. When he came up to them, Dolores had unfastened her

saddle-bags and was strapping them to the saddle of Simon's horse.

Antonio asked no questions. There was no exchange of explanations.

With a glance he reconstructed the scene, examined the dead animal

and, addressing the young woman by her name, perhaps to show that he

was not taken in, said:

"Have my horse, Dolores."

Was it the mere familiarity of a comrade, or that of a man who wishes,

in the presence of another man, to assert his rights or his

pretentions to a woman? His tone was not imperious, but Simon

surprised the glance that flashed anger on the one side and defiance

on the other. However, he paid little attention, being much less

anxious to discover the private motives which actuated Dolores and

Antonio than to elucidate the problem arising from his meeting with

Lord Bakefield's secretary.

"Did Williams say anything?" he asked Antonio, who was beside him.

"No, he died without speaking."

"Oh! He's dead! . . . And you discovered nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Then what do you think? Were Williams and Charles sent to the _Queen

Mary_ by Lord Bakefield and his daughter and were they to find me and

help me in my search? Or did they go on their own account?"

They soon joined the three pedestrians of the escort, to whom Old

Sandstone, with a cluster of shells in his hand, was giving a

geological lesson. The three pedestrians were asleep.

"I'm going ahead," said Antonio to Simon. "Our horses need a rest. In

an hour's time, set out along the track of the white pebbles which I

shall drop as I go. You can ride at a trot. My three comrades are good

runners."

He had already gone some paces, when he returned and, drawing Simon

aside, looked him straight in the eyes and said:

"Be on your guard with Dolores, M. Dubosc. She is one of these women

of whom it is wise to beware. I have seen many a man lose his head

over her."

Simon smiled and could not refrain from saying:

"Perhaps Lynx-Eye is one of them?"

The Indian repeated:

"Be on your guard, M. Dubosc!"

And with these words he went his way. They seemed to sum up all that

he thought of Dolores.

Simon ate, stretched himself out on the ground and smoked some

cigarettes. Sitting on the sand, Dolores unpicked a few seams of the

wide trousers which she was wearing and arranged them in such a

fashion that they might have been taken for a skirt.

An hour later, as Simon was making ready to start, his attention was

attracted by a sound of voices. At some little distance, Dolores and

one of the three Indians were standing face to face and disputing in a

language which Simon did not understand, while the brothers Mazzani

were watching them and grinning.

Dolores' arms were folded across her breast; she stood motionless and

scornful. The man, on the contrary, was gesticulating, with a snarling

face and glittering eyes. Suddenly he took both Dolores' arms and,

drawing her close to him, sought her lips.

Simon leapt to his feet. But there was no need of intervention; the

Indian had at once recoiled, pricked at the throat by a dagger which

Dolores held before her, the handle pressed against her bosom, the

point threatening her adversary.

The incident was not followed by any sort of explanation. The Indian

made off, grumbling. Old Sandstone, who had seen nothing, tackled

Simon on the subject of his geological fault; and Simon merely said to

himself, as Dolores tightened her saddle-girth:

"What the deuce are all these people up to?"

He did not waste time in seeking for an answer to the question.

The little band did not overtake Antonio until three hours later, when

he was stooping over the ground, examining some footprints.

"There you are," he said to Simon, straightening his back. "I have

made out thirteen distinct tracks, left by people who certainly were

not travelling together. In addition to these thirteen highwaymen--for

a man has to be a pretty tough lot to risk the journey--there are two

parties ahead of us: first, a party of four horsemen and then, walking

behind them--how many hours later I couldn't say--a party of seven on

foot, forming Rolleston's gang. Look, here's the print of the

patterned rubber soles."

"Yes, yes," said Simon, recognizing the footprint which he had seen

two days before. "And what do you conclude?"

"I conclude that Rolleston, as we knew, is in it and that all these

gentry, separate prowlers and parties, are making for the _Queen

Mary_, the last large Channel boat sunk and the nearest to this part

of the coast. Think, what a scoop for marauders!"

"Let's push on!" cried the young man, who was now uneasy at the

thought that he might fail in the mission which Isabel had allotted

to him.

One by one, five other tracks coming from the north--from Eastbourne,

the Indian thought--joined the first. In the end they made such an

intricate tangle that Antonio had to give up counting them. However,

the footprints of the rubber soles and those of the four horses

continued to appear in places.

They marched on for some time. The landscape showed little variety,

revealing sandy plains and hills, stretches of mud, rivers and pools,

of water left by the sea and filled with fish which had taken refuge

there. It was all monotonous, without beauty or majesty, but strange,

as anything that has never been seen before or anything that is

shapeless must needs be strange.

"We are getting near," said Simon.

"Yes," said the Indian, "the tracks are coming in from all directions;

and here even are marauders returning northwards, laden with their

swag."

It was now four in the afternoon. Not a rift was visible in the

ceiling of motionless clouds. Rain fell in great, heavy drops. For

the first time they heard the overhead roar of an aeroplane flying

above the insuperable obstacle. . . . They followed a depression in

the ground, succeeded by hills. And suddenly a bulky object rose

before them. It was the _Queen Mary_. She was bent in two, almost like

a broken toy. And nothing was more lamentable, nothing gave a more

dismal impression of ruin and destruction than those two lifeless

halves of a once so powerful thing.

There was no one near the wreck.

Simon experienced an extreme emotion on standing before what was left

of the big boat which he had seen wrecked so terribly. He could not

approach it without that sort of pious horror which one would feel on

entering a mighty tomb haunted by the shades of those whom we once

knew. He thought of the three clergymen and the French family and the

captain; and he shuddered at remembering the moment when, with all the

strength of his will and all the imperious power of his love, he had

dragged Isabel towards the abyss.

A halt was called. Simon left his horse with the Indians and went

forward, accompanied by Antonio. He ran down the steep slope which the

stern of the vessel had hollowed in the sand, gripped with both hands

a rope which hung beside the rudder and in a few seconds, with the

assistance of his feet and knees, reached the stern rail.

Although the deck had listed violently to starboard and a sticky mud

was oozing through the planking, he ran to the spot where Isabel and

he had sat. The bench had been torn away, but the iron supports were

still standing and the rug which she had slung to one of them was

there, shrunk, heavy with the water dripping from it and packed, as

before the shipwreck, in its straps, which were untouched.

Simon thrust his hand between the wet folds of the rug, as he had seen

Isabel do. Not feeling anything, he tried to unfasten the straps, but

the leather had swollen and the ends were jammed in the buckles. Then

he took his knife, cut the straps and unrolled the rug. The miniature

in its pearl setting was gone.

In its place, fixed with a safety-pin, was a sheet of paper.

He unfolded it. On it were these hastily-written words, which Isabel

evidently intended for him:

"I was hoping to see you. Haven't you received my

letter? We have spent the night here--in an absolute

hell on earth! and we are just leaving. I am uneasy. I

feel that some one is prowling around us. Why are not

you here?"

"Oh!" Simon stammered, "it's incredible!"

He showed the note to Antonio, who had joined him, and at once added:

"Miss Bakefield! . . . She spent the night here . . . with her father

. . . and they have gone! But where? How are we to save them from so

many lurking dangers?"

The Indian read the letter and said, slowly:

"They have not gone back north. I should have seen their tracks."

"Then. . . . ?"

"Then. . . . I don't know."

"But this is awful! See, Antonio, think of all that is threatening

them . . . of Rolleston pursuing them! Think of this wild country,

swarming with highwaymen and foot-pads! . . . It's horrible,

horrible!"

PART THE SECOND

CHAPTER I

INSIDE THE WRECK

The expedition so gaily launched, in which Simon saw merely a

picturesque adventure, such as one reads of in novels, had suddenly

become the most formidable tragedy. It was no longer a matter of

cinema Indians and circus cow-boys, nor of droll discoveries in fabled

lands, but of real dangers, of ruthless brigands operating in regions

where no organized force could thwart their enterprises. What could

Isabel and her father do, beset by criminals of the worst type?

