"My crown is without leaves,
For she sits in the dust and grieves,
Now we are come to our kingdom."
"Anthony and Cleopatra," KIPLING.
Once more the procession of conspirators toiled on its way up the
irregular mountain path. The horses slipped and stumbled under their
unskilful riders, the mules climbed steadily upwards. No one spoke.
As usual Arithelli led the way.
Vardri, who had arrived last of all, rode forward to join her, but was
curtly ordered to the rear by Sobrenski.
They should see enough of each other later on,--when it was time.
Before they started on their ride he spoke to Arithelli alone, and gave
her his final instructions, and saw for himself that the pistol she
wore at her belt was properly charged. He never left anything to
chance, especially in important undertakings such as the present one.
"There will not be a long meeting to-night," he said. "You will have
an hour free to do your work. You hear?"
His eyes were fixed on hers, compelling an answer. None came, though
she bowed her head in token of acquiescence, and though he could hear
no word Sobrenski was satisfied. He had seen that shrinking attitude,
that mechanical gesture before. In the plot to assassinate General
Morales there had been a young Spanish student who had given some
trouble. He had developed a conscience at the last minute, and vowed
that he could not kill an old and defenceless man, that he would rather
die himself.
He had died, and so had Morales, and both by the explosion of the bomb
that had been launched by the hand of the former.
Sobrenski held rightly that those who meddled with politics on either
side must dispense with such useless things as scruples.
The night was still and sultry, with a full moon hanging low in the
sky. The weather had been unnaturally warm for the time of year, all
day, down in the city.
They were all glad when they had mounted above the sea-level.
There was a little breeze met them, and the tired and patiently
plodding horses raised their heads.
Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle,
and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.
The _manta_ in which she was wrapped stifled her, and the weight of her
own hair under the wig and sombrero made her head ache and throb
violently.
As they rode she rehearsed her plans in her own mind, telling herself
over and over again the things that she must say and do when she was
alone with Vardri.
To-night would see Sobrenski's triumph, his grand coup, and when it was
all over perhaps she would have peace.
How slowly they all seemed to ride, she thought. She wondered how many
of the other men knew that she was chosen to act the part of murderess.
Some of them had been kind to her in a rough way, especially the older
ones.
But even if they did pity her a little, not one among them but would
expect her to do the thing that they would consider obviously her duty.
No one would raise a voice on her behalf, whatever their private
sentiments.
The majority of them would probably look upon her as a heroine, for she
would have rid them of a spy, a traitor.
She could only hope that she might keep her brain clear, her courage
firm till the supreme moment.
Once in the course of that awful day her nerves had given out in
physical collapse, and her shaking hands had let fall the mirror of
Agnès Sorél.
It lay on the floor in her bedroom, broken in three places.
Her early days in Ireland had given her a belief in the omens of good
and evil, for in the "emerald gem of the Western world" superstition
runs riot.
The faith in it was in her blood, though it needed no broken mirror to
tell her what dread thing awaited her, towards which she must advance,
urged by fate.
She had only written one letter, and that one was to Emile. Now that
he was gone there was no one else who cared.
Something told her now that his last words had only been an attempt to
comfort her, to ease her mind, and that she would wait in vain for his
return.
Estelle would weep for a little while, and drink a great deal to drown
her tears, and then forget. They were nearly at the hut now. She
could see it, a grotesque shadow thrown across the silvered earth.
She slipped off and walked, leading her mule by the bridle.
Behind her were subdued curses, the rattle of slipping hoofs and
falling stones, as the animals climbed the last and steepest piece of
road, which ended in the plateau on which the building stood.
In front of it was a single large tree, but most of the ground close by
bore nothing higher than dwarf shrubs and long grass.
When the cavalcade drew up and dismounted, Vardri was discovered to be
missing.
He had been late in starting, lagged behind the others and dropped out
of sight before they were scarcely clear of the town. Being the last
of the file his disappearance had not at first been remarked.
Sobrenski refused to allow of time being wasted in a search.
He ordered the rest of the men up into the loft, and Arithelli to her
work of unharnessing.
He himself remained standing in the shadow of the doorway, his eyes
narrowed with anger, his thin lips compressed till they were merely a
line.
Here was a complication that he had not foreseen. For the first time
in his life his wit and cunning had been at fault.
He must have been mad not to have kept a sharper lookout on Vardri, but
he had reckoned he was secure with Arithelli as decoy.
Could it be possible that she had been mad enough to warn Vardri? If
so, then why was she here herself?
Either she had more courage or else she was more foolish even than he
could have believed it possible for a female creature to be. Women
took good care of their own skins in general!
If Vardri meant to try and escape, surely they would have gone together.
