entrance. A harsh croak greeted him, and he recognized the crippled
sailor who called himself Kurt the Knacker. He glanced up to see that
worthy ensconced in a snug corner of the gateway and surrounded by his
accustomed cronies the warders on duty. Plainly, there had been more
than one replenishing of the black-jack that stood on the settle beside
him, for his face was flushed and the purple veins in his high, bald
forehead presented an inordinately swollen appearance.
"Hola! shipmet," said the Knacker, in a tone that was doubtless intended
to be affable. "It is to be a brave show to-day and you are come in good
time to see it. Seven thunders! but one always sees the black-jackets
flocking thick as flies in a pudding when the smell of the saucepan is
in the air. Your master yonder was of too proud a stomach to clink can
with us, but you will be more amiable. There's a fresh cask on the
trestles and not a token to pay."
Constans, following the direction in which a stubby forefinger pointed,
caught sight of the tall form of Prosper, the priest. He was moving
slowly along in the press and only a few yards away. Now Constans had no
desire for a meeting with his ecclesiastical superior; so, without
troubling himself to reply to the Knacker's hospitable invitation, he
tried to edge forward and again seek concealment in the crowd. But Kurt
reached out and caught his sleeve. "No skulking, reverend sir," he said,
maliciously. "Which shall it be, a swig from my black-jack or a full
toss of the horn? For drink you must, if you would enter here."
One of the guardsmen held out a full ox-horn of wine, and the Knacker
seized it and forced it into Constans's hand.
"After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipple
for women, boys, and priests. Down with it right cheerfully or take a
sousing in the butt itself--to drown there or drink it dry."
It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing the
ox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor's face, and Kurt,
the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathing
stertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of the
by-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up,
and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through the
crowd and so reach the open square. Stepping into one of the empty
guard-huts he quickly divested himself of cowl and cassock, and rolling
them up into a bundle he tossed them into a dark corner. His under suit
was made of the ordinary gray frieze worn generally among the Doomsmen,
and now neither Prosper nor the witnesses of the fracas at the gate
would be likely to identify him.
Constans gazed about him with lively interest. Yet so accurate had been
his previous bird's-eye observations that he found but little to add to
them. He noticed, however, that a banquette of earth, rammed hard, ran
around the inside periphery of the walls, affording vantage for the
defenders to discharge their arrows and other missiles over the parapet.
But, as Constans quickly saw, this same terrace would give useful
foothold to the besiegers should once the top of the wall be gained.
Instead of being obliged to draw up their scaling-ladders, or risk the
sixteen-foot drop to the hard surface of the enclosure, they had only to
jump onto the banquette and from thence to the ground. He would have
liked to investigate what engines of defence could be brought into
service by the garrison, but there was nothing to be seen beyond two
machines, sadly out of repair, which were intended for the casting of
heavy stones through the force of twisted ropes. So Constans turned his
attention again to the scene before him.
A gang of carpenters were putting the finishing-touches to an elevated
platform which stood near the entrance to the White Tower. A crimson
canopy warded off the sun's rays, and the structure was probably
intended for the accommodation of the more distinguished guests. A large
chair stood in the centre of the dais, and over it a gray wolf-skin had
been draped; certainly this must be the official seat of Dom Gillian
himself. But as yet it stood empty.
How hot the sun was! And yet this was only the day of the vernal
equinox; it was most extraordinary. Everywhere the gutters ran streaming
with water, the snow melting under the unexampled heat of the solar rays
like wax in a candle flame. The trees growing in the square were
leafless, and the tropic sun's rays blazed mercilessly through their
naked branches. Constans found himself panting for breath.
As the hours dragged on Constans felt a vague uneasiness pressing down
upon him, and he could see that the people also were growing restless
under the unaccountable delay. The laughter and talk little by little
died away; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, up
the long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under their
hollowed hands. Would they never come!
With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litter
issued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking that
great head with its mane of coarse, white hair--the old Dom Gillian.