"Good God!" exclaimed Simon. "How could Lord Bakefield be so rash as

to risk this journey? Look here, Antonio, the lady's-maid told you

that Lord Bakefield had gone to London by train, with his wife and

daughter. . . ."

"A misunderstanding," declared the Indian. "He must have seen the

duchess to the station and arranged the expedition with Miss

Bakefield."

"Then they're alone, those two?"

"No, they have two men-servants with them. It's the four riders whose

tracks we picked up."

"What imprudence!"

"Imprudence, yes. Miss Bakefield told you of it in the intercepted

letter, counting on you to take the necessary measures to protect her.

Moreover, Lord Bakefield had given orders to his secretary, Williams,

and his valet, Charles, to join them. That is why those two poor

fellows were put out of action on the road by Rolleston and his six

accomplices."

"Those are the men I'm afraid of," said Simon, hoarsely. "Have Lord

Bakefield and his daughter escaped them? Did the departure of which

Miss Bakefield speaks take place before their arrival? How can we find

out? Where are we to look for them?"

"Here," said Antonio.

"On this deserted wreck?"

"There's a whole crowd inside the wreck," the Indian affirmed. "Here,

we'll begin by questioning the boy who is watching us over there."

Leaning against the stump of a broken mast, stood a lean, pasty-faced

gutter-snipe, with his hands in his pockets, smoking a huge cigar.

Simon went up to him, muttering:

"Very like one of Lord Bakefield's favourite Havanas. . . . Where did

you sneak that cigar?" he asked.

"I ain't sneaked nuffin, sure as my name's Jim. It was giv' me."

"Who gave it you?"

"My old man."

"Where is he, your old man?"

"Listen. . . ."

They listened. A noise echoed beneath their feet in the bowels of the

wreck. It sounded like the regular blows of a hammer.

"That's my old man, smashin' 'er up," said the urchin, grinning.

"Tell me," said Simon, "have you seen an elderly gentleman and a young

lady who came here on horseback?"

"Dunno," said the boy, carelessly. "Ask my old man."

Simon drew Antonio to where a companion-ladder led from the deck to

the first-class cabins, as a still legible inscription informed them.

They were going down the ladder when Simon, leading the way, struck

his foot against something and nearly fell. By the light of a

pocket-torch he saw the dead body of a woman. Though the face, which

was swollen and bloated and half eaten away, was unrecognizable,

certain signs, such as the colour and material of clothes, enabled

Simon to identify the French lady whom he had seen with her husband

and children. On stooping, he saw that the left hand had been severed

at the wrist and that two fingers were lacking on the right hand.

"Poor woman!" he faltered. "Unable to remove her rings and bracelets,

the blackguards mutilated her!" And he added. "To think that Isabel

was here, that night, in this hell!"

The corridor which they entered as they followed the sound of

hammering led them astern. At a sudden turning a man appeared, holding

in his hand a lump of iron with which he was striking furiously at the

partition-wall of a cabin. Through the ground-glass panes in the

ceiling filtered a pale white light which fell full upon the most

loathsome face imaginable, a scoundrelly, pallid, cruel face, with a

pair of bloodshot eyes and an absolutely bald skull dripping with

sweat.

"Keep your distance, mates! Everybody do the best he can in his own!

There's plenty of stuff to go round!"

"The old man ain't much of a talker," said the urchin's shrill voice.

The boy had accompanied them and stood, with a bantering air, puffing

great whiffs of smoke. The Indian handed him a fifty-franc note:

"Jim, you have something to tell us. Out with it."

"That's all right," said the boy. "I'm beginnin' to twig this

business. Come along 'ere!"

Guided by the boy, Antonio and Simon passed along other corridors

where they found the same fury of destruction. Everywhere

fierce-looking ruffians were forcing locks, tearing, splitting,

smashing, looting. Everywhere they were seen creeping into dark

corners, crawling on their hands and knees, sniffing out booty and

seeking, in default of gold or silver, bits of leather or scrap-metal

that might prove marketable.

They were beasts of prey, carrion brutes, like those which prowl about

a battlefield. Mutilated and stripped corpses bore witness to their

ferocity. There were no rings left upon the bodies, no bracelets,

watches, or pocket-books; no pins in the men's ties; no brooches at

the women's throats.

From time to time, here and there, in this workyard of death and

hideous theft, the sound of a quarrel arose; two bodies rolling on the

ground; shouts, yells of pain, ending in the death-rattle. Two

plunderers came to grips; and in a moment one of them was a murderer.

Jim halted in front of a roomy cabin, the lower part of whose sloping

floor was under water; but on the upper part were several cane-deck

chairs which were almost dry.

"That's where they spent the night," he said.

"Who?" asked Simon.

"The three what come on horseback. I was the first on the wreck with

my old man. I saw 'em come."

"But there were four of them."

"There was one what lay down outside to guard the horses. The other

three went to get something out of the rug where you didn't find

nuffin; and they 'ad their grub and slept in 'ere. This mornin', after

they left, my old man come to go through the cabin and found the old

gent's cigar-case here.

"So they went away again?"

The boy was silent.

"Answer my question, can't you, boy? They left on horseback, didn't

they, before the others got here? And they're out of danger?"

The boy held out his hand:

"Two notes," he demanded.

Simon was on the point of flying at him. But he restrained himself,

gave the boy the notes and pulled out his revolver:

"Now then!"

The boy shrugged his shoulders:

"It's the notes is making me talk, not that thing! . . . Well, it's

like this: when the old gent wanted to start this mornin', he couldn't

find the old chap what was guarding the four horses near the stern of

the vessel, what you got up by."

"But the horses?"

"Gone!"

"You mean, stolen?"

"'Arf a mo! The old gent, his daughter and the other gent went off to

look for him, following the track of the 'osses alongside the wreck.

That took them to the other part of the _Queen Mary_, just to the

place where the starboard lifeboat was stove in. And then--I was on

deck, like I was just now, and I see the whole business as if it was

the movies--there was five or six devils got up from behind the

lifeboat and rushed at 'em; and a great tall bloke a-leadin' of 'em

with a revolver in each fist. I wouldn't say everythink passed off

quiet, not on neither side. The old gent, 'e defended himself. There

was some shootin'; and I see two of 'em fall in the scrimmage."

"And then? And then?" Simon rapped out, breathlessly.

"I don't know nuffin about then. A change of pickshers, like at the

movies. The old man wanted me for somefink; he took me by the scruff

o' the neck and I lost the end o' the film like."

It was now Simon's turn to seize the young hooligan by the scruff of

the neck. He dragged him up the companion-ladder and, having reached a

part of the deck where the whole wreck was visible, he said:

"It was over there, the lifeboat?"

"Yuss, over there."

Simon rushed to the stern of the vessel, slid down the rope and,

followed by the Indian and the boy, ran alongside the steamer to the

lifeboat which had been torn from the _Queen Mary's_ deck and cast on

the sands some twenty yards from the wreck. It was here that the

attack had taken place. Traces of it remained. The body of one of

those whom the boy had described as "devils" was half-hidden in a

hollow.

But a cry of pain rose from behind the boat. Simon and the Indian ran

round it and saw a man cowering there, with his forehead bound up in a

bloodstained handkerchief.

"Rolleston!" cried Simon, stopping short in bewilderment. "Edward

Rolleston!"

Rolleston! The man whom all accused! The man who had planned the whole

affair and recruited the Hastings blackguards in order to make a dash

for the wreck and steal the miniature! Rolleston, the murderer of

Dolores' uncle, the murderer of William and Charles! Rolleston,

Isabel's persecutor!

Nevertheless Simon hesitated, profoundly troubled by the sight of his

friend. Fearing an outburst of anger on the Indian's part, he seized

him by the arm:

"Wait a moment, Antonio! . . . First, are you really certain?"

For some seconds, neither stirred. Simon was thinking that

Rolleston's presence on the battle-field was the most convincing proof

of his guilt. But Antonio declared:

"This is not the man I met in the corridor of the hotel."

