Connor smiled.
"And at that rate it would require a hundred like Abra to buy Glani?" he
asked.
"A thousand," said the old man instantly, "and then the full price would
not be paid. I have already asked the master to cross him with Hira. He
will answer me soon; one touch of Glani's blood will lift the strain in
my household. My colts are good mettle--but the fire, the soul of
Glani!"
He bowed his head.
"Ah, they are coming, Jacob and Joseph."
His keen ear heard a sound which was not audible to Connor for several
moments; then two gray horses swept into the circle of the firelight,
and from the mare which led Abra by several yards, a huge Negro
dismounted.
"If you are Joseph," the gambler said, "I suppose Jacob has already told
you about me. My name is Connor. I've been hunting up the Girard River,
struck across the mountains yonder, and here I've brought up with a lame
mule and a lamer horse. The point is that I want to rest up in your
valley until my animals can go on. Is it possible?"
While he spoke the giant watched him with eyes which squinted in their
intensity, but when he ended Joseph answered not a word. Connor
remembered now what he had heard of the deaf mute who alone went back
and forth from the Garden of Eden, and his heart fell. It was talking to
a face of stone.
In the meantime Joseph continued to examine the stranger. From head to
foot the little, bright eyes moved, leisurely, and Connor grew hot as he
endured it. When the survey was completed to his own satisfaction,
Joseph went first to the mule and next to the horse, lifting their feet
one by one, then running his hands over their legs. After this he turned
to Jacob and his great fingers glided through the characters of the
language of the mute, bunching, knotting, darting out in a fluid
swiftness.
"Joseph says," translated Ephraim, "that your horse is lame, but that he
can climb the hills if you go on foot; the mule is not lame at all, but
is pretending, because he is tired."
An oath rose up in the throat of Connor, but he checked it against his
teeth and smiled at Joseph. The big man hissed through his teeth and his
mare sprang to his side. She was not more than fourteen two, and
slenderly made compared with Abra, yet she had borne the great bulk of
Joseph with ease before, and now she was apparently ready to carry him
again. He dropped his hand upon her withers, and facing Connor, swept
his arm out in a broad gesture of dismissal. Vaguely the gambler noticed
this, but his real interest centered on the form of the mare. He was
seeing her not with that unwieldy bulk crushing her back, but with a
fly-weight jockey mounted on a racing pad riding her past the grand
stand. He was hearing the odds which the bookies offered; he was
watching those odds drop by leaps and bounds as he hammered away at
them, betting in lumps of hundreds and five hundreds, staking his
fortune on his first "sure thing." Even as she stood passive, tossing
her nose, he knew her speed, and it took his breath. Abra himself would
walk away from ordinary company, but this gray mare--slowly Connor
looked back to the face of Joseph and saw that the giant was waiting to
see his command obeyed. For the first time he noted the cartridge belt
strung across the fellow's gaunt middle and the holster in which pulled
the weight of a forty-five. In case of doubt, here was a cogent reason
to hurry a loiterer. To persuade the giant would never have been easy,
but to persuade him through an interpreter made the affair impossible.
Struggling for a loophole of escape, he absentmindedly unsnapped from
his watch chain the little ivory talisman, the ape head, and commenced
to finger it. It had been his constant companion for years and in a
measure he connected his luck with it.
"My friend," said Connor to Ephraim, "you see my position? But if I
can't do better is there any objection to my using this fire of yours
for cooking? The fire, at least, is outside the valley."
Even this question Ephraim apparently did not feel qualified to answer.
He turned first to the gigantic mute and conversed with him at some
length; his own fluent signals were answered by single movements on the
part of Joseph, and Connor recognized the signs of dissent.
"I have told him everything," said Ephraim, turning again to Connor and
shaking his head in sympathy. "And how Abra came to you, but though the
horse trusted you, Joseph does not wish you to stay. I am sorry."
Connor looked through the gate into the darkness of the Garden of Eden;
at the entrance to his promised land he was to be turned back. In his
despair he opened his palm and looked down absently at the little
grinning ape head of ivory. Even while he was deep in thought he felt
the silence which settled over the three men, and when he looked up he
saw the glittering eyes of Joseph fixed upon the trinket. That instant
new hope came to Connor; he closed his hand over the ape head, and
turning to Ephraim he said:
"Very well. If there's nothing else for me to do, I'll take the chance
of getting through the mountains with my lame nags."
As he spoke he threw the reins over the neck of the chestnut; but before
he could put his foot in the stirrup Joseph was beside him and touched
his shoulder.
"Wait!" said he, and the gambler paused with astonishment. The mask of
the mute which he had hitherto kept on his face now fell from it.
"Let me see," the giant was saying, and held out his hand for the ivory
image.
The pulse of Connor doubled its beat--but with his fingers still closed
he said:
"The ivory head is an old companion of mine and has brought me a great
deal of luck."
The torchlight changed in the eyes of Joseph as the sun glints and
glimmers on watered silk.
"I would not hurt it," he said, and made a gingerly motion to show how
light and deft his fingers could be.
"Very well," said Connor, "but I rarely let it out of my hand."
He stepped closer to the firelight and exposed the little carving again.
It was a curious bit of work, with every detail nicely executed;
pinpoint emeralds were inset for eyes, the lips grinned back from tiny
fangs of gold, and the swelling neck suggested the powerful ape body of
the model. In the firelight the teeth and eyes flashed.
Joseph grinned in sympathy. Ephraim and Jacob also had drawn close, and
the white man saw in the three faces one expression: they had become
children before a master, and when Connor placed the trinket in the
great paw of Joseph the other two flashed at him glances of envy. As for
the big man, he was transformed.
"Speak truth," he said suddenly. "Why do you wish to enter the Garden?"
"I've already told you, I think," said Connor. "It's to rest up until
the horse and mule are well again."
The glance of the huge man, which had hitherto wandered from the trinket
to Connor's face, now steadied brightly upon the latter.
"There must be another reason."
Connor felt himself pressed to the wall.
"Look at the thing you have in your hand, Joseph. You are asking
yourself: 'What is it? Who made it? See how the firelight glitters on
it--perhaps there is life in it!'"
"Ah!" sighed the three in one breath.
"Perhaps there is power in it. I have used it well and it has brought me
a great deal of good luck. But you would like to know all those things,
Joseph. Now look at the gate to the Garden!"
He waved to the lofty and dark cleft before them.
"It is like a face to me. People live behind it. Who are they? Who is
the master? What does he do? What is his power? That is another reason
why I wish to go in; and why should you fear me? I am alone; I am
unarmed."
It seemed that Joseph learned more from Connor's expression than from
his words.
"The law is the will of David."
The Garden became to Connor as the forbidden room to Bluebeard's wife;
it tempted him as a high cliff tempts the climber toward a fall. He
mustered a calm air and voice.
"That is a matter I can arrange with your master. He may have laws to
keep out thieves, but certainly he has nothing against honest men."
Joseph shrugged his big shoulders, but Ephraim answered: "The will of
David never changes. I am no longer young, but since I have been old
enough to remember, I have never seen a man either come into the valley
or leave it except Joseph."