With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting the
unwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The people
looked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance of
their lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard his
people; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon the
arms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood on
either hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed to
collapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.
Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed the
zenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-line
rested a cloud in bigness like to a man's hand and of the blackness of
night itself. Would they never come!
Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against the
snowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figure
of a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of the
slippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowd
pressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops falling
from his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform.
And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from the
saddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still slept
placidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.
XVIII
A PROPHET OF EVIL
Standing at Dom Gillian's side Quinton Edge bent down and whispered a
few words in his ear, inaudible even to those who stood nearest. And yet
the people knew that woe had fallen upon Doom. Like flame upon flax the
voiceless signal leaped from heart to heart; here and there in the crowd
appeared little centres of disturbance, the strong pushing the weak
forcibly aside that they might the quicker fill their own gasping lungs;
an inarticulate murmur rose and swelled, like to the stirring of forest
leaves under the breath of the rough north wind. Quinton Edge heard, and
turned to face the people.
"It is true," he said, and gripped hard upon the rail on which his hand
rested. "A child's trick it was, but the Southlanders are men of smooth
tongue and our brothers were encumbered with the cattle and perhaps
overconfident now that their faces were turned at last towards home.
Six-score brave men"--he stopped and swallowed at something in his
throat.
"The ambuscade was well-planned, and the Southlanders had enlisted the
aid of the Painted Men, to their shame be it said. So our brethren found
themselves hemmed in at every point. Yet they sold their lives at a
good price, and they are mourning to-day in the Southland, even as we
here. Not a Doomsman set out upon his long journey to the shadowland but
that a Southron was forced to bear him company. It was well done--a good
fight, the sword-point driven home, and then the dropping of the
curtain. Hail! a hail! to our brothers who have passed beyond."
A few wavering and uncertain voices took up the cry, but it quickly died
away before the uplifted hand of Prosper, the priest. He had pushed his
way through the crowd and was now standing in its outmost rank directly
opposite the platform.
"There were six-score who rode away," he said, addressing himself
directly to Quinton Edge. "Six-score, and how many have returned?"
An insolent question in the manner of its asking, but the Doomsman's
answer matched it well.
"Four that I counted, but there may be a straggler or two to come in
later. Does the Shining One no longer know where his own thunderbolts
have struck, that he sends his hired servants to gather up the gossip of
the market-place?"
"The All-Wise both sees and knows," retorted the priest. "It is the
people you deceive who have need to look and listen, if haply they may
understand. You have dared to take the name of the Shining One upon your
lips; stand forth now like a man, if you would face him in his wrath."
During the past few minutes it had grown suddenly dark; the sun had
disappeared and a curtain of opaque cloud was rapidly overcasting the
sky; a peculiar, yellowish light had replaced the radiance of day.
"And what does your god demand that his anger may be turned away?" asked
Quinton Edge. "Doubtless the daily offerings upon which his faithful
priests depend for their easy, unearned living. Sides of fat beeves and
measures of wheat, not forgetting a cask or two of apple-wine or corn
brandy."
But the priest, disdaining to answer the taunt, had turned and was
speaking directly to the people.
"Is it that you seek a deliverer and find none? But how shall the
Shining One keep faith with you who turn your feet away from his
sanctuary and bring no victims to his altars? Has he not called to you
daily, and have you not stopped your ears? And now that ye call in turn,
shall he indeed hear? Already is your woe come upon you, children of
Doom. Look and listen!"
A flash of lightning accompanied the priest's last words and the crash
of the thunder came almost simultaneously. The obscurity was momentarily
increasing, and the gigantic, nimbus cloud-band now reached far beyond
the zenith, its slate-blue edges contrasting vividly with the
green-and-saffron tints of the narrow strip of clear sky that still
remained visible. And in another moment that, too, had disappeared; such
was the darkness that a man could not see his neighbor's face, though
their elbows might be touching.