"Ah!" cried Simon. "I was sure of it! In spite of all appearances, I

could not admit. . . ."

And he rushed up to his friend, saying:

"Wounded, Ted? It's not serious, is it, old man?"

The Englishman murmured:

"Is that you, Simon? I didn't recognize you. My eyes are all misty."

"You're not in pain?"

"I should think I was in pain! The bullet must have struck against the

skull and then glanced off; and here I've been since this morning,

half dead. But I shall get over it."

Simon questioned him anxiously:

"Isabel? What has become of her?"

"I don't know. . . . I don't know," the Englishman said, with an

effort. "No . . . no . . . I don't know. . . ."

"But where do you come from? How do you come to be here?"

"I was with Lord Bakefield and Isabel."

"Ah!" said Simon. "Then you were of their party?"

"Yes. We spent the night on the _Queen Mary_ . . . and this morning we

were set upon here, by the gang. We were retreating, when I dropped.

Lord Bakefield and Isabel fell back on the _Queen Mary_, where it

would have been easier for them to defend themselves. Rolleston and

his men were not firing at them, however."

"Rolleston?" echoed Simon.

"A cousin of mine . . . Wilfred Rolleston, a damned brute, capable of

anything . . . a scoundrel . . . a crook . . . oh, a madman! A real

madman . . . a dipsomaniac. . . ."

"And he's like you in appearance isn't he?" asked Simon, understanding

the mistake that had been made.

"I suppose so."

"And it was to steal the miniature and the pearls that he attacked

you?"

"That . . . and something else that he's even more keen on."

"What?"

"He's in love with Isabel. He asked her to marry him at a time when he

hadn't fallen so low. Then Bakefield kicked him out."

"Oh, it would be too awful," stammered Simon, "if that man had

succeeded in kidnapping Isabel!"

He stood up. Rolleston, exhausted, said:

"Save her, Simon."

"But you, Ted? We can't leave you. . . ."

"She comes first. He has sworn to have his revenge; he has sworn that

Isabel shall be his wife."

"But what are we to do? Where are we to look for her?" cried Simon, in

despair.

At that moment Jim came up, all out of breath. He was followed by a

man whom Simon at once recognized as a groom in Lord Bakefield's

service.

"The bloke!" cried Jim. "The one what looked after the horses. . . . I

found him among the rocks . . . d'you see? Over there? They'd tied him

up and the horses were tied up in a sort of cave like. . . ."

Simon lost no time:

"Miss Bakefield?"

"Carried off," replied the man. "Carried off . . . and his lordship as

well."

"Ah!" cried Simon, overwhelmed.

The man continued:

"Rolleston is their leader, Wilfred Rolleston. He came up to me this

morning at sunrise, as I was seeing to the horses, and asked me if

Lord Bakefield was still there. Then, without waiting for an answer,

he knocked me flat, with the help of his men, and had me carried here,

where they laid an ambush for his lordship. They didn't mind what they

said before me; and I learnt that Mr. Williams, the secretary, and

Charles, my fellow-servant, who were to have joined us and increased

the escort, had been attacked by them and, most likely, killed. I

learnt too that Rolleston's idea was to keep Miss Bakefield as a

hostage and to send his lordship to his Paris banker's to get the

ransom. Later on, they left me alone. Then I heard two shots and, a

little after, they returned with his lordship and Miss Bakefield. Both

of them had their hands and feet tied."

"At what time did all this happen?" asked Simon, quivering with

impatience.

"Nine o'clock, sir, or thereabouts."

"Then they have a day's start of us?"

"Oh, no! There were provisions in the saddle-bags. They sat eating and

drinking and then went to sleep. It was at least two o'clock in the

afternoon when they strapped his lordship and Miss Bakefield to a

couple of horses and started."

"In what direction?"

"That way," said the man-servant, pointing.

"Antonio," cried Simon, "we must catch them before night! The

ruffian's escort is on foot. Three hours' gallop will be enough.

. . ."

"Our horses are badly done up," objected the Indian.

"They've got to get there, if it kills them."

Simon Dubosc gave the servant his instructions:

"Get Mr. Rolleston under shelter in the wreck, look after him and

don't leave him for a second. Jim, can I count on you?"

"Yes."

"And on your father?"

"All depends."

"Fifty pounds for him if the wounded man is in Brighton, safe and

sound, in two days' time."

"Make it a hundred," said Jim. "Not a penny less."

"Very well, a hundred."

At six o'clock in the evening, Simon and Antonio returned to the

Indians' camp. They quickly bridled and saddled their horses, while

Old Sandstone, who was strolling around, ran up to them shouting:

"My fault, Simon! I swear we are over my fault, the fault in the Paris

basin, which I traced to Maromme and near the Ridin de Dieppe . . .

the one whose fracture caused the whole upheaval. Get on your horse,

so that I may give you my proofs. There's a regular Eocene and

Pliocene mixture over there which is really typical. . . . Heavens,

man, listen to me, can't you?"

Simon stepped up to him and, with drawn features, shouted:

"This is no time to listen to your nonsense!"

"What do you mean?" stammered the old fellow, utterly bewildered.

"Mean? Why, shut up!"

And the young man leapt into the saddle:

"Are you coming, Antonio?"

"Yes. My mates will follow our trail. I shall leave a mark from spot

to spot; and I hope we shall all be united again to-morrow."

As they were starting, Dolores, on horseback, brought up her mount

alongside theirs.

"No!" said Antonio. "You come on with the others. The professor can't

walk all the time."

She made no reply.

"I insist on your keeping with the others," repeated the half-breed,

more severely.

But she set her horse at a trot and caught up with Simon.

For more than an hour they followed a direction which Simon took to be

south by south-east, that is to say, the direction of France. The

half-breed thought the same:

"The main thing," he said, "is to get near the coast, as our beasts

have only enough food to last them till to-morrow evening. The water

question also might become troublesome."

"I don't care what happens to-morrow," Simon rejoined.

They made much slower progress than they had hoped to do. Their mounts

were poor, spiritless stuff. Moreover, they had to stop at intervals

to decipher the tracks which crossed one another in the wet sand or to

pick them up on rocky ground. Simon became incensed at each of these

halts.

All around them the scene was like that which they had observed early

in the afternoon; the land rose and fell in scarcely perceptible

undulations; it was a dismal, monotonous world, with its graveyards of

ships and skeleton steamers. Prowling figures crossed it in all

directions. Antonio shouted questions to them as he passed. One of

them said that he had met two horsemen and four pedestrians leading a

couple of horses on which were bound a man and a woman whose fair hair

swept the ground.

"How long ago was this?" asked Simon, in a hoarse voice.

"Forty minutes, or fifty at the most."

He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and set off at a gallop,

stooping over the animal's neck in order not to lose the scoundrel's

track. Antonio found it difficult to follow him, while Dolores erect

in her saddle, with a serious face and eyes fixed on the distant

horizon, kept up with him without an effort.

Meanwhile the light was failing, and the riders felt as though the

darkness were about to swoop down on them from the heavy clouds in

which it was gathering.

"We shall get there . . . we must," repeated Simon. "I feel certain we

shall see them in ten minutes. . . ."

He told Dolores in a few words what he had heard of Isabel's

abduction. The thought that she was in pain caused unendurable

torture. His overwrought mind pictured her a captive among savages

torturing her for their amusement, while her blood-bedabbled head was

gashed by the stones along the track. He followed in imagination all

the stages of her last agony; and he had such a keen impression of

speed contending with death, he searched the horizon with so eager a

gaze, that he scarcely heeded a strident call from the half-breed, a

hundred yards in the rear.

Dolores turned and calmly observed:

"Antonio's horse has fallen."

"Antonio can follow us," said Simon.

For a few moments, they had been riding through a rather more uneven

tract of land, covered with a sort of downs with precipitous sides,

like cliffs. A fairly steep incline led to a long valley, filled with

water, on the brink of which the bandits' trail was plainly visible.

They entered the water, making for a place on the opposite edge which

seemed to them, at a distance, to be trampled in the same way.

