Again the blades engaged, and a great fear suddenly tightened at the
boy's heart. His champion had been exhausted by his previous efforts,
and now his strength was going fast. Constans saw Touchett stagger and
Quinton Edge preparing for a final stroke; he turned and ran for the
upper end of the hall--the Rat's-Hole.
The key was still in his bosom, and in a few seconds he had passed the
postern, closing and locking it behind him. Five minutes' hard running
and he was free of the stockade and at the summit of a hill that
commanded the scene which he had just left. The conflagration was
progressing with astonishing rapidity; already the Great House itself
was in flames, and dark figures could be seen issuing from the water
gate. There! the red cock was crowing from the top of the bell-tower,
and now the whole court-yard was a furnace of fire. A spark carried by
the wind fell on his naked shoulder, where it bit like a fiery serpent.
Yet he scarcely felt the smart; he stood motionless, looking upon the
wreck of his little world, the only one that he had ever known.
"So in the end he made me a coward as well," said the boy, speaking
softly to himself. "Is it that a slave must be a slave--always?"
He drew a long breath. "No, not always. But in the mean time I am to go
on living and bearing everywhere his mark--Quinton Edge's mark. Well, I
will begin by learning how to wait."
He stood irresolute for a moment longer, gazing at the scene of the
night's tragedy as though to impress it indelibly upon his memory. Then
turning his back to the east, where the faint saffron of early dawn was
now showing, he started off on a long, swinging trot that speedily
carried him down the slope and into the deeper shadow of the wood
beyond.
VII
THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION
Two miles from the keep was a cave that Constans had discovered on one
of his hunting-trips, and which, boylike, he had proceeded to fit up
with some rude furniture for lodging and cooking, little dreaming that
he should ever stand in actual need of these necessities.
Thither he betook himself, impelled primarily by the mere instinct for
refuge and shelter. Fortunately, the larder had been replenished within
the past week, there was an abundance of dry fuel stacked up in the
interior of the cavern, and the woods were full of game. But during
those first two or three days it is doubtful if Constans would have
remarked either the presence or the absence of these creature comforts;
he ate when he was hungry and went to sleep when it grew dark. The rest
of the time he sat motionless, thinking, thinking--living for the most
part in that past that now seemed so infinitely far away.
Of course, the cavern had been the storehouse of his treasures. Here he
kept a spare hunting-bow and a full stock of arrows, together with his
fishing lines and nets and a miscellaneous assortment of traps and
tools. Here, too, was the secret depository of his cherished
spying-glasses and of another equally marvellous but unfortunately
valueless piece of mechanism--a revolver of large caliber. This latter
had belonged to his grandfather (for whom he had been named), and upon
his death Constans had claimed and taken possession of it. The weapon
was in perfect order, for its former owner had been careful to keep it
well cleaned and oiled; an absurd whim, of course, since without its
ammunition it was useless. The boy used to puzzle mightily over it,
setting the hammer and watching the cylinder as it revolved, then
pulling the trigger and listening to its fascinating click. But he never
got any nearer to the secret.
Even more precious than the pistol and binoculars were his books, an
oddly assorted library that included the child's pictorial history
already mentioned, Dryden's translation of the _Iliad_, an imperfect
copy of _The Three Musketeers_, and _The Descent of Man_. These, indeed,
made up the full list of books belonging to the keep, and Constans had
been permitted to appropriate them, nobody else caring to waste time
over their stained and worm-eaten pages.
With Constans, however, it had been different. In company with the other
children he had been set at the task of learning his letters, and at
first he, too, had rebelled at the uncongenial labor. What possible use
could these ugly, crooked characters ever be to him? And then, suddenly,
he found in them a magic key unlocking a door that opened upon an
undiscovered country--that of the mighty past.
Naturally he experienced some difficulty in viewing this new old world
in anything like its proper proportions, and it was the literal baldness
of the child's school-book that first gave him anything like a true
perspective. Here was both the written story and the visible picture of
the world as it once was, as it might be again. Studying these records
and achievements of the ancient civilization, Constans found himself
possessed of the knowledge of many things and consumed by the desire to
lay hold of many more.
But all this lay in the past--ages ago, when as yet no Doomsman had
landed at the Golden Cove, and the pine-tree banner still flew from the
fighting platform of the Greenwood Keep. Now nothing mattered to the boy
sitting dull-eyed and inert in the darkest corner of his miserable
refuge, while outside it was raining in torrents. But on the third day
it cleared, and the rays of the morning sun, striking level with the
mouth of the cave, fell full upon the lad's face, rousing him in a
double sense. He sprang to his feet and drew in a deep breath of the
morning air. How blue the sky! How golden the sun! As he sat eating his
frugal breakfast of oat-cake and honey he rapidly reviewed his present
condition and future prospects, coming at last to the decision that he
would go to Croye and see what his uncle Hugolin might be inclined to do
for him.
It was inspiriting, the mere fact that he had determined upon a course
of action, and Constans immediately began his preparations for
departure. It did not take long to put together his worldly wealth--the
four books, the binoculars, the pistol, and the chief of his other
possessions; now he had everything compactly stowed away in a shoulder
pack and was ready for the journey.
The town of Croye was situated on the Greater river (formerly the
Hudson) and some ten miles north of the ancient city of New York. It
boasted a population of quite fifteen hundred souls, and this, with its
importance as a trading centre, made it a notable municipality for these
latter days. Its appearance, however, does not call for any extended
description; assuredly, it was not imposing. A heterogeneous jumble of
low, half-timbered houses and mud-plastered hovels; dirty, unpaved
streets, a mean-looking market-place, where the shrill clamor of
huckstering never seemed to cease; some pretentious-looking public
buildings, with stuccoed fronts; outside of all, the inevitable earth
rampart, topped by a palisade and pierced by sally-ports at the cardinal
points--such was Croye, the principal city of this western hemisphere in
the year 2015, or ninety since the Great Change.
Constans frowned as he gazed upon this unlovely picture. Yet he
determined that he would find something of good in it, and as though
answering his thought, the sun reappeared at that very moment from
behind a passing cloud, its rays lighting up the red tiling used as
roofing in the houses of the better class--the one note of cheerful
color among these dingy browns and grays. It was an omen, and he
accepted it as such.
It was to one of these red-topped mansions that Constans finally found
his way, after experiencing several rebuffs from churlish citizens of
whom he had ventured to inquire for the whereabouts of his uncle. Now,
as he laid his hand upon the knocker, he was conscious that the feeling
of despondency had again fallen upon him; he recalled the old story of
Messer Hugolin's bitter opposition to the marriage of his sister Rayne
and Gavan of the keep, of how he had refused to attend the wedding and
had sent no gift. Since then there had been no real intimacy between the
families, although the breach had been outwardly healed and formal
civilities infrequently passed. A poor prospect, it would seem, for the
success of Constans's appeal. But blood is blood, and there was
literally no one else to whom he could turn in this his extremity. He
let the knocker fall.
Messer Hugolin, a stout man, with crafty lines creased in his broad
face, received his nephew with nominal cordiality and listened
attentively to his story. But he was not over-prompt with either advice
or offer of assistance, and Constans, with a sore heart, finally rose to
go.
"Don't be in a hurry," said his uncle, coolly. "Let me think this over
again. After all, we are of the same stock, although your father always
flouted me for a mean-spirited churl. Poor Gavan, we may forgive him
now."
After another period of cogitation and incidental homilies upon the
sinfulness of pride and free living, Messer Hugolin came to the point;
he offered to take Constans into his employ as an apprentice in the
tannery. Of course, Constans would have no wages until his indenture was
out, but he would, at least, be assured of lodging, food, and clothes,
the bare necessities of existence. Not an especially attractive
proposition, but Constans, after a short consideration, concluded to
accept it. He had a purpose in remaining here in Croye, almost within
sight of Doom the Forbidden; he had not forgotten that therein dwelt one
Quinton Edge.
And now a new life began for the boy, and a hard one. Lodged in a corner
of the garret, clad in the meanest garments, fed on the coarsest fare,
his lot was little better than that of the actual serf, and in some
respects inferior to it, for it was good policy to treat the slave with
some decency and so secure a full life's work from the human machine.
Constans, on the other hand, was bound for four years only, and it was
policy to drive him at full speed.
Messer Hugolin's business was of a general nature. He bought and sold
everything in the way of raw product and finished goods, but cloth and
leather formed the staple of his trade. The latter he manufactured
himself, and his tannery was the largest in Croye. It occupied extensive
yards along the river-front, and Constans entered upon the agreeable
occupation of unloading stinking hides from the barges which came down
from the upper river twice in the week, a routine varied only by long
hours of pounding at interminable lengths of white-oak bark, preparing
it for use in the tan-pits. Hard, dirty, malodorous work it was, but he
kept at it steadily, his purpose always in view.
Little by little his plans had been taking shape, and now at last he had
arrived at something definite. A secret, of course, and fortunately
opportunity had been given him in which to develop his idea. To explain
more particularly:
On ordinary days the working-hours were from dawn to dark, but Sunday
was his own, save for the hour immediately following sunrise and that
preceding sunset, when everybody was required to attend upon public
worship.
Every Sunday, then, Constans made his way through the town barriers
immediately upon their unclosing, and betook himself to a wooded
river-cove about a mile south of the town. For three months he had been
working on a canoe, shaping it with fire and adze from a poplar log, and
now, after infinite difficulty, the task approached completion. Could he
have had a confidant, a helper, the work might have been done in a third
of the time, for Constans was not much of a mechanic. But there was no
one among his fellow-workmen whom he dared trust, and so he toiled on
alone.
The canoe had been launched, and, to Constans's delight, she was but
slightly lopsided. A few stones brought her to trim, and she paddled
beautifully.
He had fixed upon the third Sunday in August for the great trial, for
the Monday following was a civic holiday, the anniversary of the
founding of the city. The double event would give him abundant time in
which to make a reconnoissance of his enemy's position and then return
to Croye to resume his position in Messer Hugolin's tanyard. For his
foothold there must not be endangered; if he returned at all, he would
find it more necessary than ever.
Permission to absent himself from Saturday night to Tuesday morning had
to be obtained from the city authorities. They objected at first, but
finally accorded their consent. With his uncle, the matter was quickly
settled. Messer Hugolin did not approve of holidays for apprentices, but
he dared not controvert the law, and Constans was already in possession
of the blue ticket which would enable him to pass the city barriers
after sunset on Saturday. So Messer Hugolin contented himself with
black looks and an acid jibe at the vanity of his civic associates, who
multiplied holidays that they might have opportunity to display
themselves in their gold chains and red robes of office.
"And harkee, boy!" he concluded, harshly. "Let me see you at roll-call
Tuesday morning or not at all. With flour at ten tokens the quarter,
there is no bread of idleness to be eaten in my house." And thereupon
they parted without further speaking.
It was a warm August evening when he finally pushed out from shore and
laid his course down-stream. He had not ventured upon the experiment of a
sail, but the tide was beginning to run out, and that, with the current,
should carry him to his destination without the dipping of an oar. But
he reflected that the moon would rise at nine o'clock, and as it was
barely past the full the light might betray him to watching eyes. He
could take no risks, and so must reach the city under cover of darkness.
Accordingly, he bent to his paddle, taking it easy at first, and then
lengthening out the stroke as he gained confidence in this hitherto
untried art.
VIII
IN THE SHADOW OF DOOM
An hour wore on, and Constans was approaching the suburbs of the ancient
municipality. But it did not suit his purpose to make a landing here.
His plan was to reach the lower end of the island upon which the city
was built, then to work his way northward on foot until he should
discover the innermost citadel of the Doomsmen. To get a fair idea of
his task, he proposed to ascend one of the immensely high buildings
which stood crowded together in the down-town district. From such a
vantage-point he could surely fix upon landmarks for his future guidance
in penetrating the labyrinth of streets. It would not be a pleasant
experience to lose one's way, and, perhaps, stumble by mistake on Master
Quinton Edge's front door.
Now, as Constans travelled onward, the ruined city began to grow upon
him in ever heavier and darker mass. Here and there a half-demolished
church-spire raised itself above the neighboring roof-line; plainly this
had been one of the old-time residential sections and of the better
class. Still farther down the stream and the water-front stood crowded
thickly with wharves and warehouses, the scene of the mighty commerce of
the past. The ships themselves were there, great monsters of iron and
steel, scaled and honeycombed with red rust. But the wharf-slips had
long since silted up, and the vessels, careening little by little with
the subsidence of the water, had finally broken away from the
restraining hawsers and lay on their beam-ends in the mud, a sorrowful
spectacle.
The moon was rising and it was time to go ashore. Accordingly, he
directed his course for a pier that extended somewhat farther than its
fellows into the stream. There was just water enough to float the canoe
within arm's-length of the girders--a fortunate circumstance, since
Constans had not liked the idea of trusting himself upon the
treacherous-looking mud-flat left uncovered by the ebbing tide. Securing
the boat under shadow of the structure, he took his hunting-knife and
basket of provisions and climbed easily to the floor of the pier, then
picking his way across its broken planking he reached solid ground. At
last he stood within Doom the Forbidden.
Now this street, which ran parallel with the river, was of unusual
width, and Constans crossed it quickly, seeking for cover in some
narrower and darker thoroughfare. A cross-street opened directly in
front of him. He plunged into it without hesitation, for the moonlight
was now in full flood and there might be sharp eyes about.
In the open spaces along the water-front grass grew thick and tall as in
a meadow, but in this narrow, crooked lane the wholesomer, sun-loving
plants found little encouragement to existence. In their stead,
pale-colored creepers mantled the house walls, and everywhere were moss
stains and the spore of the various fungoid growths. Constans's
footsteps fell hollowly upon the pavement slippery with weed and the
August damp, and as he walked along an unearthly radiance suddenly
illuminated his path; from every cornice and eaves-end hung balls of the
pale St. Elmo's fire; not a house but boasted its array of
corpse-candles that flickered with a greenish flame.
A terrifying sight, but harmless. Far more dangerous, could he have
known it, were the invisible but deadly gases from the century-old
corruption that rose to meet him and were unconsciously inhaled. Then,
as the fumes mounted to his brain, sober reason was ousted from her
throne and imagination rioted unchecked, peopling the void with horrors
and ineffectual phantoms. From the sashless windows grotesque faces
stared down upon him, scowling malignantly, while others, with still
more hideous smile, invited him to enter and become one of their
dreadful company. Insane laughter re-echoed in his ears, and the music
of lutes, irresistible in its languor-compelling potency. Already had
Constans stopped twice to listen, and upon each occasion he had been
obliged to exercise all his failing strength of body and mind to resume
his forward march. If he halted again it would be forever; of that he
felt perfectly assured, but neither the imminence nor the character of
the peril in which he stood seemed sufficient to arouse him from his
lethargy. Yet he kept on, walking with the shuffling stride of a
mechanical doll; now he wavered and hesitated, as though the propelling
spring had wellnigh run down. The night reek, hot and damp, hung like a
poisoned veil upon his mouth and lips; he could not breathe; he gasped
and threw up one arm as does a swimmer who looks his last upon a
pitiless sun and sky.
The wind had risen with the moon; it had been growing in strength, and
now a strong gust rattled among the chimney-pots. One fell with a crash,
and a tiny fragment of brick struck Constans on the check, cutting the
skin. The shock and the trickle of blood brought him to with a sharp
shock; he ran forward a few steps and found himself sinking. The roadway
immediately in front of him had doubtless been undermined by the action
of water; for the space of a dozen yards or more the pavement was but a
shell concealing an abyss.
Constans had already proceeded too far for retreat; he must go on or
founder where he stood. He flung himself forward, the oblong blocks of
granite, with which the street was paved, grinding together underneath
his feet as the mass yielded to the downward pressure. He was sucked in
to his knees, but instinctively he kept the upper part of his body
extended horizontally, his out-stretched hand seeking for some chance
holdfast. Then, as he was beginning to despair, he found it, a section
of small diameter lead piping that had been uncovered by the breaking
away of the surrounding earth. It bent under his clutch but did not give
way. With one last effort he pulled himself clear, gained the firm
ground beyond, and lay there trembling.
When afterwards he came to reason soberly over the adventure, the
conclusion seemed obvious that the pitfall had been a consequent upon
the breaking out of one of the ancient springs, so that the water, in
endeavoring to find an outlet, had finally undermined the whole
roadway. The chasm, as he looked back upon it, extended dear across the
street. Its depth was only conjectural, but the mass presented the
treacherous appearance of quaking sand, and Constans shuddered as he
gazed. Yet he had escaped; the peril was past; let him forget what was
behind and press forward.
Half a block farther on and he found himself in a cul-de-sac. The street
was filled from house-wall to house-wall with an immense mass of broken
stone, brick, and other debris. The cause was not far to seek.
Immediately upon the left rose one of the fabulously high buildings for
which the ancient city had been famous. It could not compare in
magnitude with the tremendous structures that he could discern still
farther ahead, but its dozen and a half of stories loomed up imposingly
when contrasted with the moderate sized houses adjoining it. Constans
looked up in wonder at its towering facade, then started back with an
exclamation of alarm.
It appeared that the foundations of the structure had in some way become
weakened, for the whole building had settled and was leaning over at a
terrifying divergence from the perpendicular. Being constructed of iron
truss-work similar to that of a bridge, the essential framework still
held together, but the outside walls, mere shells of stone and brick,
had cracked and given way under the strain, falling piece-meal into the
street below. Even as he looked, a stone dropped from a window pediment
and crashed into splinters on the pavement a few yards beyond where he
stood. The angle of inclination seemed to grow larger as he gazed at
it; the enormous mass poised itself above him, monstrous, informed,
threatening to strike.
With that uncomfortable contraction of the scalp-skin that attends upon
the sudden presence of peril, Constans backed hastily away; not for
worlds would he have ventured again under that overhang of artificial
cliff. Yet behind him was the stretch of sunken pavement; he could not
risk another passage of that. A single alternative remained--to enter
one of the small houses that lined the street, ascend to its roof, and
so escape to the nearest cross thoroughfare.
With a sigh of relief, Constans threw open the scuttle and climbed out
upon the leads. He had entered at random one of the mean-looking
edifices that hemmed him in at the right and left, and it was pleasant
to escape from the close atmosphere of its long-unused staircases and
corridors. Apparently the house had been occupied as a tenement in the
ancient time; the marks of its degradation had survived the universal
decay, and there was even a fetid suggestion in the air of old-time
squalor and disease. Glad he was to be free of it all, and he let the
scuttle fall to with a bang.
After surveying the different routes as best he could, Constans
determined to work his way to the southward. He took one forward step
and stood transfixed; from below then came a faint but unmistakable tap,
tap upon the closed scuttle. The bare suspicion that there could be some
living thing in that hideous interior, that it was appealing to him for
aid, made him physically sick. But better to meet any horror face to
face than to wrestle longer with the invisible presence of Fear; he
threw aside the hatch, and a big white owl flew out, its wing grazing
his face. He could have shouted aloud, so nakedly had his nerves been
laid bare in the last quarter of an hour; then setting his teeth hard he
took hold of himself and laughed at his own vaporing. The worst was over
now; he was sure of that, and so again took courage.
It was an easy matter to pass from one connecting roof to another, and
thereafter down a fire-escape to the side street. A few steps took him
round the corner and into a wide thoroughfare leading directly to the
more important business quarter.