The solemnity of the old man staggered Connor. He felt his resolution to
enter at any cost waver, and then Abra, the young stallion, came to his
side and looked in his face.
It was the decisive touch. The life which the devotee would risk for his
God, or the patriot for his country, the gambler was willing to venture
for the sake of a "sure thing."
"Let us exchange gifts," said Connor; "I give you the ivory head. It may
bring you good luck. You give me the right to enter the valley and I
accept any good or evil that comes to me."
The huge fingers of Joseph curled softly over the image.
"Beware of the law!" cried Ephraim. "And the hand of the master!"
The giant shrank, but he looked at Ephraim with sullen defiance.
"Come," he said to Connor. "This is on your own head."
_CHAPTER TEN_
"It is a long ride to the house of David," said Jacob. "Your horse is
footsore; take Abra."
But Ephraim broke in: "If you care for speed and wise feet beneath you,
Tabari herself is there."
He whistled as Jacob had done before, but with another grace-note at the
end.
"Those of my household answer when they are called," continued the old
man proudly. "Listen!"
A soft whinny out of the darkness, and Tabari galloped into the
firelight, and stopped at the side of her master motionless.
"Choose," said Ephraim.
He smiled at Jacob, who in return was darkly silent.
The mare tugged at the heartstrings of Connor, but he answered, slipping
carefully into the formal language which apparently was approved most in
the valley.
"She is worthy of a king, but Abra was offered to me first. But will he
carry a saddle?"
"He will carry anything but a whip," said Jacob, casting a glance of
triumph at Ephraim. "You will see!" He was already busy at the knot
under the flap of Connor's saddle, and presently he slipped the saddle
from the back of the chestnut. "Come!" he called.
Abra came, but he came like a fighter into the ring, dancing, ready for
trouble.
"Fool!" shouted Jacob, stamping. "Fool, and grandson of a fool, stand!"
The ears of Abra flicked back along his neck and he trembled as the
saddle was swung over him. Under its impact he crouched and shuddered,
but the outbreak of bucking for which Connor waited did not come. The
jerk on the cinch brought a snort from him, but that was all.
"We may not put iron in his mouth," said Jacob, as Connor came up with
the bridle, "but a touch on this will turn him or stop him, as you
wish."
As he spoke he picked up a small rope, which he knotted around the neck
of Abra close to the ears, and handed the end to Connor.
"Look!" he said to the horse, pointing to Connor. "This is your master
to-night. Bear him as you would bear me, Abra, without leaping or
stumbling, smoothly, as son of Khalissa should do. And hark," he added
in the ear of the young stallion; "if the mare of Joseph outruns you,
you are no horse of my household, but a mongrel, a bloodless knave."
Joseph was already trotting through the gate and growing dim beyond, so
Connor put his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He landed
as upon springs, all the lithe body of the stallion giving under the
shock; and Connor felt a quivering power beneath him like the vibration
of a racing motor. Abra's eyes glinted as he threw his head high to take
stock of the new master.
"Go," commanded Jacob; "and remember your speed, for the honor of him
who trained you!"
The last words were whipped away from the ear of Connor and trailed into
a murmur behind him, for without a preliminary step Abra sprang from a
stand into a full gallop. That forward lurch swayed Connor far back; he
lost touch with his stirrups, but, clinging desperately with his knees,
he was presently able to right himself. There was hard gravel beneath
them, but the gait was as soft as if Abra ran in deep sand without
labor; there was no more wrench and shock than the ghost of a man
riding a ghost of a horse.
A column of black shot by on either hand; Connor was through the gate to
the Garden of Eden and rushing down the slope beyond. He knew this
dimly, but chiefly he was aware only of the whipping of the wind.
Something Ephraim had said came into his memory: "If there were ten like
Abra in one corral, and one like Tabari in another, a wise man--" But,
no doubt, Ephraim had jested.
For, glancing up, he saw the tops of tall trees rushing past him against
the sky, and for the first time he knew the speed of that gallop. In his
exultation he threw up his hand, and his shout rang before him and
behind. That taught him a lesson he would never forget when he sat the
saddle on an Eden Gray; for Abra lurched into a run with a suddenness
that swayed Connor against the cantle again.
He steadied himself quickly and called to Abra; the first word cut down
that racing gait to the long, free stride, but the brief rush had taken
the breath of the rider, and now he looked about him.
He had been in California years before, and now he recognized the
peculiar, clean perfume of the trees which lined the road; they were the
eucalyptus, and they fenced the way with a gigantic hedge several rows
deep. It was a winding road that they followed, dipping over a rolling
ground and swinging leisurely from side to side to avoid high places, so
that the vista of the trees was continually in motion, twisting back and
forth; or when he looked straight up he saw the slender tree-points
brushing past the stars. So he galloped into a long, straight stretch
with a pale gleam of water beyond it; and between he saw Joseph.
It was strange that in spite of the speed of Abra, Joseph's mare had not
been overtaken; for no matter what quality the mare might have, she
carried in the gigantic Negro an impost of some two hundred and fifty
pounds. A suspicion of discourtesy on his part must have come to Joseph,
for now he brought his horse back to a canter that allowed Connor to
come close, so close indeed that he saw Joseph laughing in a horrible
soundless way and beckoning him on, very much as though he challenged
Abra. Surely the fellow must know that no horse could concede such
weight to Abra, but Connor waved his arm to signify that he accepted the
challenge, and called on Abra.
There followed the breathless lunge forward, the sinking of the body as
the stride lengthened, the whir of wind against his face; Connor sat the
saddle erect, smiling, and waited for Joseph to come back to him.
But Joseph did not come, and as the mare reached the river and her hoofs
rang on the bridge Connor saw with unspeakable wonder that he had
actually lost ground. Once more he called on Abra, and as they struck
the bridge in turn the young stallion was fully extended, while Connor
swung forward in the saddle to throw more weight on the withers and take
the strain from the long back muscles. Leaning close to the neck of
Abra, with the mane whipping his face, he squinted down the road at
Joseph, and growled with savage satisfaction as he saw the mare drift
back to him. If he could reach her with a sprint she was beaten, for she
bore the extra burden. Once more he called on Abra, and heard a slight
grunt as the stallion gave the last burst of his strength; the hoofs of
the two roared on the hard road, and Joseph came back hand over hand.
Connor, laughing exultantly, squinted into the wind.
"Good boy!" he muttered. "Good old Abra! If he had Salvator under him
we'd get him at this rate. We're on his hip--Now!"
He was indeed in touch with the flying mare, and, looking through the
dimness, he marveled at her long, free swing, the level drive of the
croup, and--he saw with astonishment--her pricking ears! Not as if she
were racing, but merely galloping. He flattened himself along the neck
of Abra and called on him again, slapped his shoulder with the flat of
his hand, flicked him along the flank with the butt of the rope; but the
mare held him invincibly; he could not gain the breadth of a hair, and
by the pounding of Abra's forefeet he knew that the stallion was running
himself out. At that moment, to crown his bewilderment, Joseph turned,
laughing again in that soundless way. Only for a moment; then he turned,
and, leaning over the withers of his mount, the mare lengthened, it
seemed to Connor, and moved away.