The water, which barely reached the horses' hocks, flowed in a gentle

current from left to right. But, when they had covered a third of the

distance, Dolores struck Simon's horse with her long reins:

"Hurry!" she commanded. "Look . . . on the left. . . ."

On the left the whole width of the valley was blocked by a lofty wave

which was gathering at either end into a long, foaming breaker. It was

merely a natural phenomenon; as a result of the great upheaval, the

waters were seeking their level and invading the lower tracts.

Moreover, the flow was so gradual that there was no reason to fear its

effects. The horses, however, seemed to be gradually sinking. Dragged

by the current, they were forced to sheer off to the right; and at the

same time the opposite bank was moving away from them, changing its

aspect, shifting back as the new stream rose. And, when they had

reached it, they were still obliged, in order to escape the water,

which pursued them incessantly, to quicken their pace and trot along

the narrow lane enclosed between two little cliffs of dried mud, in

which thousands upon thousands of shells were encrusted like the cubes

of a mosaic.

Only after half an hour's riding were they able to clamber to a

table-land where they were out of reach. It was as well, for their

horses refused to go any farther.

The darkness was increasing. How were they to recover the tracks of

Isabel and her kidnappers? And how could their own tracks, buried

beneath this enormous sheet of water, be recovered by Antonio and his

men?

"We are separated from the others," said Simon, "and I don't see how

our party can be got together again."

"Not before to-morrow, at all events," said Dolores.

"Not before. . . ."

And so these two were alone in the night, in the depths of this

mysterious land.

Simon strode to and fro on the plateau, like a man who does not know

on what course to decide and who knows, moreover, that there is no

course on which he can decide. But Dolores unsaddled the horses,

unbuckled the saddle-bags and said:

"Our food will hold out, but we have nothing to drink. The spare

water-bottles were strapped to Antonio's saddle."

And she added, after spreading out the two horse-rugs:

"We will sleep here, Simon."

CHAPTER II

ALONG THE CABLE

He fell asleep beside her, after a long spell of waking during which

his uneasiness was gradually assuaged by the soft and regular rhythm

which marked the young girl's breathing.

When he woke, fairly late in the morning, Dolores was stooping and

bathing her beautiful arms and her face in the stream that flowed down

the hillside. She moved slowly; and all her attitude, as she dried her

arms and put back her hair, knotting it low on her neck, were full of

a grave harmony.

As Simon stood up, she filled a glass and brought it to him:

"Drink that," she said. "Contrary to what I thought, it's fresh water.

I heard our horses drinking it in the night."

"That's easily explained," said Simon. "During the first few days, the

rivers of the old coasts filtered in more or less anywhere, until

forced, by their increasing flow, to wear themselves a new course.

Judging by the direction which this one seems to follow and by its

size, it should be a French river, doubtless the Somme, which will

join the sea henceforth between Le Havre and Southampton. Unless.

. . ."

He was not certain of his argument. In reality, under the implacable

veil of the clouds, which were still motionless and hanging very low,

and without his compass, which he had heedlessly handed to Antonio, he

did not know how to take his bearings. He had followed in Isabel's

track last evening; and he hesitated to venture in either direction

now that this track was lost and that there was no clue to justify his

seeking her in one direction rather than in another.

A discovery of Dolores put an end to his hesitation. In exploring the

immediate surroundings, the girl had noticed a submarine cable which

crossed the river.

"Capital!" he said. "The cable evidently comes from England, like

ourselves. If we follow it, we shall be going towards France. We shall

be sure of going the same way as our enemies and we shall very likely

pick up some information on the road."

"France is a long way off," Dolores remarked, "and our horses perhaps

won't last for more than another half day."

"That's their lookout," cried Simon. "We shall finish the journey on

foot. The great thing is to reach the French coast. Let us make a

start."

At two hundred yards' distance, in a depression of the soil, the cable

rose from the river and ran straight to a sand-bank, after which it

appeared once more, like one of those roads which show in sections on

uneven plains.

"It will lead you to Dieppe," said a wandering Frenchman, whom Simon

had stopped. "I've just come from there. You've only to follow it."

They followed it in silence. A mute companion, speaking none save

indispensable words, Dolores seemed to be always self-absorbed, or to

heed only the horses and the details of the expedition. As for Simon,

he gave no thought to her. It was a curious fact that he had not yet

felt, even casually, that there was something strange and disturbing

in the adventure that brought him, a young man, and her, a young

woman, together. She remained the unknown; yet this mystery had no

particular attraction for him, nor did Antonio's enigmatic words recur

to his memory. Though he was perfectly well aware that she was very

beautiful, though it gave him pleasure to look at her from time to

time and though he often felt her eyes resting on him, she was never

the subject of his thoughts and did not for a moment enter into the

unbroken reflections aroused by his love for Isabel Bakefield and the

dangers which she was incurring.

These dangers he now judged to be less terrible than he had supposed.

Since Rolleston's plan consisted in sending Lord Bakefield to a Paris

banker to obtain money, it might be assumed that Isabel, held as a

hostage, would be treated with a certain consideration, at least until

Rolleston, after receiving a ransom, made further demands. But, when

this happened, would not he, Simon, be there?

They were now entering a region of a wholly different character, where

there was no longer either sand or mud, but a floor of grey rock

streaked with thin sheets of hard, sharp-edged stone, which refused to

take the imprint of a trail and which even the iron of the horses'

shoes failed to mark. Their only chance of information was from the

prowlers whom they might encounter.

These were becoming more and more numerous. Two full days had elapsed

since the emergence of the new land. It was now the third day; and

from all parts, from every point of the sea-side counties or

departments, came hastening all who did not fear the risk of the

undertaking: vagabonds, tramps, poachers, reckless spirits, daredevils

of all kinds. The ruined towns poured forth their contingent of

poverty-striken, starving outcasts and escaped prisoners. Armed with

rifles and swords, with clubs or scythes, all these brigands wore an

air that was both defiant and threatening. They watched one another

warily, each of them gauging at a glance his neighbour's strength,

ready to spring upon him or ready to act in self-defence.

Simon's questions hardly evoked as much as a grumbling reply:

"A woman tied up? A party? Horses? Not come my way."

And they went on. But, two hours later, Simon was greatly surprised to

see the motley dress of three men walking some distance ahead, their

shoulders laden with bundles which each of them carried slung on the

end of a stick. Weren't those Antonio's Indians?

"Yes," murmured Dolores. "It's Forsetta and the Mazzani brothers."

But, when Simon proposed to go after them, "No!" she said, without

concealing her repugnance. "They're a bad lot. There's nothing to be

gained by joining them."

But he was not listening; and, as soon as they were within hearing, he

shouted:

"Is Antonio anywhere about?"

The three men set down their bundles, while Simon and Dolores

dismounted and Forsetta, who had a revolver in his hand, thrust it

into his pocket. He was a great giant of a fellow.

"Ah, so it's you, Dolores?" he said, after saluting Simon. "Faith, no,

Antonio's nowhere hereabouts. We've not seen him."

He smiled with a wry mouth and treacherous eyes.

"That means," retorted Simon, pointing to their burdens, "that you and

Mazzani thought it simpler to go hunting in this direction?"

"May be," he said, with a leer.

"But the old professor? Antonio left him in your charge."

"We lost sight of him soon after the _Queen Mary_. He was looking for

shells. So Mazzani and I came on."

Simon was losing patience. Dolores interrupted him:

"Forsetta," she said gravely. "Antonio was your chief. We four were

fellow-workers; and he asked if you would come with him and me to

avenge my uncle's death. You had no right to desert Antonio."

The Indians looked at one another and laughed. It was obvious that

notions of right and wrong, promises, obligations, duties of

friendship, established rules, decent behaviour, all these had

suddenly became things which they had ceased to understand. In the

stupendous chaos of events, in the heart of this virgin soil, nothing

mattered but the satisfaction of the appetites. It was a new

situation, which they were unable to analyse, though they hastened to

profit by its results without so much as discussing them.