Perhaps his, Sobrenski's, detailed descriptions of the fate of others
who had attempted flight had made her decide that it would be safer to
remain and throw herself on the mercy of himself and his companions.
He might have miscalculated the force of her attraction for Vardri, but
he felt perfectly certain that she was reduced to a state of mechanical
imbecility. She could not escape now at all events, even if she
suddenly changed her mind.
He would give them both five minutes, and then if Vardri did not
appear--!
He began to walk up and down outside, like some prowling animal
awaiting its prey.
At regular intervals his shadow crossed and recrossed the patch of
light from the open door.
Meanwhile Vardri was riding leisurely up the slope, reining back his
horse, and stopping at intervals to put a fair distance between himself
and the others. He intended to make a chance of seeing Arithelli alone
again, so he meant to wait till the whole crew, and especially
Sobrenski, were safely embarked on their eternal discussions. Then he
would slip in and help her with the animals, and live in Paradise again
for a little space of time.
He had been to her rooms earlier in the day but she had sent down a
message to beg him to excuse her. She had a headache, and was lying
down, so he had been obliged to go away unsolaced, and longing for the
evening.
Now that she had given him her promise to go with him to Austria, there
was only to arrange the day and the hour of their departure. For once
he was alive to the necessity for prompt action. There was her safety
to be considered now. When he had been alone it had not mattered how
anything was done or not done, but now everything was different. The
world itself was another place. He had already actually written and
posted a tentative letter to his father, such a letter as he could
never have written if only his interests had been concerned, but he
found any sacrifice an easy one now, even the sacrifice of pride.
There was no reason why they should not start to-morrow. It would be
safer to get out of the place by going round by the Mediterranean and
thence across by way of Italy.
Water-travelling was cheaper, too. He laughed to himself to think how
practical he was becoming. How strange it would seem to live in a
civilised fashion again, to not be obliged to look at every sou before
it was spent, to have servants to wait upon one; enough to eat and
drink, and the luxury of cleanliness.
Yet the vagabond life had had its charm, too. He had encountered
kindness often, generally from those in more evil plight than his own,
and there had been flowers and music and sunshine. True, he had felt
horribly ill and dejected on some days, and his wretched cough was an
annoyance to himself and to other people, but at times he felt ready
for anything, and more energetic than any three of those lazy Spaniards.
Love and Arithelli would be a sure antidote for any misery or disease.
For her he had created a House of Dreams, and now the dreams were on
the verge of becoming realities. Instead of the sand and stones of
that desert that men call Life, a rainbow-coloured future lay stretched
out before him. Sunshine and the summertime of love, all that he had
ever hoped for, were coming nearer. And joy was hovering near at hand,
till he could almost touch her flying robe. Soon he would hold her in
his arms, would possess her entirely.
How different Arithelli was from all other women! With her there was
never caprice or fickleness. Whatever she said was his law, whatever
she wished to do was the right thing.
Now he had abjured the Revolution, his father would be only too glad to
have him back, to see him married to a woman of Arithelli's charm and
breeding. There had never been any quarrel with his family, except
when he had joined the Red Flag party, and it was only natural that
they should quarrel over that. Love or the Revolution? There would
never be any more doubt now as to which he would choose.
In the old days he had preferred starvation, and the freedom to act,
and think as he liked. He had gloried in being an outcast, in
suffering for the Cause. Life had been hard at times, but he had known
men of ideals and enthusiasms and there had been a certain fascination
in the excitement of being hunted. But now that was all over and a new
day was dawning for them both, for himself and for Arithelli.
He spoke to his horse and stirred it into a quicker pace.
They must be well out of the way and she would think he was never
coming.
Inside the stable Arithelli, tall and straight in her scarlet shirt,
moved to and fro at her work, hanging up saddles and bridles, carrying
pails of water, ranging on either side of the hut the horses and the
mules. Tortured as she was with anxiety, she did not forget the wants
of her friends the animals. It came across her mind how once when she
had said to Vardri, "Let us see to the horses first," he had said half
in jest, "If I were a Spaniard I should be jealous. You always think
of the animals before everything else."
One by one the rest of the conspirators tramped heavily up the ladder,
leaving her alone with Sobrenski, who stood with his back to the
doorway, following her with his eyes as she moved to and fro in the
shadows cast by the solitary lamps.
Before he mounted the ladder in his turn, he came across the hut, took
her by the shoulder and spoke to her. "Be careful how you do your
work, for if it is not well done others will do it for you."
She could not answer; she shuddered at his touch; her hands went up and
covered her face.
Sobrenski turned and mounted the worn rungs of the narrow ladder with a
lithe, active step. He was quite sure of her now. She would not fail
to carry out his will.