"To your holes and dens!" shouted the priest, now quite beside himself
in his fanatical exaltation. "He speaks again, he speaks again! Woe, woe
to the city of Doom!" Once more the firmament seemed cleft in twain, and
the earth trembled under the reverberations of the tremendous electrical
discharges. The effect upon the overwrought nerves of the throng was
instantaneous; as one man the crowd turned and made for the exits from
the Citadel Square. Even the personal attendants upon Dom Gillian were
affected by the panic, and leaped over the guard-rails of the platform
into the mass of humanity below. In half a score of minutes the enormous
square was deserted save for a few infirm and crippled stragglers, and
Constans himself thought it prudent to withdraw to the shelter of one of
the guard-huts from whose doorway he could still watch the progress of
events.
Only Prosper, the priest, remained in the open, standing there with
uplifted hands and gazing steadfastly into the sable vault above him.
Quinton Edge called to him, but he answered not. Then the Doomsman,
leaning far over the balustrade of the platform, struck the priest
sharply on the shoulder with his truncheon of office.
"Come up here and help me with the Lord Keeper. These dogs have all
sought their kennels and left us to shift for ourselves."
Gathering up his long, black robe, Prosper ascended the steps of the
platform and passed to the Lord Keeper's side. He looked eagerly into
Dom Gillian's eyes, but the old man's face might have been a mask in its
impassive stolidity. Plainly he had neither heard nor understood aught
of all that had passed.
"It is too late," muttered the priest. "The crash of steel is now the
only music to which the old lion will prick his ears, and the Shining
One must strike for his own honor."
Suddenly the obscurity lightened. A downpour of rain was imminent, but
the sky had lost its terrifying aspect of abnormality; the yellowish
haze that in superstitious eyes presaged some dreadful convulsion of
nature had drifted away before the rising wind--it would be a pelting
shower and nothing more. Quinton Edge looked around, smiling.
"So it was only a player's effect--a few fireworks and the rattling of a
big drum--an opportune conjunction of bad news and bad weather that is
hardly likely to occur again. The next time that the Shining One
condescends to forge his thunderbolts----"
"They will fall from out of a cloudless sky," interrupted the priest,
with a vehemence that in spite of himself shook the cool confidence of
the Doomsman. Yet the latter flung back the challenge contemptuously.
"Words, words--painted bladders with which to belabor the backs of fools
and children. It calls for a buffet of sturdier sort to convince a man."
The priest measured his adversary. "Let it be a blow, then," he said,
coldly, "since a prating mouth knows no other argument than the mailed
fist. But you shall not see the hand that smites, nor even know the
quarter from whence it comes. Build high your walls and your bulwarks;
they shall but prove the greater peril when they crumble under the
impact of our lord's hammer. You will believe; yes, when trencher-mate
and bedfellow are stricken at your side, and yet no man shall be able to
say at what instant the avenger's shadow passed between, or catch the
faintest sound of his retreating footsteps. All in his good time to whom
a day and an hour and a cycle of the ages are as one."
A dozen big raindrops splashed down, and from the distance came the
patter of the advancing hail. Quinton Edge drew himself up stiffly; the
necessity of immediate action was a relief more welcome than he would
have cared to own. He stepped to Dom Gillian's chair, and, putting his
hands under the armpits of the old man, lifted him unresisting to his
feet.
"Help me with him to the White Tower," he said, with curt command, and
Prosper obeyed in silence. Together they managed to get Dom Gillian down
the steps and across the open space to the entrance of the tower, barely
gaining the shelter when the storm broke in earnest, the rain coming
down in great, gray masses as though the clouds had been literally torn
asunder by the weight of their burden. For a few moments everything was
blotted out by the deluge, then it lightened again with the coming of
the hail, and Constans drew in his breath sharply as he saw a little
cavalcade trotting slowly through the north gate from the Palace Road.