The brothers Mazzani lifted their bundles to their shoulders. Forsetta

went up to Dolores and stared at her for a moment without speaking,

with eyes that glittered between his half-closed lids. His face

betrayed at the same time hesitation and a brutal desire, which he

made no attempt to conceal, to seize the girl as his prey.

But he restrained himself and, picking up his bag, moved off with his

companions.

Simon had watched the scene in silence. His eyes met Dolores'. She

coloured slightly and said, in a low voice:

"Forsetta used to know how to keep his distance. . . . The air of the

prairie, as you say, has acted on him as it has on the others."

Around them, a bed of dried wrack and other sea-weeds, beneath which

the cable disappeared for a length of several miles, formed a series

of hills and valleys. Dolores decided that they would halt there and

led the horses a little way off, so that they should not disturb

Simon's rest.

As it happened, Simon, having lain down on the ground and fallen

asleep, was attacked, knocked helpless, gagged and bound before he was

able to offer the least resistance to his assailants. These were the

three Indians, who had returned at a run.

Forsetta took possession of Simon's pocket-book and watch, tested the

firmness of his bonds and then, flat on his stomach, with one of the

Mazzanis on either side, crawled under the wrack and seaweed towards

the spot where the girl was tending the horses.

Simon repeatedly saw their supple bodies wriggling like reptiles.

Dolores, who was busied over the saddle-bags, had her back to them. No

feeling of uneasiness warned her of her danger. In vain Simon strove

against his bonds and uttered shouts which were stifled by his gag. No

power could prevent the Indians from attaining their aim.

The younger Mazzani was the swifter of the two. He suddenly sprung

upon Dolores and threw her down, while his brother leapt upon one of

the horses and Forsetta, holding another by the bridle, gave his

orders in a hoarse tone of triumph:

"Lift her. Take away her rifle. . . . Good! Bring her here. . . .

We'll tie her on."

Dolores was placed across the saddle. But, just as Forsetta was

uncoiling a rope which he carried round his waist, she raised herself

upon the horse's neck, towering over young Mazzani and, raising her

arm, struck him full in the chest with her dagger. The Indian fell

like a stone against Forsetta; and, when the latter had released

himself and made as though to continue the struggle on his own

account, Dolores was already before him, threatening him point-blank

with her rifle, which she had recovered:

"Clear out," she said. "You too, Mazzani, clear out."

Mazzani obeyed and flew off at a gallop. Forsetta, his features

convulsed with rage, withdrew with deliberate steps, leading the

second horse. Dolores called to him:

"Leave that horse, Forsetta! This moment . . . or I fire!"

He dropped the bridle and then, twenty paces farther on, suddenly

turned his back and fled as fast as he could run.

Simon was impressed not so much by the incident itself--a mere episode

in the great tragedy--as by the extraordinary coolness which the girl

had displayed. When she came to release him, her hands were cold as

ice and her lips quivering:

"He's dead," she faltered. "The young Mazzani is dead. . . ."

"You had to defend yourself," said Simon.

"Yes . . . yes . . . but to take a man's life . . . how horrible! I

struck instinctively . . . as though I were acting for the films: you

see, we rehearsed this scene a hundred times and more, the four of us,

the Mazzanis, Forsetta and I, in the same way, with the words and

gestures in the same order. . . . Even to the stab! It was young

Mazzani himself who taught me that; and he often used to say: 'Bravo,

Dolores! If ever you play the kidnapping-scene in real life, I'm sorry

for your adversary!'"

"Let's hurry," said Simon. "Mazzani may try to avenge his brother's

death; and a man like Forsetta doesn't easily give up. . . ."

They continued on their way and once more came upon the cable. Simon

went on foot, abreast of Dolores. By turning his head a little, he

could see her sad face, with its crown of black hair. She had lost her

broad-brimmed hat, as well as her bolero, which was strapped to the

saddle of the horse stolen by Mazzani. A silk shirt revealed the

modelling of her breasts. Her rifle was slung across her shoulders.

Once more the region of streaked stone extended to the horizon, dotted

with wrecks as before and crossed by the wandering shapes of looters.

Clouds hung overhead. From time to time there was the humming of an

aeroplane.

At noon Simon calculated that they had still twelve or fifteen miles

to cover and that therefore they might be able to reach Dieppe before

night. Dolores, who had dismounted and, like him, was walking,

declared:

"We, yes, we shall get there. But not the horse. He will drop before

that."

"No matter!" said Simon. "The great thing is for us to get there."

The rocky ground was now interspersed with tracts of sand where

footprints were once more visible; and among other trails were those

of two horses coming in their direction along the line of the cable.

"Yet we passed no one on horseback," said Simon. "What do you make of

it?"

She did not reply: but a little later, as they reached the top of a

slope, she showed him a broad river mingling with the horizon and

barring their progress. When they were nearer, they saw that it was

flowing from their right to their left; and, when they were nearer

still, it reminded them of the stream which they had left that

morning. The colour, the banks, the windings were the same. Simon,

disconcerted, examined the country around to discover something that

was different; but the landscape was identical, as a whole and in

every detail.

"What does this mean?" muttered Simon. "There must be an inexplicable

mirage . . . for, after all, it is impossible to admit that we can

have made a mistake."

But proofs of the blunder committed were becoming more numerous. The

track of the two horses having led them away from the cable, they went

down to the river-bank and there, on a flat space bearing the traces

of an encampment, they were compelled to recognize the spot where they

had passed the previous night!

Thus, in a disastrous fit of distraction due to the attack by the

Indians and the death of the younger Mazzani, both of them, in their

excitement, had lost their bearings, and, trusting to the only

indication which they had discovered, had gone back to the submarine

cable. Then, when they resumed their journey, there had been nothing,

no landmark of any kind, to reveal the fact that they were following

the cable in the reverse direction, that they were retracing the path

already travelled and that they were returning, after an exhausting

and fruitless effort, to the spot which they had left some hours ago!

Simon yielded to a momentary fit of despondency. That which was only a

vexatious delay assumed in his eyes the importance of an irreparable

event. The upheaval of the 4th of June had caused this corner of the

world to relapse into absolute barbarism; and to struggle against the

obstacles which it presented called for qualities which he did not

possess. While the marauders and outcasts felt at home from the

beginning in this new state of things, he, Simon Dubosc, was vainly

seeking for the solution of the problems propounded by the exceptional

circumstances. Where was he to go? What was he to do? Against whom was

he to defend himself? How was he to rescue Isabel?

As completely lost in the new land as he would have been in the

immensity of the sea, he ascended the course of the river, following,

with a distraught gaze, the trace of the two trails marking the sand,

which was wet in places. He recognized the prints left by Dolores'

sandals.

"It's no use going in that direction," she said. "I explored all the

surrounding country this morning."

He went on, however, against the girl's wishes and with no other

object than that of acting and moving. And, so doing, in some fifteen

minutes' time he came upon a spot where the bank was trampled and

muddy, like the banks of a river at a ford.

He stopped suddenly. Horses had passed that way. The mark of their

shoes was plainly visible.

"Oh!" he cried, in bewilderment. "Here is Rolleston's trail! . . .

This is the distinct pattern of his rubber soles! Can I believe my

eyes?"

Almost immediately his quest assumed a more definite form. Fifty yards

higher were the traces, still plainly marked, of a camp; and Simon

declared:

"Of course! . . . Of course! . . . It was here that they landed last

night! Like us, they must have fled before the sudden rise of the

water; and like us, they camped on the further side of a hill. Oh," he

continued, despairingly, "we were less than a mile from them! We could

have surprised them in their sleep! Isn't it frightful to think that

nothing told us of it . . . and that such an opportunity. . . ."

He squatted on his heels and, bending over the ground, examined it for

some minutes. Then he rose, his eyes met those of Dolores and he

said, in a low voice:

"There is one extraordinary thing. . . . How do you explain it?"

The girl's tanned face turned crimson; and he saw that she guessed

what he was about to say:

"You came here this morning, Dolores, while I was asleep. Several

times your footsteps cover those of our enemies, which proves that you

came after they were gone. Why didn't you tell me?"