Her hips went past him, then her tail, flying out straight behind, a
streak of silver; and last of all, there was the hiss of derision from
Joseph whistling back to him.
Connor threw himself back into the saddle and brought the stallion down
to a moderate pace. One hand was clutched at his throat, for it seemed
to him that his heart was beating there. Before him raced a vision of
Ben Connor, king of the racetracks of the world, with horses no
handicapper could measure.
_CHAPTER ELEVEN_
A Second thought made him lean a little, listening closely, and then he
discovered that after this terrific trial Abra was breathing deep and
free. Connor sat straight again and smiled. They must be close to the
lake he had seen from the mountain, for among the trees to his left was
a faint gleam of water. A moment later this glimmer went out, and the
hoofbeats of Abra were muffled on turf. They had left the road and
headed for a scattering of lights. Joseph had drawn the mare back to a
hand-gallop, and Abra followed the example; at this rocking gait they
swept through the grove between two long, low buildings, always
climbing, and came suddenly upon a larger house. On three sides Connor
looked down upon water; the building was behind him. Not a light showed
in it, but he made out the low, single story, the sense of weight, and
crude arches of the Mission style. Through an opening in the center of
the facade he looked into darkness which he knew must be the patio.
Following the example of Joseph, he dismounted, and while the big man,
with his waddling, difficult walk, disappeared into the court, Connor
stepped back and looked over Abra. Starlight was enough to see him by,
for he glimmered with running sweat even in the semidarkness, but it was
plain from his high head and inquisitive muzzle that he was neither
winded nor down-hearted. He followed Connor like a dog when the gambler
went in turn to the mare. She turned about nervously to watch the
newcomer. Not until Abra had touched noses with her and perhaps spoken
to her the dumb horse-talk would she allow Connor to come close, and
even then he could not see her as clearly as the stallion. By running
his finger-tips over her he discovered the reason--only on the flanks
and across the breast was she wet with perspiration, and barely moist on
the thighs and belly. The race had winded her no more than a six-furlong
canter.
He was still marveling at this discovery when Joseph appeared under the
arch carrying a lantern and beckoned him in, leading the way to a large
patio, surrounded by a continuous arcade. In the center a fountain was
alternately silver and shadow in the swinging lantern light. The floor
of the patio was close-shaven turf.
Joseph hung the lantern on the inside of one of the arches and turned to
Connor, apparently to invite him to take one of the chairs under the
arcade. Instead, he raised his hand to impose silence. Connor heard,
from some distance, a harsh sound of breathing of inconceivable
strength. For though it was plainly not close to them, he could mark
each intake and expulsion of breath. And the noise created for him the
picture of a monster.
"Let us go to the master," said Joseph, and turned straight across the
patio in the direction of that sonorous breathing.
Connor followed, by no means at ease. From the withered old men to huge
Joseph had been a long step. How far would be the reach between Joseph
himself and the omnipotent master?
He passed in the track of Joseph toward the rear of the patio. Presently
the big man halted, removed his hat, and faced a door beneath the
arcade. It was only a momentary interruption. He went on again at once,
replacing his hat, but the thrill of apprehension was still tingling in
the blood of the gambler. Now they went under the arcade, through an
open door, and issued in the rear of the house, Connor's imaginary
"monster" dissolved.
For they stood in front of a blacksmith shop, the side toward them being
entirely open so that Connor could see the whole of the interior. Two
sooty lanterns hung from the rafters, the light tangling among wreaths
of smoke above and showing below a man whose back was turned toward them
as he worked a great snoring bellows with one hand.
That bellows was the source of the mysterious breathing. Connor
chuckled; all mysteries dissolved as this had done the moment one
confronted them. He left off chuckling to admire the ease with which the
blacksmith handled the bellows. A massive angle of iron was buried in
the forge, the white flames spurting around it as the bellows blew,
casting the smith into high relief at every pulse of the fire. Sometimes
it ran on the great muscles of the arm that kept the bellows in play;
sometimes it ran a dazzling outline around his entire body, showing the
leather apron and the black hair which flooded down about his shoulders.
"Who--" began Connor.
"Hush," cautioned Joseph in a whisper. "David speaks when he
chooses--not sooner."
Here the smith laid hold on the iron with long pincers, and, raising it
from the coals, at once the shop burst with white light as David placed
the iron on the anvil and caught up a short-handled sledge. He whirled
it and brought it down with a clangor. The sparks spurted into the
night, dropping to the ground and turning red at the very feet of
Connor. Slowly David turned the iron, the steady shower of blows bending
it, changing it, molding it under the eye of the gambler. This was that
clangor which had floated through the clear mountain air to him when he
first gazed down on the valley; this was the bell-like murmur which had
washed down to him through the gates of the valley.
At least it was easy to understand why the servants feared him. A full
fourteen pounds was in the head of that sledge, Connor guessed, yet
David whirled it with a light and deft precision. Only the shuddering of
the anvil told the weight of those blows. Meantime, with every leap of
the spark-showers the gambler studied the face of the master. They were
features of strength rather than beauty from the frowning forehead to
the craggy jaw. A sort of fierce happiness lived in that face now, the
thought of the craftsman and the joy of the laborer in his strength.
As the white heat passed from the iron and it no longer flowed into a
shape so readily under the hammer of the smith, a change came in him.
Connor knew nothing of ironcraft, but he guessed shrewdly that another
man would have softened the metal with fire again at this point.
Instead, David chose to soften it with strength. The steady patter of
blows increased to a thundering rain as the iron turned a dark and
darker red.
The rhythm of the worker grew swifter, did not break, and Connor watched
with a keen eye of appreciation. Just as a great thoroughbred makes its
supreme effort in the stretch by a lengthening and slight quickening of
stride, but never a dropping into the choppy pace of unskilled labor at
speed, so the man at the anvil was now rocking steadily back and forth
from heel to toe, the knees unflexing a little as he struck and
stiffening as he swung up the hammer. The greater effort was told only
by the greater ring of the hammer face on the hardening iron--by that
and by the shudder of the arm of the smith as the fourteen pounds went
clanging home to the stroke.
And now the iron was quite dark--the smith stood with the ponderous
sledge poised above his head and turned the bar swiftly, with study, to
see that the angle was exactly what he wished. The hammer did not
descend again on the iron; the smith was content, and plunging the big
angle iron into the tempering tub, his burly shoulders were obscured for
a moment by a rising cloud of steam.
He stepped out of this and came directly to them. Now the lantern was
behind him, he was silhouetted in black, a mighty figure. He was panting
from his labor, and the heavy sound of his breathing disturbed the
gambler. He had expected to find a wise and simple old man in David.
Instead, he was face to face with a Hercules.
His attention was directed entirely to Joseph.
"I come from my work unclean," he said. "Joseph, take the stranger
within and wait."
Joseph led back into the patio to a plain wooden table beside which
Connor, at the gesture of invitation, sat down. Here Joseph left him
hurriedly, and the gambler looked about. The arcade was lightened by a
flagging of crystalline white stone, and the ceiling was inlaid with the
same material. But the arches and the wall of the building were of
common dobe, massive, but roughly built.
Beyond the fountain nodded like a ghost in the patio, and now and then,
when the lantern was swayed by the wind, the pool glinted and was black
again. The silence was beginning to make him feel more than ever like an
unwelcome guest when another old Negro came, and Connor noted with
growing wonder the third of these ancients. Each of them must have been
in youth a fine specimen of manhood. Even in white-headed age they
retained some of that noble countenance which remains to those who have
once been strong. This fellow bore a tray upon his arm, and in the free
hand carried a large yellow cloth of a coarse weave.
He placed on the table a wooden trencher with a great loaf of white
bread, a cone of clear honey, and an earthen pitcher of milk. Next he
put a wooden bowl on a chair beside Connor, and when the latter
obediently extended his hands, the old man poured warm water over them
and dried them with a napkin.
There was a ceremony about this that fitted perfectly with the
surroundings, and Connor became thoughtful. He was to tempt the master
with the wealth of the world, but what could he give the man to replace
his Homeric comfort?
In the midst of these reflections soft steps approached him, and he saw
the brown-faced David coming in a shapeless blouse and trousers of rough
cloth, with moccasins on his feet. Rising to meet his host, he was
surprised to find that David had no advantage in height and a small one
in breadth of shoulder; in the blacksmith shop he had seemed a giant.
The brown man stopped beside the table. He seemed to be around thirty,
but because of the unwrinkled forehead Connor decided that he was
probably five years older.
"I am David," he said, without offering his hand.
"I," said the gambler, "am Benjamin."
There was a flash that might have been either pleasure or suspicion in
the face of David.
"Joseph has told me what has passed between you," he said.
"I hope he's broken no law by letting me come in."
"My will is the law; in disregarding me he has broken a law."
He made a sign above his shoulder that brought Joseph hurrying out of
the gloom, his keen little eyes fastened upon the face of the master
with intolerable anxiety. There was another sign from David, and Joseph,
without a glance at Connor, snatched the ivory head out of his pocket,
thrust it upon the table, and stood back, watching the brown man with
fascination.
"You see," went on David, "that he returns to you the price which you
paid him. Therefore you have no longer a right to remain in the Garden
of Eden."
Connor flushed. "If this were a price," he answered, clinging as closely
as he could to language as simple and direct as that of David, "it could
be returned to me. But it is not a price. It is a gift, and gifts cannot
be returned."
He held out the ape-head, and when Joseph could see nothing save the
face of David, he pushed the trinket back toward the huge man.
"Then," said the brown man, "the fault which was small before is now
grown large."
He looked calmly upon Joseph, and the giant quailed. By the table hung a
gong on which the master tapped; one of the ancient servants appeared
instantly.
"Go to my room," said David, "and bring me the largest nugget from the
chest."
The old man disappeared, and while they waited for his return the little
bright eyes of Joseph went to and fro on the face of the master; but
David was staring into the darkness of the patio. The servant brought a
nugget of gold, as large as the doubled fist of a child, and the master
rolled it across the table to Connor.
A tenseness about his mouth told the gambler that much was staked on
this acceptance. He turned the nugget in his hand, noting the
discoloration of the ore from which it had been taken.
"It is a fine specimen," he said.
"You will see," said David, "both its size and weight."
And Connor knew; it was an exchange for the ivory head. He laid the
nugget carelessly back upon the table, thankful that the gift had been
offered with such suspicious bluntness.
"It is a fine specimen," he repeated, "but I am not collecting."
There was a heavy cloud on the face of David as he took up the nugget
and passed it into the hand of the waiting servant; but his glance was
for Joseph, not Connor.
Joseph burst into speech for the first time, and the words tumbled out.
"I do not want it. I shall not keep it. See, David; I give it up to
him!" He made a gesture with both hands as though he would push away the
ape-head forever.
The master looked earnestly at Connor.
"You hear?"
The latter shrugged his shoulders, saying: "I've never taken back a
gift, and I can't begin now."
Connor's heart was beating rapidly, from the excitement of the strange
interview and the sense of his narrow escape from banishment. Because he
had made the gift to Joseph he had an inalienable right, it seemed, to
expect some return from Joseph's master--even permission to stay in the
valley, if he insisted.
There was another of those uncomfortable pauses, with the master looking
sternly into the night.
"Zacharias," he said.
The servant stepped beside him.
"Bring the whip--and the cup."
The eyes of Zacharias rolled once toward Joseph and then he was gone,
running; he returned almost instantly with a seven foot blacksnake,
oiled until it glistened. He put it in the hand of David, but only when
Joseph stepped back, shuddering, and then turned and kneeled before
David, the significance of that whip came home to Connor, sickening him.
The whites of Joseph's eyes rolled at him and Connor stepped between
Joseph and the whip.
"Do you mean this?" he gasped. "Do you mean to say that you are going to
flog that poor fellow because he took a gift from me?"
"From you it was a gift," answered the master, perfectly calm, "but to
him it was a price. And to me it is a great trouble."
"God!" murmured Connor.
"Do you call on him?" asked the brown man severely. "He is only here in
so far as I am the agent of his justice. Yet I trust it is not more His
will than it is the will of David. Also, the heart of Joseph is stubborn
and must be humbled. Tears are the sign of contrition, and the whip
shall not cease to fall until Joseph weeps."
His glance pushed Connor back; the gambler saw the lash whirled, and he
turned his back sharply before it fell. Even so, the impact of the lash
on flesh cut into Connor, for he had only to take back the gift to end
the flogging. He set his teeth. Could he give up his only hold on David
and the Eden Grays? By the whizzing of the lash he knew that it was laid
on with the full strength of that muscular arm. Now a horrible murmur
from the throat of Joseph forced him to turn against his will.
The face of David was filled, not with anger, but with cruel disdain;
under his flying lash the welts leaped up on the back of Joseph, but he,
with his eyes shut and his head strained far back, endured. Only through
his teeth, each time he drew breath, came that stifled moan, and he
shuddered at each impact of the whip. Now his eyes opened, and through
the mist of pain a brutal hatred glimmered at Connor. That flare of rage
seemed to sap the last of his strength, for now his face convulsed,
tears flooded down, and his head dropped. Instantly the hand of David
paused.
Something had snapped in Connor at the same time that the head of Joseph
fell, and while he wiped the wet from his face he only vaguely saw
Joseph hurry down the corridor, with Zacharias carrying the whip behind.
But the master? There was neither cruelty nor anger in his face as he
turned to the table and filled with milk the wooden cup which Zacharias
had brought.
"This is my prayer," he said quietly, "that in the justice of David
there may never be the poison of David's wrath." 79
He drained the cup, broke a morsel of bread from the loaf and ate it.
Next he filled the second cup and handed it to the gambler.
"Drink."
Automatically Connor obeyed.
"Eat."
In turn he tasted the bread.
"And now," said the master, in the deep, calm voice, "you have drunk
with David in his house, and he has broken bread with you. Hereafter may
there be peace and good will between us. You have given a free gift to
one of my people, and he who gives clothes to David's people keeps David
from the shame of nakedness; and he who puts bread in the mouths of
David's servants feeds David himself. Stay with me, therefore, Benjamin,
until you find in the Garden the thing you desire, then take it and go
your way. But until that time, what is David's is Benjamin's; your will
be my will, and my way be your way."
He paused.
"And now, Benjamin, you are weary?"
"Very tired."
"Follow me."
It seemed well to Connor to remove himself from the eye of the master as
soon as possible. Not that the host showed signs of anger, but just as
one looks at a clear sky and forebodes hard weather because of misty
horizons, so the gambler guessed the frown behind David's eyes. He was
glad to turn into the door which was opened for him. But even though he
guessed the danger, Connor could not refrain from tempting Providence
with a speech of double meaning.
"You are very kind," he said. "Good night, David."
"May God keep you until the morning, Benjamin."
_CHAPTER TWELVE_
From the house of David, Joseph skulked down the terraces until he came
to the two long buildings and entered the smaller of these. He crossed a
patio, smaller than the court of David's house; but there, too, was the
fountain in the center and the cool flooring of turf. Across this, and
running under the dimly lighted arcade, Joseph reached a door which he
tore open, slammed behind him again, and with his great head fallen upon
his chest, stared at a little withered Negro who sat on a stool opposite
the door. It was rather a low bench of wood than a stool; for it stood
not more than six inches above the level of the floor. His shoes off,
and his bare feet tucked under his legs, he sat tailorwise and peered up
at the giant. The sudden opening of the door had set his loose blouse
fluttering about the old man's skeleton body. The sleeves fell back from
bony forearms with puckered skin. He was less a man than a receptacle of
time. His temples sank in like the temples of a very old horse; his
toothless mouth was crushed together by the pressure of the long bony
jaw, below which the skin hung in a flap. But the fire still glimmered
in the hollows of his eyes. A cheerful spirit lived in the grasshopper
body. He was knitting with a pair of slender needles, never looking at
his work, nor during the interview with Joseph did he once slacken his
pace. The needles clicked with such swift precision that the work grew
perceptibly, flowing slowly under his hands.
Meanwhile this death's head looked at the giant so steadily that Joseph
seemed to regret his unceremonious entrance. He stood back against the
door, fumbling its knob for a moment, but then his rage mastered him
once more, and he burst into the tale of Connor's coming and the ivory
head. He brought his story to an end by depositing the trinket before
the ancient man and then stood back, his face still working, and waited
with every show of confident curiosity.
As for the antique, his knitting needles continued to fly, but to view
the little carving more closely he craned his skinny neck. At that
moment, with his fallen features, his fleshless nose, he was a grinning
mummy head. He remained gloating over the little image so long that
Joseph stirred uneasily; but finally the grotesque lifted his head. It
at once fell far back, the neck muscles apparently unable to support its
weight. He looked more at the ceiling than at Joseph. His speech was a
writhing of the lips and the voice a hollow murmur.
"This," he said, "is the face of a great suhman. It is the face of the
great suhman, Haneemar. It was many years ago that I knew him. It was a
time so long ago that I do not know how to tell you. It was before your
birth and the birth of your father. It was when I lived in a green
country where the air is thick and sweet and the sun burns. There I knew
Haneemar. He is a strong suhman. You see, his eyes are green; that is
because he has the strength of the great snake that ties its tail around
a branch and hangs down with its head as high as the breast of a man.
Those snakes kill an antelope and eat it at a mouthful. Their eyes are
green and so are the eyes of Haneemar. And you see that Haneemar has
golden teeth. That is because he has eaten wisdom. He knows the meat of
all things like a nut he can crack between his teeth. He is as strong as
the snake which eats monkeys, and he is as wise as the monkeys that run
from the snake and throw sticks from the tops of the trees. That is
Haneemar.
"There is no luck for the man who carries the face of Haneemar with him.
That is why David used the whip. He knew Haneemar. Also, in the other
days I remember that when a child was sick in the village they tied a
goat in the forest and Haneemar came and ate the goat. If he ate the
goat like a lion and left tooth marks on the bones then the child got
well and lived. If he ate the goat like a panther and left the guts the
child died. But if the goat was not eaten for one day then Haneemar came
and ate the child instead. I remember this. There will be no luck for
you while you carry Haneemar."
The big man had heard this speech with eyes that grew rounder and
rounder. Now he caught up the little image and raised his arm to throw
it through the window. But the old man hissed, and Joseph turned with a
shudder.
"You cannot throw Haneemar away," said the other. "Only when some one
takes him freely will you be rid of him."
"It is true," answered Joseph. "I remember the visitor would not take
him back."
"Then," said the old sage, "if the stranger will not take him back, bad
luck has come into the Garden, for only the stranger would carry
Haneemar out again. But do not give Haneemar to one of our friends, for
then he will stay with us all. If you dig a deep hole and bury him in
it, Haneemar may not be able to get out."
Joseph was beginning to swell with wrath.
"The stranger has put a curse on me," he said. "Abraham, what shall I do
to him? Teach me a curse to put on him!"
"Hush!" answered Abraham. "Those who pray to evil spirits are the slaves
of the powers they pray to."
"Then I shall take this Benjamin in my hands!"
He made a gesture as though he were snapping a stick of dry wood.
"You are the greater fool. Is not this Benjamin, this stranger, a guest
of the master?"
"I shall steal him away by night in such a manner that he shall not make
even the noise of a mouse when the cat breaks its back. I shall steal
him away and David will never know."
The loose eyelids of the old man puckered and his glance became a ray of
light.
"The curse already works; Haneemar already is in your mind, Joseph.
David will not know? Child, there is nothing that he does not know. He
uses us. We are his tools. My mind is to him as my hand is to me. He
comes inside my eyes; he knows what I think. And if old Abraham is
nothing before David, what is Joseph? Hush! Let not a whisper go out! Do
not even dare to think it. You have felt the whip of David, but you have
not felt his hand when he is in anger. A wounded mountain lion is not so
terrible as the rage of David; he would be to you as an ax at the root
of a sapling. These things have happened before. I remember. Did not
Boram once anger John? And was not Boram as great as Joseph? And did not
John take Boram in his hands and conquer him and break him? Yes, and
David is a greater body and a stronger hand than John. Also, his anger
is as free as the running of an untaught colt. Remember, my son!"
Joseph stretched out his enormous arms and his voice was a broken wail.
"Oh, Abraham, Abraham, what shall I do?"
"Wait," said the old man quietly. "For waiting makes the spirit strong.
Look at Abraham! His body has been dead these twenty years, but still
his spirit lives."
"But the curse of Haneemar, Abraham?"
"Haneemar is patient. Let Joseph be patient also."
_CHAPTER THIRTEEN_
Connor wakened in the gray hour of the morning, but beyond the window
the world was much brighter than his room. The pale terraces went down
to scattered trees, and beyond the trees was the water of the lake.
Farther still the mountains rolled up into a brighter morning. A horse
neighed out of the dawn; the sound came ringing to Connor, and he was
suddenly eager to be outside.
In the patio the fountain was still playing. As for the house, he found
it far less imposing than it had been when lantern light picked out
details here and there. The walls and the clumsy arches were the
disagreeable color of dried mud and all under the arcade was dismal
shadow. But the lawn was already a faintly shining green, and the
fountain went up above the ground shadow in a column of light. He passed
on. The outside wall had that squat, crumbling appearance which every
one knows who has been in Mexico--and through an avenue of trees he saw
the two buildings between which he had ridden the night before. From the
longer a man was leading one of the gray horses. This, then, was the
stable; the building opposite it was a duplicate on a smaller scale of
the house of David, and must be the servants' quarters.
Connor went on toward a hilltop which alone topped the site of the
master's house; the crest was naked of trees, and over the tops of the
surrounding ones Connor found that he commanded a complete view of the
valley. The day before, looking from the far-off mountaintop, it had
seemed to be a straight line very nearly, from the north to the south;
now he saw that from the center both ends swung westward. The valley
might be twelve miles long, and two or three wide, fenced by an unbroken
wall of cliffs. Over the northern barrier poured a white line of water,
which ran on through the valley in a river that widened above David's
house into a spacious lake three or four miles long. The river began
again from the end of the lake and continued straight to the base of the
southern cliffs. Roads followed the swing of the river closely on each
side, and the stream was bridged at each end of the lake. His angle of
vision was so small that both extremities of the valley seemed a solid
forest, but in the central portion he made out broad meadow lands and
plowed fields checkering the groves. The house, as he had guessed the
evening before, stood into the lake on a slender peninsula. And due west
a narrow slit of light told of the gate into the Garden. It gave him a
curiously confused emotion, as of a prisoner and spy in one.
He had walked back almost to the edge of the clearing when David, from
the other side went up to the crest of the hill. Connor was already
among the trees and he watched unobserved. The master of the Garden, at
the top of the hill, paused and turned toward Connor. The gambler
flushed; he was about to step out and hail his host when a second
thought assured him that he could not have been noticed behind that
screen of shrubbery and trunks; moreover the glance of David Eden passed
high above him. It might have been the cry of a hawk that made him turn
so sharply; but through several minutes he remained without moving
either hand or head, and as though he were waiting. Even in the distance
Connor marked the smile of happy expectation. If it had been another
place and another man Connor would have thought it a lover waiting for
his mistress.
But, above all, he was glad of the opportunity to see David and remain
unseen. He realized that the evening before it had been difficult to
look directly into David's face. He had carried away little more than
impressions; of strength, dignity, a surface calm and strong passions
under it; but now he was able to see the face. It was full of
contradiction; a profile irregular and deeply cut, but the full face had
a touch of nobility that made it almost handsome.
As he watched, Connor thought he detected a growing excitement in
David--his head was raised, his smile had deepened. Perhaps he came here
to rejoice in his possessions; but a moment later Connor realized that
this could not be the case, for the gaze of the other must be fixed as
high as the mountain peaks.
At that instant came the revelation; there was a stiffening of the whole
body of David; his breast filled and he swayed forward and raised almost
on tiptoe. Connor, by sympathy, grew tense--and then the miracle
happened. Over the face of David fell a sudden radiance. His hair, dull
black the moment before, now glistened with light, and the swarthy skin
became a shining bronze; his lips parted as though he drank in strength
and happiness out of that miraculous light.
The hard-headed Connor was staggered. Back on his mind rushed a score of
details, the background of this picture. He remembered the almost
superhuman strength of Joseph; he saw again the old servants withering
with many years, but still bright-eyed, straight and agile. Perhaps
they, too, knew how to stand here and drink in a mysterious light which
filled their outworn bodies with youth of the spirit, at least. And
David? Was not this the reason that he scorned the world? Here was his
treasure past reckoning, this fountain of youth. Here was the
explanation, too, of that intolerable brightness of his eye.
The gambler bowed his head.
When he looked up again his soul had traveled higher and lower in one
instant than it had ever moved before; he was staring like a child.
Above all, he wanted to see the face of David again, to examine that
mysterious change, but the master was already walking down the hill and
had almost reached the circle of the trees on the opposite side of the
slope. But now Connor noted a difference everywhere surrounding him. The
air was warmer; the wind seemed to have changed its fiber; and then he
saw that the treetops opposite him were shaking and glistening in a
glory of light. Connor went limp and leaned against a tree, laughing
weakly, silently.
"Hell," he said at length, recovering himself. "It was only the sunrise!
And me--I thought--"
He began to laugh again, aloud, and the sound was caught up by the
hillside and thrown back at him in a sharp echo. Connor went
thoughtfully back to the house. In the patio he found the table near the
fountain laid with a cloth, the wood scrubbed white, and on it the heavy
earthenware. David Eden came in with the calm, the same eye, difficult
to meet. Indeed, then and thereafter when he was with David, he found
himself continually looking away, and resorting to little maneuvers to
divert the glance of his host.
"Good morrow," said David.
"I have kept you waiting?" asked Connor.
The master paused to make sure that he had understood the speech, then
replied:
"If I had been hungry I should have eaten."
There was no rebuff in that quiet statement, but it opened another door
to Connor's understanding.
"Take this chair," said David, moving it from the end of the table to
the side. "Sitting here you can look through the gate of the patio and
down to the lake. It is not pleasant to have four walls about one; but
that is a thing which Isaac cannot understand."
The gambler nodded, and to show that he could be as unceremonious as his
host, sat down without further words. He immediately felt awkward, for
David remained standing. He broke a morsel from the loaf of bread, which
was yet the only food on the table, and turned to the East with a solemn
face.
"Out of His hands from whom I take this food," said the master--"into
His hands I give myself."
He sat down in turn, and Isaac came instantly with the breakfast. It was
an astonishing menu to one accustomed to toast and coffee for the
morning meal. On a great wooden platter which occupied half the surface
of the table, Isaac put down two chickens, roasted brown. A horn-handled
hunting knife, razor sharp, was the only implement at each place, and
fingers must serve as forks. To David that was a small impediment. Under
the deft edge of his knife the breast of one chicken divided rapidly; he
ate the white slices like bread. Indeed, the example was easy to follow;
the mountain air had given him a vigorous appetite, and when Connor next
looked up it was at the sound of glass tinkling. He saw Isaac holding
toward the master a bucket of water in which a bottle was immersed
almost to the cork; David tried the temperature of the water with his
fingers with a critical air, and then nodded to Isaac, who instantly
drew the cork. A moment later red wine was trickling into Connor's cup.
He viewed it with grateful astonishment, but David, poising his cup,
looked across at his guest with a puzzled air.
"In the old days," he said gravely, "when my masters drank they spoke to
one another in a kindly fashion. It is now five years since a man has
sat at my table, and I am moved to say this to you, Benjamin: it is
pleasant to speak to another not as a master who must be obeyed, but as
an equal who may be answered, and this is my wish, that if I have doubts
of Benjamin, and unfriendly thoughts, they may disappear with the wine
we drink."
"Thank you," said Connor, and a thrill went through him as he met the
eye of David. "That wish is my wish also--and long life to you, David."
There was a glint of pleasure in the face of David, and they drank
together.
"By Heaven," cried Connor, putting down the cup, "it is Medoc! It is
Chateau Lafite, upon my life!"
He tasted it again.
"And the vintage of '96! Is that true?"
David shook his head.
"I have never heard of Medoc or Chateau Lafite."
"At least," said Connor, raising his cup and breathing the delicate
bouquet, "this wine is Bordeaux you imported from France? The grapes
which made this never grew outside of the Gironde!"