First came a few of the escort-guard and behind them three or four
troopers, survivors of the ill-fated expedition, followed by a couple of
horse-litters, improvised from fence-poles and blankets. In these rough
beds lay two grievously wounded men, and Constans gazed, half in hope,
half in fear, upon their wan faces upon which the stinging hail beat
down. Soldierly men they were, too, for they made no complaint, but
Ulick was not one of them. A moment later Constans saw him bringing up
the rear on a big bay horse. He had a bandage about his head, and looked
thin and careworn, but he was alive, and Constans felt glad at heart for
his friend. He managed to catch Ulick's eye as the train swept by, and
for an instant the latter drew rein, bending low over his saddle-bow as
he whispered to Constans, standing in the shadow of the guard-hut:
"In half an hour at the old library," and then, with passionate
eagerness, "Esmay--have you seen her?"
"Yes," answered Constans, and the next instant could have bitten his
unthinking tongue in twain.
XIX
IN QUINTON EDGE'S GARDEN
It was late that night when the friends finally parted. Their interview
had been a trying one; it might have ended in a serious estrangement had
Constans been of nature less straightforward or Ulick of disposition
less generous. Friendship between men is a beautiful thing, but of such
delicate poise that only the touch of a finger is needed to displace it.
And the disturbing hand is generally that of a woman. Esmay had come
between them, and it needed but the mention of her name that a certain
constraint should at once manifest itself.
"We'll have to drop the subject, then, or, rather, leave it where it
began," said Ulick, breaking the final pause. "Perhaps it's just as well
that I don't understand the reason why--it's even possible that you
don't know clearly yourself. I sha'n't ask you to tell me."
Constance flushed, and was angry with himself, at this evidence of a
weakness so unexpected. "It can't go on in this way," he said,
decidedly. "Neither of us could wish that, and it lies with me to make
it plain--to her, you know. Of course, you must have guessed that there
are certain contingencies----" He stopped abruptly, as the remembrance
of what Esmay had said rushed back upon him. "I don't see that Boris is
with you," he continued, gravely.
"He lies under the shadow of the southern pines--one of the first to
fall that morning when the storm of gray goose arrows drove down upon
us. A good end and perhaps the better one."
Constans was silent. Here was one of his contingencies that existed no
longer; with Boris out of the way, the decision that Esmay must make was
enormously simplified. Or was it still more infinitely complicated? With
a woman to consider, the question was not so easy to answer. Nor would
he attempt it. He rose, and put out his hand, "I am going to tell her,"
he said, simply, and Ulick, in his turn, had no further word to say; so
they parted.
It was not until noon of the following day that Constans found
opportunity to set out for Arcadia House, for all that morning he had
been kept in close attendance at the temple. The old priest had
displayed a new and astonishingly practical interest in the mysterious
power that had been for so long under his nominal control; he had even
joined Constans in the latter's daily task of cleaning and polishing up
the working-parts of the machinery, and, as they worked, he had
questioned him searchingly.
"The Shining One may be a god or no," he said, cunningly, "but it is
meet that I should know him better, if only to serve him the more
faithfully. You, my son, are wise, and you will tell me what you have
learned from your books, that it may be added to all that our fathers
have handed down by word of mouth. So shall our lord have great honor,
and the unbelievers be put to shame."
Constans had no recourse but to obey, and for several hours they worked
steadily, experimenting with the intricacies of switch-board and
commutator, stringing various wires about the hall and noting the
conditions under which they might be charged and discharged from the
central source of power. Dangerous work, as they came to realize after
Constans had narrowly escaped being burned by contact with a live wire.
Yet undeniably fascinating, this uncovering of a great world secret,
this sense of growing mastery over a power that could be none else than
twin-brother to the thunderbolt. But the face of the old man gave no
sign, no one could have guessed whether he now believed all or believed
nothing. Certainly he was proving himself an astonishingly apt pupil,
his years of practical experience with the machines admirably
supplementing Constans's theoretical knowledge. It was not until mid-day
that he gave the order to shut down the engines, and Constans was at
liberty.