She was silent, with her eyes still fixed upon Simon's and her grave

face animated by an expression of mingled defiance and fear. Suddenly

Simon seized her hand:

"But then . . . but then you knew the truth! Ever since this morning,

you have known that they went along the river-bank. . . . Look . . .

over there . . . you can see their tracks leading eastward. . . . And

you never told me! Worse than that. . . . Why, yes . . . it was you

who called my attention to the cable. . . . It was you who set me

going in a southerly direction . . . towards France. . . . And it is

through you that we have lost nearly a whole day!"

Standing close up to her, with his eyes plumbing hers, holding her

fingers in his, he resumed:

"Why did you do that? It was an unspeakable piece of treachery. . . .

Tell me, why? You know that I love Miss Bakefield, that she is in the

most terrible danger and that to her one day lost may mean dishonour

. . . and death. . . . Then why did you do it?"

He said no more. He felt that, in spite of her appearance, which was

impassive as usual, the girl was overcome with emotion and that he was

dominating her with all the power of his manhood. Dolores' knees were

giving way beneath her. There was nothing in her now but

submissiveness and gentleness; and, since, in their exceptional

position, no reserve could restrain her confession or check her

impulsiveness, she whispered:

"Forgive me. . . . I wasn't thinking . . . or rather I thought of no

one but you . . . you and myself. . . . Yes, from the first moment of

our meeting, the other day, I was swept off my feet by a feeling

stronger than anything in this world. . . . I don't know why. . . . It

was your way of doing things . . . your delicacy, when you threw your

coat over my shoulders. . . . I'm not used to being treated like that.

. . . You seemed to me different from the others. . . . That night,

at the Casino, your triumph intoxicated me. . . . And since then my

whole life has been centred on you. . . . I have never felt like this

before. . . . Men . . . men are brutal to me . . . violent . . .

terrible. . . . They run after me like brutes . . . I loathe them.

. . . You . . . you . . . you're different. . . . With you I feel a

slave. . . . I want to please you. . . . Your every movement delights

me. . . . With you I am happier than I've ever been in my life. . . ."

She stood drooping before him, with lowered head. Simon was bewildered

at the expression of this spontaneous love, which to him was so

completely unforeseen, which was at once so humble and so passionate.

It wounded him in his love for Isabel, as though he had committed an

offence in listening to the girl's avowal. Yet she spoke so gently;

and it was so strange to see this proud and beautiful creature bowing

before him with such reverence that he could not but experience a

certain emotion.

"I love another woman," he repeated, to set up definitely the obstacle

of this love, "and nothing can come between us."

"Yes," she said. "Nevertheless I hoped . . . I don't know what. . . .

I had no object in view. . . . I only wanted us to be alone together,

just the two of us, as long as possible. It's over now. I swear it.

. . . We shall find Miss Bakefield. . . . Let me take you to her: I

think I shall be better able than you. . . ."

Was she sincere? How could he reconcile this offer of devotion with

the passion to which she had confessed?

"What proof have you?" asked Simon.

"What proof of my loyalty? The absolute acknowledgement of the wrong

which I have done and which I wish to repair. This morning, when I

came here alone, I looked all over the ground to see if there was

anything that might give us a clue and I ended by discovering on the

edge of this rock a scrap of paper with some writing on it. . . ."

"Have you it?" cried Simon, sharply. "Has she written? Miss Bakefield,

I mean?"

"Yes."

"It's for me, of course?" continued Simon, with increasing excitement.

"It's not addressed. But of course it was written for you just as

yesterday's message was. Here it is. . . ."

She held out a piece of paper, moist and crumpled, on which he read

the following words, hastily scribbled in Isabel's hand:

"No longer making for Dieppe. They have heard a rumour

of a fountain of gold . . . a real, gushing spring, it

seems. We are going in that direction. No immediate

cause for anxiety."

And Dolores added:

"They left before daybreak, going up the river. If this river is

really the Somme, we must suppose that they have crossed it somewhere,

which will have delayed them. So we shall find them, Simon."

CHAPTER III

SIDE BY SIDE

The jaded horse was incapable of further service. They had to abandon

it, after emptying the saddle-bags and removing the rug, which Dolores

wrapped about her like a soldier's cloak.

They set out again. Henceforth the girl directed the pursuit. Simon,

reassured by Isabel's letter, allowed Dolores to lead the way and

twenty times over had occasion to remark her perspicacity and the

accuracy of her judgment or intuition.

Then, less anxious, feeling that she understood, he became more

talkative and abandoned himself, as on the previous day, to the burst

of enthusiasm which the miracle of this new world awakened in him. The

still unsettled coast-line, the irresolute river, the changing hues of

the water, the ever-varying forms of the heights and valleys, the

contours of the landscape, hardly more definite as yet than those of

an infant's face: all of this, for an hour or two, was to him a

source of wonder and exaltation.

"Look, look!" he cried. "It is as though the landscape were amazed at

showing itself in the light of day! Crushed until now beneath the

weight of the waters, buried in darkness, it seems embarrassed by the

light. Each detail has to learn how to hold itself, to win a place for

itself, to adapt itself to new conditions of existence, to obey other

laws, to shape itself in accordance with other purposes, in short, to

live its life as a thing of earth. It will grow acquainted with the

wind, the rain, the frost; with winter and spring; with the sun, the

beautiful, glorious sun, which will fertilize it and draw from it all

the appearance, colour, service, pleasure and beauty which it is

capable of yielding. A world is being created before our eyes."

Dolores listened with a charmed expression that spoke of the delight

which she felt when Simon spoke for her benefit. And he, all unawares,

meanwhile became kindlier and more attentive. The companion with whom

chance had associated him was assuming more and more the semblance of

a woman. Sometimes he reflected upon the love which she had revealed

to him and asked himself whether, in professing her readiness to

devote herself, she was not seeking above all to remain by his side

and to profit by the circumstances which brought them together. But he

was so sure of his own strength and so well protected by Isabel that

he took little pains to fathom the secrets of this mysterious soul.

Three times they witnessed murderous conflicts among the swarm of

vagabonds who were checked by the barrier of the river. Two men and a

woman fell, but Simon made no attempt to defend them or to punish the

criminals:

"It is the law of the strongest," he said. "No police! No judges! No

executioners! No guillotine! So why trouble ourselves? All social and

moral acquisitions, all the subtleties of civilization, all these melt

away in a moment. What remains? The primordial instincts, which are to

abuse your strength, to take what isn't yours and, in a moment of

anger or greed, to kill your fellows. What does it matter? We are back

in the troglodyte age! Let each man look to himself!"

The sound of singing reached them from somewhere ahead, as though the

river had transmitted its loud echo. They listened: it was a French

rustic ditty, sung in a drawling voice to a tuneful air. The sound

drew nearer. From the curtain of mist a large open boat came into

view, laden with men, women and children, with baskets and articles of

furniture, and impelled by the powerful effort of six oars. The men

were emigrant sailors, in quest of new shores on which to rebuild

their homes.

"France?" cried Simon, when they passed.

"Cayeux-sur-Mer," replied one of the singers.

"Then this river is the Somme?"

"It's the Somme."

"But it's flowing north!"

"Yes, but there's a sharp bend a few miles from here."

"You must have passed a party of men carrying off an old man and a

girl bound to two horses."

"Haven't seen anything of that sort," declared the man.

He resumed his singing. Women's voices joined in the chorus; and the

boat moved on.

"Rolleston must have branched off towards France," Simon concluded.

"He can't have done that," objected Dolores, "since his present

objective is the fountain of gold which some one mentioned to him."

"In that case what has become of them?"

The reply to this question was vouchsafed after an hour's difficult

walking over a ground composed of millions upon millions of those

broken sea-shells which the patient centuries use in kneading and

shaping of the tallest cliffs. It all crackled under their feet and

sometimes they sank into it above their ankles. Some tracts, hundreds

of yards wide, were covered with a layer of dead fish on which they

were compelled to trudge and which formed a mass of decomposing flesh

with an intolerable stench to it.

