MORE WITCHCRAFT.
The night hours sped away with only one incident to disturb us. I heard
a strange noise which I could not locate nor understand, and as I stood
listening intently Chris, within the hut, barked loudly.
I heard the girl speak to him, and was half minded to ask her to let
him out that he might help my watch; but I heard nothing more, and so
let the thing pass.
Day had broken before Karasch returned. He was alone, and had only
failure and mishap to report. Trouble had dogged him from the start.
He had not seen a trace of the man he had gone out to find. His
companion’s horse had put his foot in a hole and broken his leg, and
nearly killed Andreas, who was lying some fifteen miles away in the
hills; while Karasch himself had twice been thrown, the second time
with disastrous results to his broken arm.
He left no doubt as to where he laid the blame.
“We are bewitched, Burgwan,” he said, his brow frowning and his glance
threatening. “In five years I have never once been thrown; and now
twice within as many hours. The spell was upon us, and we were not
meant to find the man.”
“Does anyone cast spells for their own hurt, Karasch? It was necessary
for her safety that the man should be caught and prevented from
bringing his comrades here.”
“You are not of this country, or you would know better. These devils
work their own ends in their own ways. I lifted my hand against you
because of her, and have brought the spell upon me. God defend us;” and
he crossed himself earnestly.
“But why should she help to bring her pursuers here?” I repeated; and
might as well have reasoned with the wind.
“You do not know. He will never reach his friends; or, if he does, the
way hither will be hidden from them.”
“Don’t be a blind fool, Karasch,” I exclaimed, losing my temper.
He looked at me and shook his head slowly with a suggestion of
commiseration.
“It is not I who am the fool or blind, Burgwan,” he answered, almost
sadly. “Listen. The first time I was thrown, I saw before me a
stretch of beautiful turf and pricked my horse to a gallop across it
when he plunged right into a pit; and I wonder I was not killed. The
next time, just before dawn, I was feeling my way carefully when she
herself appeared suddenly in front of me, all white fire, and flashing
a gleaming sword before my eyes. I checked my horse, in fear, and he
reared and fell back almost on top of me. Is not that enough to prove
the spell?”
It proved to me that he had either been asleep on his horse or was
suffering from disordered nerves as the result of fatigue and the pain
from his arm; but when I told him so, he grew more morose and pitying
in his manner.
“I know why you talk as you do,” he said. “You have looked into her
eyes. The spell is on you, too--on all here; and we shall die--unless
she does.” The last three words were uttered after a long pause,
during which he had glanced ominously and fearsomely toward the hut.
Superstition held him in its thrall.
I judged it best to check the thought under the words at once.
“The man who lays a finger on her to her hurt will have to reckon with
me, Karasch,” I said, sternly, and turned away.
He made no reply, but rode on to the shed some distance to the rear of
the tent, where we stalled the horses.
I began to scent a fresh danger for the “witch,” and was fast growing
as anxious as she herself could be to get away. If Karasch believed
that he would be saving me from the spell by killing her, I knew he was
quite capable of doing it in the face of any commands I might lay upon
him and the others.
It was easy to guess at his crude reasoning. I had looked into her
eyes, and was thus under her spell while she lived. My orders for
her safety would thus be regarded as the result of the accursed
enchantment; and they would only have to kill her to free me from the
spell and make me to see that they had done the right thing. They would
feel that I should then be as eager to reward them for her murder as I
was now to forbid them touching her.
Added to this was the actual and pressing danger arising from the fact
that the man who had pursued her had escaped to carry the tidings of
her whereabouts to his companions and bring them down upon us, perhaps
in force.
The situation was growing tighter with every fresh turn, and I made up
my mind to rush matters and get away at once. I would not wait for the
return of my guide, but take the risk of finding my way alone.
I had just made this decision when Gartski came running round the tent
with a white, scared face. He stopped some yards short of the hut, as
if loath to come too near the abode of the accursed one, and crossed
himself.
“The horses have been killed, Burgwan. Will you come to the shed to
Karasch?”
The news, if true, was ill enough to make me change colour, and I went
back with him.
“We are all under a curse. It is witch’s work,” he said in a curiously
awed tone; and he wrung his hands and crossed himself again. I was
beginning to regard that gesture of devotion with a pretty considerable
dislike by that time.