But David smiled.
"In the north of the Garden," he said, "there are some low rolling
hills, Benjamin; and there the grapes grow from which we make this
wine."
Connor tasted the claret again. His respect for David had suddenly
mounted; the hermit seemed nearer to him.
"You grew these grapes in your valley?" he repeated softly.
"This very bottle we are drinking," said David, warming to the talk. "I
remember when the grapes of this vintage were picked; I was a boy,
then."
"I believe it," answered Connor solemnly, and he raised the cup with a
reverent hand, so that the sun filtered into the red and filled the
liquid with dancing points of light.
"It is a full twenty years old."
"It is twenty-five years old," said David calmly, "and this is the best
vintage in ten years." He sighed. "It is now in its perfect prime and
next year it will not be the same. You shall help me finish the stock,
Benjamin."
"You need not urge me," smiled Connor.
He shook his head again.
"But that is one wine I could have vowed I knew--Medoc. At least, I can
tell you the soil it grows in."
The brows of the host raised; he began to listen intently.
"It is a mixture of gravel, quartz and sand," continued Connor.
"True!" exclaimed David, and looked at his guest with new eyes.
"And two feet underneath there is a stone for subsoil which is a sort of
sand or fine gravel cemented together."
David struck his hands together, frankly delighted.
"This is marvelous," he said, "I would say you have seen the hills."
"I paid a price for what I know," said Connor rather gloomily. "But
north of Bordeaux in France there is a strip of land called the
Medoc--the finest wine soil in the world, and there I learned what
claret may be--there I tasted Chateau Lafite and Chateau Datour. They
are both grown in the commune of Pauillac."
"France?" echoed David, with the misty eyes of one who speaks of a lost
world. "Ah, you have traveled?"
"Wherever fine horses race," said Connor, and turned back to the
chicken.
"Think," said David suddenly, "for five years I have lived in silence.
There have been voices about me, but never mind; and now you here, and
already you have taken me at a step halfway around the world.
"Ah, Benjamin, it is possible for an emptiness to be in a manlike
hunger, you understand, and yet different--and nothing but a human voice
can fill the space."
"Have you no wish to leave your valley for a little while and see the
world?" said Connor, carelessly.
He watched gloomily, while an expression of strong distaste grew on the
face of David. He was still frowning when he answered:
"We will not speak of it again."
He jerked his head up and cleared away his frown with an effort.
"To speak with one man in the Garden--that is one thing," he
went on, "but to hear the voices of two jabbering and gibbering
together--grinning like mindless creatures--throwing their hands out to
help their words, as poor Joseph does--bah, it is like drinking new
wine; it makes one sick. It made me so five times."
"Five times?" said Connor. "You have traveled a good deal, then?"
"Too much," sighed David. "And each time I returned from Parkin Crossing
I have cared less for what lies outside the valley."
"Parkin Crossing?"
"I have been told that there are five hundred people in the city," said
David, pronouncing the number slowly. "But when I was there, I was never
able to count more than fifty, I believe."
Connor found it necessary to cough.
"And each time you have left the valley you have gone no farther than
Parkin Crossing?" he asked mildly, his spirits rising.
"And is not that far enough?" replied the master, frowning. "It is a
ride between dawn and dark."
"What is that in miles?"
"A hundred and thirty miles," said David, "or thereabout."
Connor closed his eyes twice and then: "You rode that distance between
dawn and dark?"
"Yes."
"Over these mountains most of the way?" he continued gently.
"About half the distance," answered David.
"And how long"--queried Connor hoarsely--"how long before your horse was
able to make the trip back after you had ridden a hundred and thirty
miles in twelve hours?"
"The next day," said David, "I always return."
"In the same time?"
"In the same time," said David.
To doubt that simple voice was impossible. But Connor knew horses, and
his credence was strained to the breaking point.
"I should like very much," he said, "to see a horse that had covered two
hundred and sixty miles within forty-eight hours."
"Thirty-six," corrected David.
Connor swallowed.
"Thirty-six," he murmured faintly.
"I shall send for him," said the master, and struck the little gong
which stood on one side of the table. Isaac came hurrying with that
light step which made Connor forget his age.
"Bring Glani," said David.
Isaac hurried across the patio, and David continued talking to his
guest.
"Glani is not friendly; but you can see him from a distance."
"And yet," said Connor, "the other horses in the Garden seem as friendly
as pet dogs. Is Glani naturally vicious?"
"His is of other blood," replied David. "He is the blood of the great
mare Rustir, and all in her line are meant for one man only. He is more
proud than all the rest."
He leaned back in his chair and his face, naturally stern, grew tender.
"Since he was foaled no hand has touched him except mine; no other has
ridden him, groomed him, fed him."
"I'll be glad to see him," said Connor quietly. "For I have never yet
found a horse which would not come to my hand."
As he spoke, he looked straight into the eyes of David, with an effort,
and at the same time took from the pocket of his coat a little bulbous
root which was always with him. A Viennese who came from a life half
spent in the Orient had given him a small box of those herbs as a
priceless present. For the secret was that when the root was rubbed over
the hands it left a faint odor on the skin, like freshly cut apples; and
to a horse that perfume was irresistible. They seemed to find in it a
picture of sweet clover, blossoming, and clean oats finely headed; yet
to the nostrils of a man the scent was barely perceptible. Under cover
of the table the gambler rubbed his hands swiftly with the little root
and dropped it back into his pocket. That was the secret of the power
over Abra which had astonished the two old men at the gate. A hundred
times, in stable and paddock, Connor had gone up to the most intractable
race horses and looked them over at close hand, at his leisure. The
master seemed in nowise disturbed by the last remark of Connor.
"That is true of old Abraham, also," he said. "There was never a colt
foaled in the valley which Abraham had not been able to call away from
its mother; he can read the souls of them all with a touch of his
withered hands. Yes, I have seen that twenty times. But with Glani it is
different. He is as proud as a man; he is fierce as a wolf; and Abraham
himself cannot touch the neck of my horse. Look!"
_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_
Under the arch of the entrance Connor saw a gray stallion, naked of
halter or rope, with his head raised. From the shadow he came shining
into the sunlight; the wind raised his mane and tail in ripples of
silver. Ben Connor rose slowly from his chair. Horses were religion to
him; he felt now that he had stepped into the inner shrine.
When he was able to speak he turned slowly toward David. "Sir," he said
hoarsely, "that is the greatest horse ever bred."
It was far more than a word of praise; it was a confession of faith
which surrounded the moment and the stallion with solemnity, and David
flushed like a proud boy.
"There he stands," he said. "Now make him come to your hand."
It recalled Connor to his senses, that challenge, and feeling that his
mind had been snatched away from him for a moment, almost that he had
been betrayed, he looked at David with a pale face.
"He is too far away," he said. "Bring him closer."
There was one of those pauses which often come before crises, and Connor
knew that by the outcome of this test he would be judged either a man
or a cheap boaster.
"I shall do this thing," said the master of the Garden of Eden. "If you
bring Glani to your hand I shall give him to you to ride while you stay
in the valley. Listen! No other man had so much as laid a hand on the
withers of Glani, but if you can make him come to you of his own free
will--"
"No," said Connor calmly. "I shall make him come because my will is
stronger than his."
"Impossible!" burst out David.
He controlled himself and looked at Connor with an almost wistful
defiance.
"I hold to this," he said. "If you can bring Glani to your hand, he is
yours while you stay in the Garden--for my part, I shall find another
mount."
Connor slipped his right hand into his pocket and crushed the little
root against the palm.
"Come hither, Glani," commanded the master. The stallion came up behind
David's chair, looking fearlessly at the stranger.
"Now," said David with scorn. "This is your time."
"I accept it," replied Connor.
He drew his hand from his pocket, and leaning over the table, he looked
straight into the eye of the stallion. But in reality, it was only to
bring that right hand closer; the wind was stirring behind him, and he
knew that it wafted the scent of the mysterious root straight to Glani.
"That is impossible," said David, following the glance of Connor with a
frown. "A horse has no reasoning brain. Silence cannot make him come to
you."
"However," said Connor carelessly, "I shall not speak."
The master set his teeth over unuttered words, and glancing up to
reassure himself, his face altered swiftly, and he whispered:
"Now, you four dead masters, bear witness to this marvel! Glani feels
the influence!"
For the head of Glani had raised as he scented the wind. Then he circled
the table and came straight toward Connor. Within a pace, the scent of
strange humanity must have drowned the perfume of the root; he sprang
away, catlike and snorted his suspicion.
David heaved a great sigh of relief.
"You fail!" he cried, and snatching up a bottle of wine, he poured out a
cup. "Brave Glani! I drink this in your honor!"
Every muscle in David's strong body was quivering, as though he were
throwing all the effort of his will on the side of the stallion.
"You think I have failed?" asked Connor softly.
"Admit it," said David.
His flush was gone and he was paler than Connor now; he seemed to desire
with all his might that the test should end; there was a fiber of
entreaty in his voice.
"Admit it, Benjamin, as I admit your strange power."
"I have hardly begun. Give me quiet."
David flung himself into his chair, his attention jerking from Glani to
Connor and back. It was at this critical moment that a faint breeze
puffed across the patio, carrying the imperceptible fragrance of the
root straight to Glani. Connor watched the stallion prick his ears, and
he blessed the quaint old Viennese with all his heart.
The first approach of Glani had been in the nature of a feint, but now
that he was sure, he went with all the directness of unspoiled courage
straight to the stranger. He lowered the beautiful head and thrust out
his nose until it touched the hand of Connor. The gambler saw David
shudder.
"You have conquered," he said, forcing out the words.
"Take Glani; to me he is now a small thing. He is yours while you stay
in the Garden. Afterward I shall give him to one of my servants."
Connor stood up, and though at his rising Glani started back, he came to
Connor again, following that elusive scent. To David it seemed the last
struggle of the horse before completely submitting to the rule of a new
master. He rose in turn, trembling with shame and anger, while Connor
stood still, for about this stranger drifted a perfume of broad green
fields with flowering tufts of grass, the heads well-seeded and sweet.
And when a hand touched his withers, the stallion merely turned his head
and nuzzled the shoulder of Connor inquisitively.
With his hand on the back of the horse, the gambler realized for the
first time Glani's full stature. He stood at least fifteen-three, though
his perfect proportions made him seem smaller at a distance. No doubt he
was a giant among the Eden Grays, Connor thought to himself. The gallop
on Abra the night before had been a great moment, but a ride on Glani
was a prospect that took his breath. He paused. Perhaps it was the
influence of a forgotten Puritan ancestor, casting a shade on every hope
of happiness. With his weight poised for the leap to the back of the
stallion, Connor looked at David. The master was in a silent agony, and
the hand of Connor fell away from the horse. He was afraid.
"I can't do it," he said frankly.
"Jump on his back," urged David bitterly. "He's no more to you than a
yearling to the hands of Abraham."
Connor realized now how far he had gone; he set about retracing the
wrong steps.
"It may appear that way, but I can't trust myself on his back. You
understand?"
He stepped back with a gesture that sent Glani bounding away.
"You see," went on Connor, "I never could really understand him."
The master seized with eagerness upon this gratifying suggestion.
"It is true," he said, "that you are a little afraid of Glani. That is
why none of the rest can handle him."
He stopped in the midst of his self-congratulation and directed at
Connor one of those glances which the gambler could never learn to meet.
"Also," said David, "you make me happy. If you had sat on his back I
should have felt your weight on my own shoulders and spirit."
He laid a hand on Connor's shoulder, but the gambler had won and lost
too often with an impenetrable face to quail now. He even managed to
smile.
"Hearken," said David. "My masters taught me many things, and everything
they taught me must be true, for they were only voices of a mind out of
another world. Yet, in spite of them," he went on kindly, "I begin to
feel a kinship with you, Benjamin. Come, we will walk and talk together
in the cool of the morning. Glani!"
The gray had wandered off to nibble at the turf; he whirled and came
like a thrown lance.
"Glani," said David, "is usually the only living thing that walks with
me in the morning; but now, my friend, we are three."
_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_
In the mid-afternoon of that day Connor rested in his room, and David
rested in the lake, floating with only his nose and lips out of water.
Toward the center of the lake even the surface held the chill of the
snows, but David floated in the warm shallows and looked up to the sky
through a film of water. The tiny ripples became immense air waves that
rushed from mountain to mountain, dashed the clouds up and down, and
then left the heavens placid and windless.
He grew weary of this placidity, and as he turned upon one side he heard
a prolonged hiss from the shore. David rolled with the speed of a water
moccasin and headed in with his arm flashing in a powerful stroke that
presently brought him to the edge of the beach. He rose in front of old
Abraham.
A painter should have seen them together--the time-dried body of the old
man and the exuberant youth of the master. He looked on the servant with
a stern kindness.
"What are you doing here without a covering for your head while the sun
is hot? Did they let you come of their own accord, Abraham?"
"I slipped away," chuckled Abraham. "Isaac was in the patio, but I went
by him like a hawk-shadow. Then I ran among the trees. Hat? Well, no
more have you a hat, David."
The master frowned, but his displeasure passed quickly and he led the
way to the lowest terrace. They sat on the soft thick grass, with their
feet in the hot sand of the beach, and as the wind stirred the tree
above them a mottling of shadow moved across them.
"You have come to speak privately with me," said David. "What is it?"
But Abraham embraced his skinny knees and smiled at the lake, his jaw
falling.
"It's not what it was," he said, and wagged his head. "It's a sad lake
compared to what it was."
David controlled his impatience.
"Tell me how it is changed."
"The color," said the old man. "Why, once, with a gallon of that blue
you could have painted the whole sky." He shaded his face to look up,
but so doing his glance ventured through the branches and close to the
white-hot circle of the sun. His head dropped and he leaned on one arm.
"Look at the green of the grass," suggested David. "It will rest your
eyes."
"Do you think my eyes are weak? No, I dropped my head to think how the
world has fallen off in the last fifty years. It was all different in
the days of John. But that was before you came to the valley."
"The sky was not the same?" queried the master.
"And men, also," said Abraham instantly. "Ho, yes! John was a man; you
will not see his like in these days."