But a slope of hard, firm ground led them to a more rugged promontory

overhanging the river. Here a dozen men, grey before their time,

clothed in rags and repulsively filthy, with evil faces and brutal

gestures, were cutting up the carcass of a horse and grilling the

pieces over a scanty fire fed with sodden planks. They seemed to be a

gang of tramps who had joined forces for looting on a larger scale.

They had a sheep-dog with them. One of them stated that he had that

morning seen a party of armed men crossing the Somme, making use of a

big wreck which lay stranded in the middle of the river and which they

had reached by a frail, hastily-constructed bridge.

"Look," he said, "there she is, at the far end of the cliff. They slid

the girl down first and then the old, trussed-up chap."

"But," asked Simon, "the horses didn't get across that way, did they?"

"The horses? They were done for. So they let them go. Two of my mates

took three of them and have gone back to France with them. . . . If

they get there, it'll be a bit of luck for them. The fourth, he's on

the spit: we're going to have our dinner off him. . . . After all, one

must eat!"

"And those people, where were they going?" asked Simon.

"Going to pick up gold. They were talking of a fountain flowing with

gold pieces . . . real gold coins. We're going too, we are. What we're

wanting is arms: arms that are some use."

The tramps had risen to their feet; and, obeying an unconcerted and

spontaneous movement, they gathered round Simon and Dolores. The man

who had been speaking laid his hand upon Simon's rifle:

"This sort of thing, you know. A gun like that must come in handy

just now . . . especially to defend a pocket-book which is probably a

fat one. . . . It's true," he added, in a threatening tone, "that my

mates and I have got our sticks and knives, for when it comes to

talking."

"A revolver's better," said Simon, drawing his from his pocket.

The circle of tramps opened out.

"Stay where you are, will you?" he bade them. "The first of you who

moves a step, I shoot him down!"

Walking backwards, while keeping the men covered with his revolver, he

drew Dolores to the end of the promontory. The tramps had not budged a

foot.

"Come," whispered Simon. "We have nothing to fear from them."

The boat, completely capsized, squat and clumsy as the shell of a

tortoise, barred the second half of the river. In foundering she had

spilt on the sloping shore a deck cargo of timber, now sodden, but

still sound enough to enable Rolleston's gang to build a footbridge

twelve yards long across the arm of the river.

Dolores and Simon crossed it briskly. It was easy after that to go

along the nearly flat bottom of the keel and to slide down the chain

of the anchor. But, just as Dolores reached the ground, a violent

concussion shook the chain, of which she had not yet let go, and a

shot rang out from the other bank.

"Ah!" she said. "I was lucky: the bullet has struck one of the links."

Simon had faced round. Opposite them, the tramps were venturing on the

footbridge one by one.

"But who can have fired?" he demanded. "Those beggars haven't a

rifle."

Dolores gave him a sudden push, so that he was protected by the bulk

of the wreck:

"Who fired?" she repeated. "Forsetta or Mazzani."

"Have you seen them?"

"Yes, at the back of the promontory. You can understand, a very few

words would enable them to make a deal with the tramps and persuade

them to attack us."

They both ran round to the other side of the stern. From there they

could see the whole of the footbridge and were under cover from the

snipers. Simon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

"Fire!" cried Dolores, seeing him hesitate.

The shot rang out. The foremost of the vagabonds fell. He roared with

pain, holding his leg. The others hurried back, dragging him with

them, and the promontory was cleared of men. But, though the tramps

could not risk going on the footbridge, it was no less dangerous for

Dolores and Simon to leave the protected area formed by the wreck.

Directly they became visible, they were exposed to Forsetta's or

Mazzani's fire.

"We must wait till dark," Dolores decided.

For hours, rifle in hand, they watched the promontory, on which a head

and shoulders or gesticulating arms appeared at frequent intervals and

from which on several occasions also the threat of a levelled rifle

forced them to hide themselves. Then, as soon as the darkness was

dense enough, they set off again, convinced that Rolleston's trail

would continue to ascend the Somme.

They travelled quickly, never doubting that the two Indians and the

vagabonds would pursue them. Indeed, they heard their voices across

the water and saw fleeting glimmers of light on the same bank as

themselves.

"They know," said Dolores, "that Rolleston went in this direction and

that we, who are looking for him, are bound to keep to it."

After two hours' progress, during which they groped their way, guided

from time to time by the vague shimmering of the river, they reached a

sort of isolated chaos into which Simon wearily cast the light of his

electric torch. It consisted of enormous blocks of hewn stone, sunk in

some lighter, marble, as far as he could see, and partly awash.

"I think we might stop here," said Simon, "at all events till

daybreak."

"Yes," Dolores said, "at daybreak you go on again."

He was surprised by this reply:

"But you too, I suppose, Dolores?"

"Of course; but wouldn't it be better for us to separate? Soon

Rolleston's trail will leave the river and Forsetta is sure to catch

you up, unless I draw him off on another trail."

Simon did not quite understand the girl's plan:

"Then what will you do, Dolores?" he asked.

"I shall go my own way and I shall certainly draw them after me, since

it's I they want."

"But in that case you'll fall into the hands of Forsetta and Mazzani,

who means to avenge his brother's death. . . ."

"I shall give them the slip."

"And all the brutes swarming in these parts: will you give them the

slip too?"

"We're not discussing my affairs, but yours: you have to catch

Rolleston. I am hampering your efforts. So let us separate."

"Not at all!" protested Simon. "We have no right to separate; and you

may be sure that I shan't leave you."

Dolores' offer aroused Simon's curiosity. What was the girl's motive?

Why did she propose to sacrifice herself? In the silence and the

darkness, he thought of her for a long while and of their

extraordinary adventure. Starting in pursuit of the woman whom he

loved, here he was bound by events to another woman, who was herself

pursued; and of this other woman, whose safety depended on his and

whose fate was closely linked with his own, he knew nothing but the

grace of her figure and the beauty of her face. He had saved her life

and he scarcely knew her name. He was protecting her and defending

her; and her whole soul remained concealed from him.

He felt that she was creeping closer to him. Then he heard these

words, which she uttered in a low and hesitating voice:

"It's to save me from Forsetta, isn't it, that you refuse my offer?"

"Of course," he said. "He's terribly dangerous."

She replied, in a still lower voice and in the tone of one making a

confession:

"You must not let the threat of a Forsetta influence your conduct.

. . . What happens to me is of no great account. . . . Without knowing

much about my life, you can imagine the sort of girl I was: a little

cigarette-seller hanging about the streets of Mexico; later, a dancer

in the saloons at Los Angeles. . . ."

"Hush!" said Simon, placing his hand over her mouth. "There must be no

confidences between you and me."

She insisted:

"Still you know that Miss Bakefield is running the same danger as

myself. By remaining with me, you sacrifice her."

"Hush!" he repeated, angrily. "I am doing my duty in not leaving you;

and Miss Bakefield herself would never forgive me if I did otherwise!"

The girl irritated him. He suspected that she regarded herself as

having triumphed over Isabel and that she had been trying to confirm

her victory by proving to Simon that he ought to have left her.

"No, no," he said to himself, "it's not for her sake that I'm staying

with her. I'm staying because it's my duty. A man does not leave a

woman under such conditions. But is she capable of understanding

that?"

They had to leave their refuge in the middle of the night, for it was

stealthily invaded by the river, and to lie down higher up the beach.

No further incident disturbed their sleep. But in the morning, when

the darkness was not yet wholly dispersed, they were awakened by

quick, hollow barks. A dog came leaping towards them at such a speed

that Simon had no time to do more than pull out his revolver.

"Don't fire!" cried Dolores, knife in hand.

It was too late. The brute turned a somersault, made a few convulsive

moments and lay motionless. Dolores stooped over it and said,

positively:

"I recognize him, he's the tramps' dog. They are on our track. The dog

had run ahead of them."

"But our track's impossible to follow. There's hardly any light."

"Forsetta and Mazzani have their torches, just as you have. Besides,

the firing would have told them."

"Then let's be off as quickly as possible," Simon proposed.

"They will catch us up . . . at least, unless you abandon your search

of Rolleston."

Simon seized his rifle:

"That's true. So the only thing is to wait for them here and kill them

one by one."

"That's so," she said. "Unfortunately. . . ."

"Well?"

"Yesterday, after firing at the tramps, you did not reload your

rifle."

"No, but my cartridge-belt is on the sand, at the place where I

slept."

"So is mine; and both are covered by the rising water. Therefore there

are only the six cartridges of your Browning left."

CHAPTER IV

THE BATTLE

All things considered, their best chance of safety would have been to

plunge into the river and escape by the left bank. But this plan,

which would have cut them off from Rolleston and which Simon did not

wish to adopt except in the last extremity, must have been foreseen by

Forsetta, for, as soon as light was clear enough, they saw two tramps

going up the Somme on the opposite bank. Under these conditions, how

were they to land?

Shortly afterwards, they saw that their retreat was discovered and

that the enemy was profiting by their hesitation. On the same bank as

themselves, some five hundred yards down-stream, appeared the barrel

of a rifle. Up-stream an identical menace confronted them.

"Forsetta and Mazzani," declared Dolores. "We are cut off right and

left."

"But there's nobody in front of us."

"Yes, the rest of the tramps."

"I don't see them."

"They are there, believe me, in hiding and well sheltered."

"Let's rush at them and get by!"

"To do that, we should have to cover a bare patch under the cross-fire

of Mazzani and Forsetta. They are good shots. They won't miss us."

"Then what?"

"Well, let's defend ourselves here."

It was good advice. The cargo of marble blocks, piled

higgledy-piggledy like a child's building-bricks, formed a thorough

citadel. Dolores and Simon climbed it and at the top selected a fort,

protected on all sides, from which they could see the slightest

movements of their enemies.

"They're coming," Dolores declared, after an attentive scrutiny.

The river had deposited along the banks trunks of trees and enormous

roots, drifting it was impossible to say whence, which Forsetta and

Mazzani were using to cover their approach. Moreover, at each rush

forward they protected themselves with broad planks which they carried

with them. And Dolores called Simon's attention to the fact that more

things were moving across the bare plain; more shields improvised of

all sorts of stray materials: coils of rope, broken parts of boats,

fragments of pontoons and pieces of boilerplate. All these things were

creeping imperceptibly, with the sure, heavy pace of tortoises making

for the same goal, along the radius that led to the centre. And the

centre was the fortress. The tramps were investing it under the orders

of Mazzani and Forsetta. From time to time a limb or a head appeared

in sight.

"Ah!" said Simon, in a voice filled with rage. "If only I had a few

bullets, wouldn't I stop this inroad of wood-lice!"

Dolores had made a display of the two useless rifles, in the hope that

the threatening aspect would intimidate the enemy. But the confidence

of the attackers increased with the inactivity of the besieged. It was

even possible that the two Indians had scented the ruse, for they

scarcely attempted to conceal themselves.

To show his skill, one of them--Forsetta, Dolores declared--shot down

a sea-gull skimming along the river. Mazzani accepted the challenge.

An aeroplane, humming in their direction and flying lower than most,

seemed suddenly to drop from the clouds and silently glided across

the river, over the blocks of marble. When it came level, Mazzani

threw up his rifle, slowly took aim and fired. The pilot was hit, bore

downwards, heeled over on either side alternately, until he seemed

about to capsize, and passed on, disappearing in a zig-zag flight like

that of a wounded bird.

And suddenly, Simon having shown his head, two bullets fired by the

two Indians ricochetted from the nearest stone surface, detaching a

few splinters.

"Oh, please don't be so imprudent!" Dolores implored.

A drop of blood trickled down his forehead. She staunched it gently

with her handkerchief and murmured:

"You see, Simon, those men will get the better of us. And you still

refuse to leave me? You risk your life, though nothing can affect the

issue?"

He pushed her away from him:

"My life is not at stake. . . . Nor yours either. . . . This handful

of wretches will never get at us."

He was mistaken. Some of the vagabonds were within eighty yards of

them. They could hear them talking together; and the men's hard faces,

covered with grey stubble, shot up from behind their bucklers like the

head of a Jack-in-the-box.

Forsetta was shouting his orders:

"Forward! . . . There's no danger! . . . They've no ammunition! . . .

Forward, I tell you! The Frenchman's pockets are stuffed with notes!"

The seven tramps ran forward as one man. Simon levelled his revolver

briskly and fired. They stopped. No one was hit. Forsetta was

triumphant:

"They're done for! . . . Nothing but short-range Browning bullets!

. . . At them!"

He himself, protecting his body with a piece of sheet-iron, ran up at

full speed. Mazzani and the tramps formed up in a circle at thirty or

forty yards.

"Ready!" bellowed Forsetta. "Out with your knives!"

Dolores remarked to Simon that they must not remain in their

observation-post, since most of their enemies would be able to reach

the foot of the fortress unseen and slip between the marble blocks.

They slid through a gap which formed a chimney from the top to the

ground.

"There they are! There they are!" said Dolores. "Fire now! . . . Look,

here's a chink!"

Through this chink Simon saw two big ruffians walking ahead of the

rest. Two shots rang out. The two big ruffians fell. The party halted

for the second time, hesitating what to do.

Dolores and Simon profited by this delay to take refuge at the extreme

edge of the river. Three single blocks of marble formed a sort of

sentry-box, with an empty space in front of it.

"Charge!" shouted Forsetta, joining the men. "They're trapped! Mazzani

and I have got them covered. If the Frenchman stirs, we'll shoot him

down!"

To meet the charge, Simon and Dolores were obliged to stand up and

half-expose themselves. Terrified by the Indian's threat, Dolores

threw herself before Simon, making a rampart of her body.

"Halt!" ordered Forsetta, restraining his men's onrush. "And you,

Dolores, you leave your Frenchman! Come! He shall have his life if

you leave him. He can go: it's you I'm after!"

Simon seized the girl with his left arm and drew her back by main

force:

"Not a movement!" he said. "I forbid you to leave me! I'll answer for

your safety. As long as I live those brutes shan't get you."

And, with the girl pressed against the hollow of his shoulder, he

stretched out his right arm.

"Well done, M. Dubosc!" jeered Forsetta. "Seems that we're sweet on

the fair Dolores and that we're sticking to her! Those Frenchmen are

all alike! Chivalrous fellows!"

With a wave of the hand he gathered up the tramps for the final

attack:

"Now then, mates! One more effort and all the notes are yours! Mazzani

and I bag the pretty lady. Is that right, Mazzani?"

All together they came rushing on. All together, at an order from

Forsetta, they hurled, like so many projectiles, the pieces of wood

and iron with which they had protected themselves. Dolores was not

hit, but Simon, struck on the arm, dropped his Browning at the very

moment when he had fired at Mazzani and brought him down. One of the

tramps leapt upon the pistol, which had rolled away, while Forsetta

struggled with Dolores, avoiding the girl's dagger and imprisoning her

in his arms.

"Oh, Simon! I'm done for!" she screamed, trying to hang on to him.

But Simon had the five tramps to deal with. Unarmed, with nothing but

his hands and feet to fight with, he was shot at three times by the

man who had picked up his pistol and was clumsily firing off the last

few cartridges. He staggered for a moment under the weight of the

other brutes and was thrown to the ground. Two of them seized his

legs. Two others tried to strangle him, while the fifth still kept him

covered with his empty pistol.

"Simon, save me! . . . Save me!" cried Dolores, whom Forsetta was

carrying off, wrapped in a blanket and bound with a rope.

He made a desperate effort, escaping his assailants for a few seconds,

and, before they had time to come to close quarters again, acting on a

sudden impulse he threw his pocket-book to them, shouting:

"Hands off, you blackguards! Share that between you! Thirty thousand!"