The news was true enough. The three horses lay dead on the shed floor,
each in a pool of blood; and on the quarter of each of them a small
ring of blood was to be seen some two inches across. Peering into the
shed stood the horse from which Karasch had just dismounted, his neck
outstretched and his ears cocked in fear.
Karasch and Petrov were inside, preternaturally grave and awe-struck.
Both looked as frightened as Gartski when he had come running with the
news to me; and Karasch pointed ominously in turn at the marks on each
of the dead animals.
“The witch’s mark. It’s always there,” he said.
It was unquestionably very strange, and I looked solemn enough no
doubt to lead them to believe I was beginning to share their own
superstitious fears. It was about the worst thing that could have
occurred at such a juncture; and for the moment I could think of
nothing but the possible consequences of so disastrous an occurrence.
With an effort I roused myself and examined the “witch’s” mark on each
of the beasts. A circle had been cut with the point of a sharp knife,
the mark being just skin deep.
“How did they die, do you think, Karasch?”
He pointed again to the marks and smiled grimly, as though the cause
were too plain to need words.
“And all this blood?” I asked.
He shrugged his great shoulders.
I looked at Gartski and the third man closely, for any sign that they
had had a hand in it; but their superstitious fear was too genuine to
be doubted.
“Turn the horses over,” I ordered; but they shrank away and obstinately
refused to put a finger near them.
“Who is smeared with the blood of a witch-killed beast dies before the
moon is old,” said Karasch. “They must burn where they lie.”
“You’re a set of fools,” I cried angrily. But neither anger nor request
was heeded.
I took the iron bar from the door, and levering it under the smallest
of the horses turned the carcase over sufficiently to find what I
sought--the cause of death. There was a wound just under the heart. The
horse had been stabbed with a sword or long knife. Whoever had done the
work knew where and how to strike so as to kill instantly.
I went outside then and searched the ground all round the door
carefully.
“Come back to the tent all of you,” I said. I led the way, scrutinising
every inch of the ground and following a somewhat unaccountable trail I
had discovered. It led direct to the tent.
“Let me see to your arm, Karasch,” I said first, intending to let
them have some minutes to recover from the first effects of their
stupefaction.
“No, Burgwan. You have cursed blood on you. You cannot touch me. I
should die, too.”
“Very well, then, we’ll settle this thing first. You saddled Karasch’s
horse last night, Gartski. Did you fasten the shed afterwards?”
“No; we never fasten it. Bars won’t keep out devils.”
“This is the work of no devil. Those horses have been killed by someone
who plunged a knife into their hearts and then cut that ring on the
haunch. I saw the wound myself on the beast I examined. They were all
right when you left them?”
“Yes, quite right.”
“Did either of you go near the shed again until Karasch returned, or
did you sleep?” I asked next, remembering the strange noise I had
heard in the night.
“We had had a long day, and both slept soundly.”
“We’re getting very close to it now,” I answered. I turned to our
prisoner with the broken leg. “How is your leg this morning, my man?”
“Very painful, but better,” he replied after a pause.
“Did you sleep, or did you hear anything in the night?”
“I slept all through the night. I was asleep when you came in just now.”
“Then it ought not to be so painful. I’ll have a look at it.”
“No, no,” he cried, putting up his hands to ward me off. “Don’t touch
me. You have touched the accursed blood.”
“Do you believe in it, too?” and I looked keenly at him.
He crossed himself earnestly and spat on the floor.
“Stay, stay. You’re a Turk! why do you cross yourself with the cross
of the Christians? I won’t touch you against your will, but I must see
how your leg is doing. Lift him up, Gartski,” and I pointed to a bench.
They hesitated. “Do as I say; and smartly, too. You know me,” I cried
sternly.
The man objected and protested with many oaths, and cursed me volubly.
But I insisted; and the others did not dare to disobey me. Karasch
himself plucked the man’s rug off, and the other two lifted him.
The mystery was instantly plain to me. The man was smeared from head
to foot with mud and blood, the traces of which he had tried to remove;
and lying where his body had covered them were a knife and a small
lantern; while a glance at his injured leg showed me that the splints
had been all but torn off in the exertions of his night’s work.
He was a faithful servant to his masters, whoever they might be; and he
had conceived the design of killing the only horses we had, in order
to prevent the escape of the girl before his comrades could return to
recapture her.
Waiting until the two men in the tent were fast asleep he had dragged
himself, painfully and laboriously, through the mud to the shed, had
shut himself in, and, by the light of the lantern he carried, had
deliberately stabbed one horse after the other, putting on each the
witch’s mark. He knew the superstition about it, of course, and trusted
to that to save him from the risk of discovery. I had seen the slimy
trail he had left in the mud, however, and had thus detected him.
With what dogged effort he had acted and the stoical endurance he had
shown were evidenced by the condition of his wounded leg. The splints
had been torn off, and he must have suffered excruciating agony in the
grating of the fractured bones.
I taxed him with the deed, but he denied it, of course, and swore by
every oath he could think of, Christian and Mahomedan alike, that he
was innocent and had slept soundly the whole night through.
I drew Karasch aside. “You can see for yourself what happened,” I said,
significantly and triumphantly. But his superstition was proof even
against such evidence.
“You do not understand, Burgwan; I do,” he replied, in the same dismal
fanatical tone.
“The thing can be seen as plainly as a mountain in the moonlight,” I
exclaimed, impatiently. “He wants to prevent our getting away until his
companions get here.”
But Karasch only shook his head.
“You can see that he did it, can’t you, man?”
“I can see she used his body to do it. They often do that. He did it in
a dream. His hand; her mind. I’ll question him.”
“And put a ready-made lie into his thoughts,” I exclaimed, angrily.
“It is witch’s work, more than his,” he repeated, stubbornly and
doggedly. I felt I should lose my temper if I stayed longer, and
tossing up my hands in despair at his folly, I gave up talking sense to
him.
I washed off the traces of the blood from my hands, and having got
materials for a breakfast, went away to the hut to try and think what
next to do in view of this fresh disaster.
I don’t think I had ever been more completely cornered than I was
by the position which faced me then. I was thirty miles or so from
anywhere; I did not know the road for even a league from the camp; and
I hadn’t an animal left worth calling a horse. If I attempted to leave
with the girl, we should probably be lost, or break down by the way.
Yet if I stayed where I was, we should have her pursuers back to fetch
her; while, even if they did not come, there was an almost hourly risk
that my own men would break out against her in order to deliver me from
her enchantment.
Whichever way I turned I could see nothing but imminent peril for
her--peril of death indeed; and cudgel my wits as I would, I could see
no turning in the long, straight lane of danger.
I remember stopping midway between the tent and the hut, and setting
down the things I carried, and glancing round at the circle of frowning
hills with a confused and dismaying sense of feebleness. The breeze
of the morning, fresh and invigorating as it was, seemed to grow hot,
stifling, oppressive, until it was positively difficult to breathe
freely. The hills had become suddenly as the walls of a prison,
shutting me in, a helpless, crippled prisoner. Light, freedom, hope,
life were all on the other side of them, but the path was barred
and the way of escape blocked. My nerves were shaken and the mental
perspective warped, for the moment, in the exaggeration of sudden alarm
for the girl.
The sight of her brought me to my senses again. She appeared at the
door of the hut and looking about her saw me and smiled. I must
keep the knowledge of danger from her, of course, so I went down
and pretended to busy myself with my packages while I pulled myself
together.
I picked them up and went on to the hut whistling a strain of the “Star
Spangled Banner,” and trying to appear as if I hadn’t a thought in the
world above breakfast.
“Good-morning, Burgwan,” she said, with a sort of chary patronage and
encouragement.
“Good-morning. I have brought your breakfast. Very homely diet, but the
best we can offer you here.”
“Never mind. What time do we start?” She had a rare knack of finding
awkward questions.
“The guide is not come yet,” I answered, conscious that my pause would
rouse her suspicions.
“But I cannot wait long.”
“That’s true enough.” I spoke the thought aloud, unwittingly.
“What does that mean?” Very sharply asked, this.
“I can’t answer any questions yet. I have to think.”
The reply appeared to offend her, and her eyes flashed as she drew
herself up with a gesture of authority and constraint. She was turning
back into the hut when she caught sight of some stains on my clothes.
“That is--blood?” She paused before the word.
“Yes, it’s blood. I didn’t know it was there.”
She shrank from me for a space against the lintel.
“It’s horse’s blood. We’ve had some trouble in the stables, and I’m
afraid I don’t cut a very pretty figure just now.” I tried to make
light of it in this way; but it was a feeble effort.
“Tell me--at once. The truth, please.” There was eagerness now in her
tone, as well as the usual imperative note.
I hesitated. “I suppose you’d better know it,” I said then. “There has
been foul play in the night, and our horses have been killed. I got
this on me when I was tracing the thing to its source. That’s all--but
it’s bad enough.”
“How many?”
“All but one--and he’s dead lame, I’m afraid.”
“Is this true? or is it an excuse to keep me here?”
I winced. The injustice bit deep. I looked at her with a protest in my
eyes.
“If you’ll put that question plainly, perhaps you’ll see it in its
proper light, and understand how it may sound to me. No, I don’t mean
that. It doesn’t matter. I have told you the truth; that’s all.”
“But it does mean delay?”
“I’m very sorry; but thirty or forty miles make a long march for a lame
horse. I could manage on foot, of course, but----” I left the sentence
unfinished.
She started, and bit her lip as she realised my meaning. To avoid
seeing her distress, and to fill the pause, I dropped one of the tins I
was carrying and stooped to pick it up.
“I have to beg your pardon, Burgwan, for doubting you.”
“That’s no account, I assure you. I couldn’t have helped it myself if
the position had been reversed. The truth does sometimes look strangely
like falsehood.”
“But you don’t seem to understand that I must get away. I must.”
“I do realise it,” I answered, very earnestly, “and mean to find a way,
somehow. I’m not easy to beat, most times.”
“When can we start, then?” I noticed the “we,” and I think it had
something to do with putting me off my guard.
“I shall have to think a bit,” I said.
“It must be soon, Burgwan. What time is it now?”
Without thinking, I pulled out my watch from an inner pocket--a big
gold chronometer on a gold chain--and the moment I caught her quick
eyes on it I saw the mistake, and regretted it.
“Just six o’clock,” I answered, as indifferently as I could.
“That’s a very valuable watch you carry in these lonely hills;” and her
look spoke her thought much more eloquently than her words.
“It’s a very good timekeeper,” I answered at random.
Her intent gaze held me all the while, and I saw gathering in her eyes
something of the suspicion with which she had first heard my name the
previous night.
“How did you get it?”
“Are you not over quick with your suspicions?”
“Am I to fear you--or trust you?”
“If you trust me it will have to be without asking any questions--at
present. You have no reason to fear me; and never will have.”
“You must tell me where you got so valuable a thing--you, a peasant of
the hills?”
“I am not a peasant of the hills.”
“Where did you get it?”
“If I told you, you would scarcely believe me.”
“Where?” she insisted.
“I bought it; that’s all.”
She drew a deep breath and bit her lip.
“I have thought of you as a brave man capable of real nobleness. I have
believed you to be true and honest. If you fail me I have no hope. And
if you mean me harm, for the sake of the living God tell me so.” She
spoke with intense but carefully restrained passion until the last few
words.
“Don’t take it like that,” I replied, firmly and calmly, although moved
to the core by her appeal. “I will tell you something. I am not what
I may have seemed to you. I am no peasant and no brigand, as you seem
to fear. Who and what I am, and why here, I cannot tell you yet; but,
believe this, I will serve you and save you from this trouble. If you
wish it, I will take any oath you like on that. But my word is my word,
and you may trust it.”
She listened intently, marking every word, and when I finished she bent
forward and gazed searchingly right into my eyes. Then she drew a deep,
long breath, as of relief, and smiled.
“Thank God, I feel I can trust you. I will not question you again,
Burgwan.”
“Then the best thing you can do is to show it by getting some
breakfast.”
The change to the commonplace and practical from that moment of
feverish passion was a welcome relief to us both.
“Yes; you are right. I will,” she answered, forcing a smile; and
picking up the things I had laid on the chair, she carried them into
the hut.