He walked rapidly in the direction of Arcadia House, for this was the
hour of the principal meal with the Doomsmen, and the streets were
entirely deserted. The abnormally high temperature of yesterday still
prevailed, although the sky was clear, and everywhere could be heard the
sound of running and dripping water. The snow, that twenty-four hours
ago lay a foot deep upon the ground, was now a mass of slush, making
locomotion exceedingly disagreeable. How hot the sun was! it might have
been midsummer instead of the last of March; how oddly sounded the
premature chirping of the birds in the leafless trees!
Arcadia House was once more in sight, and Constans's first thought was
for the signal. It was still flying from the cupola window, but that
fact, of itself, meant little. All or nothing might have happened in the
twenty-four hours that had elapsed since its first setting.
The rope-ladder was in its hiding-place, and Constans, by its aid, was
quickly on the garden wall. Here he waited for an instant, to look and
listen.
All was quiet, and there was no sign of life in the closely shuttered
house. The snow in this exposed and sunny enclosure had entirely
disappeared; there would be no fear of his footprints being noticed. The
dogs--but Esmay had assured him that they would be kept in leash so long
as the signal was flying. He wasted no further time in reflection, but
descended into Quinton Edge's garden.
The plantation of spruce-trees screened him for the moment; then he ran
swiftly across the open space and reached the shelter of the pavilion.
It was empty, but he had expected that; he had previously set his
answering signal at the window of a house overlooking the garden at the
back, and he would now have to wait until Esmay should find opportunity
to join him.
An hour passed, and there was no sign of her appearance. Constans grew
restless, impatient, uneasy, until finally inaction became intolerable.
Certainly Esmay should have come by this time, supposing that she had
observed his answering signal. She might be absent, ill, a prisoner.
He looked searchingly at the apparently deserted house; the bold thought
struck him to examine it more closely, even at the risk of discovery. He
had his rope-ladder with him, and, at a pinch, could make a run for it.
Along the northern wall of the enclosure there was a wind-break of
evergreens that would protect him up to the sunken carriageway, and,
surely, he could adventure thus far and then trust Fortune and his own
wits for the next move.
The piece of open ground was some seventy yards in width; he crossed it
at speed and dived into the shadow of the trees, keeping close to the
wall as he worked along. He reached the road without misadventure and
dropped lightly down upon its stone-paved surface. It was cool and damp
in this semi-subterranean causeway; the stone flagging was blotched with
lichenous growth, and ferns flourished rankly in the wall crevices.
Constans stood for a moment gazing up at the blank facade of the north
wing, wondering how best to proceed. Then, suddenly, a face appeared at
a window; Esmay herself was looking down upon him in wide-eyed
astonishment. She hesitated, then motioned him towards the eastern or
river side of the house, and he obeyed unquestioningly. Following the
driveway around, he found himself before the pillared portico that
masked the front of the main edifice; springing up the steps, he met her
standing at one of the long windows that opened off the drawing-room of
the mansion. She drew back, inviting him to enter.
"You are very foolish," she said, in a whisper, yet looked upon him
approvingly as a woman always must upon the man who dares.
"I told you that I would come," he answered. "Yesterday it was the
unexpected that happened, the return of the expedition. Between the
storm and Ulick, you and the signal were clean put out of mind until too
late."
She flushed. "Then you have seen Ulick?"
"Yes; he is safe and well." He hesitated. How should he tell her the
truth about the other? He ended by blurting it out.
"You know that Boris--he will not return."
"He is dead?"
Constans nodded. The girl turned and looked out of the window for
perhaps half a minute.
"I was to have decided between them this very day. He who is my master
had so determined, and that is why I sent for you. For indeed I
cannot----" She stopped; it was so difficult to put into words what must
be said. Then she went on, speaking softly: