rapped his antagonist smartly across the knuckles and sprang back out of
reach. The colossus, with a growl, swung his mace to right and left,
striking at random, for Oxenford had cunningly contrived to turn Dom
Gillian so that the light was at his back. Quinton Edge must have
noticed the ruse, for he beckoned to an attendant and ordered that
every available torch and cresset should be placed about the arena. But
the affair was over long before the command could be obeyed.
Again the giant struck out, and this time so strongly that he came near
to losing his balance. Oxenford, rushing in, discharged a quick half-arm
blow on the Doomsman's right wrist, and the mace dropped from the
suddenly paralyzed grip. Confused and terror-stricken, Dom Gillian
dropped on all-fours, groping about in the darkness for the weapon that
had rolled away and out of immediate reach. Oxenford, drawing his knife,
struck downward, aiming for the angle of neck and collar-bone. But in
his eagerness he overshot the mark, the blade making only a trifling
flesh wound, and the next instant Dom Gillian had him in his clutch. The
two stood up together.
It seemed a long time, hours indeed, that Dom Gillian waited for his
injured wrist to recover its strength, holding Oxenford easily in his
left hand and shaking the other incessantly to restore the interrupted
circulation. Even when at last satisfied that the wrist could be trusted
to do its duty, he did not appear to be in any hurry; he seemed to be
meditating upon the most effective use to which he could apply the
advantage that he had gained. Then, suddenly, Dom Gillian bent down and
grasped his victim by the ankles, swinging Oxenford into the air as
easily as a thresher does his flail. With every muscle starting to the
strain, the Doomsman whirled his enemy's body once, twice, and thrice,
at full sweep about his head, then downward into crushing contact with
the pavement. A final superhuman effort, and the inert mass was hurled
clean over the heads of the on-lookers, falling with the dead sound of
over-ripe fruit against the wall of the White Tower.
A full minute passed, and still every eye remained fixed on Dom Gillian.
He had not moved, except to turn his head again in the direction of the
light--a dumb instinct like to the compass-needle that seeks the
magnetic pole. A colossal statue, but Constans fancied that it was
swaying at its base, then he saw the great chest heave convulsively and
a bubble of reddish foam issuing at his lips.
But the man was dying hard; in another moment he had straightened up,
and was resolutely swallowing back the salty, suffocating tide, beating
the air with his hands as he strove for breath. Only for an instant,
however, for now the tide had become a flood, and, with a little fretful
moan, like to that of a tired child, Dom Gillian, Overlord of Doom, sank
to earth, not falling headlong, as does a felled tree, but quietly
settling into a heap, just as an empty bag collapses into itself.
* * * * *
The fighting had begun again; no man could say why or how. True, the
Doomsmen had been disheartened by the fall of their champion, but they
were not yet ready to yield themselves; they had retreated to the
shelter of the interior barricade, and would make there a final stand.
The Stockaders, flushed with anticipated triumph, drove blindly,
recklessly at the barrier. Constans felt the blood singing in his ears,
then a weight suddenly lifted from his brain; his eyes cleared and the
fierce joy of conflict captured him. He forced his way to the front,
gaining foothold on the barricade. Ten feet away stood Quinton Edge,
and Constans's heart was glad. At last!
A hand caught at the skirt of his doublet, and impatiently he jerked
himself loose. Again the detaining grasp; he bent down to strike and
looked into Ulick's eyes. Obedient to the unspoken request, he knelt
down and tried to move his friend into a more comfortable position. The
crushed chest sank horribly under his hands, and he was obliged to give
over.
"Close to me," whispered Ulick, and Constans bent his head to listen.
"It is of Esmay," he said. "Nanna but just now told me--a
prisoner--Arcadia House--you will go to her?"
"Yes," said Constans.
But Ulick had followed the direction of his eyes and seen that they
rested on Quinton Edge.
"At once; it must be now--else too late."
Constans did not answer.
"Now!" reiterated Ulick, insistently.
"I cannot."
"Yes."
"I will not."
"Yes."
Constans's voice was hard; he rose to his feet.
"I have been waiting upon this chance for years--you do not understand."
"Yes--I understand."
"All along; it was you who loved her."
"But you--whom she loved."
"No," said Constans, sullenly.
"It is--true."
"No!" again cried Constans. Then, suddenly, it seemed that a great
light shone about him. But the wonder of it lay not in this new
knowledge of Esmay's heart, but in the revelation of his own. He loved
her, he knew it now, and not as in that brief moment of passion at
Arcadia, when even honor seemed well lost. For this was the greater love
that draws a man to the one woman in the world who has the power to lift
him to the heights whereon she herself stands. A supreme joy, that
humbled even while it exalted, swept over Constans. "I will go," he
said, and took Ulick's hand in both his own.
The storm-centre of the fighting had moved away from them; above their
heads the stars shone serenely. Constans could not speak, but he pointed
them out to his friend.
* * * * *
Piers Minor, fighting in the press at the gate as became his stout
breed, chanced to rescue a boy from being crushed to death. The lad had
been crowded up against a projecting angle and was quite breathless when
the Stockader, arching his back against the pressure, broke the jam by
sheer strength and pulled the stripling out of his dangerous position.
But what a fine color came back into the white cheeks as the twain
recognized each other!
"You!" said Nanna, and at that moment she would have given all she
possessed in the world for just a skirt.
"You!" re-echoed Piers Minor, and immediately a horrible dumbness fell
upon him.
The thunder of the captains and the shouting filled their ears, but they
heard not, the red light of battle danced before their eyes, but they
saw not. Some miracle swept them clear of the struggle, and guided them
to the shelter afforded by a half-completed barricade of ox-carts. And
here Piers Minor, seeing that she trembled and edged closer to him like
any ordinary woman, took on a wonderful accession of courage.
"Little one!" he murmured, in his big, bass voice, and laughed
contentedly, just as though death were not standing at his other elbow.
But then Piers Minor was not a man to think of more than one thing at a
time.
"I have seen Ulick," whispered Nanna, "and he promised to give the
message to Constans. Surely he will do so--tell me?"
Piers Minor put his arm around her. "Of course," he answered, stoutly,
without comprehending in the least who Ulick was or what the message
could be about. But he did understand that she wanted comfort in her
trouble, and so he said and did precisely the right thing. All of which
was exceedingly clever for Piers Minor.
Some one brushed rudely against them, and Piers Minor turned in anger.
But Nanna laid her hand upon his arm. "Hush!" she said, "it is Prosper,
the priest."
The old man stood motionless for an instant surveying the wild scene
before him.
"It is the third day," he muttered, "the day of Doom. The day and now
the hour. So be it, lord; it is thy will, and I obey."
With the last word he wheeled and disappeared into the shadows. An
intuitive sense of the impending peril seized the girl. "Come!" she
panted, and dragged at her companion's sleeve. "It is the vengeance of
the Shining One. But there is a chance--if we follow."
Piers Minor did not hesitate. "As you will," he said, briefly, and Nanna
flashed back at him a brilliant smile, hand-in-hand they sped through
the now deserted passageway of the north gate.
* * * * *
For the last time Constans bent his lips to the ear of the dying man.
"Ulick!" he called. There was no answer, and Constans felt that the hand
that lay in his was growing cold. Then for one brief instant the soul
looked out from the hollowed eyes.
"The sun!" he said, and smiled as one who, having kept the watches of a
long night, looks upon the dawn. "The sun!" he cried again, and his
spirit went forth to meet it.
* * * * *
Constans rose unsteadily to his feet.
The sun! A vivid glare beat down upon him. The sun! and rising in the
west!
A vast shaft of fire shot upward to the zenith, and all along the
western horizon pinnacles and roof-line stood out etched in crimson.
Constans saw that the entire quarter of the city west of the Citadel
Square was in conflagration, and the flames, borne on the wings of a
northwest gale, came driving swiftly down. A rain of red-hot cinders
fell about him.
A shout of terror went up from Doomsmen and Stockader alike, and the
fighting ended abruptly. Then began a rush for the gate, victors and
vanquished mingled indiscriminately together, constrained only by the
one common impulse to seek refuge in flight. To add to the confusion,
fresh explosions were heard on the north and south, followed almost
immediately by the appearance of flames in these latter quarters. Where,
then, led the path to safety?
Constans, running towards the southern rampart, where he knew he should
find his ladder, saw a tall figure just ahead of him. He recognized
Quinton Edge, but the Doomsman had reached and scaled the wall before
Constans could overtake him. Yet he caught a glimpse of his enemy
proceeding rapidly in a northeast direction. Constans followed
immediately, tightening his belt for the hard run that lay before him.
XXVII
DOOMSDAY
Prosper's start upon Piers Minor and Nanna had been a short one, and
under ordinary circumstances he could hardly have retained his
advantage. But in her nervous confusion Nanna made two wrong turns, and
so many precious moments were wasted.
A quarter of a mile away from the citadel they were halted by the sound
of a heavy explosion. Piers Minor spoke his astonishment frankly.
"Thunder on a cool night in May! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"It is the voice of the Shining One," said Nanna to herself, and hurried
on the faster.
"Yet the lightning must have struck somewhere," persisted Piers Minor,
"for the sky is red. There! look for yourself."
Half a dozen blocks away to the westward they could see flames shooting
from the windows of a warehouse. Its contents must have been highly
combustible, for they were burning like chaff in a furnace draught. As
they stood and watched the conflagration a second explosion occurred,
and so close at hand that the ground seemed to rock beneath their feet.
And with that Nanna's heart grew faint within her, for now she knew
certainly that they were too late. The Shining One had spoken, and Doom
was falling.
Piers Minor looked at his companion with troubled eyes. What was this
devil's work?
"The Shining One," she whispered, and clung to his arm. "See how his
tongues of fire lick up the dust of Doom."
"But who is the Shining One?" demanded the young man, wonderingly.
"Listen!"
Deep under the crackling of the flames vibrated the diapason of the
great dynamo. Piers Minor turned pale.
"He speaks," whispered the girl. "And now look, look!"
A little distance away stood one of the ancient telegraph-poles carrying
a tangled mass of wire ends. The pole had been swaying dangerously in
the rising gale; now with a loud crack it broke off close to the ground
and fell so that the wires were brought into naked contact with a copper
cable suspended on the opposite side of the street. Instantly the "dead"
wires awoke to life, spluttering and hissing like a bunch of snakes; a
cataract of yellow-blue sparks poured from the broken ends.
"The tongues of fire," said Nanna. "You may have seen them devour a
single tree in the forest or suck out a man's life with a touch, but
to-night they are hungry and they are eating up the world."
A terrifying conclusion that was not so far away from the truth. During
the last few minutes the area of the conflagration had increased
tremendously and the whole central portion of the city, including the
Citadel Square, was now a vast furnace in which no life could possibly
exist. For the moment the general direction of the wind had shifted, and
the flames were not bearing down so rapidly as before upon the two
fugitives. They would be in comparative safety for some time yet unless
the gale veered back to its former quarter.
"We can never get through to the north," said Piers Minor.
"There is no necessity," returned Nanna. "I know of a wharf on the
Lesser river where the shad-fishers keep their boats. We can reach it
from here in a quarter of an hour."
"Good," said Piers Minor, and waited for her to lead the way. Then, as
she still held back, he went on, impatiently, "The wind may change at
any moment, and it is foolish to wait."
"It is my sister," explained the girl. "She is here in the city--a
prisoner----" Her voice shook and failed her.
"But what can we do?" asked the young man. "You do not even know--in
Quinton Edge's house, you say? But that is a mile or more away, and the
road is already blocked. It is impossible."
"Yes, I know, but suppose there should be a chance--the hand that has
moved the Shining One to strike, may it not be lifted again to repair
the evil?"
"I do not understand," said Piers Minor.
And thereupon Nanna described as clearly as she could the part that
Prosper, the priest, had played in the impending tragedy. Surely he
might be prevailed upon to avert the judgment from the innocent. He who
had released the flames could as easily restrain them. Or, at least,
Arcadia House might be spared.
"But where are we to find him?"
Nanna pointed down the street. "There--in the House of Power."
"Come," he said, and they went on quickly.
At the entrance to the temple of the Shining One they stopped and
listened. The air was all tremulous with the hum of the rapidly
revolving dynamos, the thud of the reciprocating machinery, and the
grinding of the badly lubricated shafting.
Piers Minor knew that he was horribly afraid, but for very shame he
could not hold back. Together they stole a little way within the vaulted
entrance and listened again. Nothing but the roar of the machinery. The
vast hall would have been in utter darkness save for the glare of the
conflagration; as it was, they could see clearly that there was nobody
within.
"The little room beyond," said Nanna, and shivered. These were forbidden
sights for a woman's eyes, and the god would be very angry. Yet it must
be done. They joined hands like two children and went forward.
Now they stood, wondering, within the little room with its low ceiling
and bare white walls. Could it be that so great a god as the Shining One
could dwell here? An empty room, save for the oak chair standing in the
middle of the floor and that curious-appearing board fixed against the
wall, with its multiplicity of keys, knobs, and levers. That was all,
and yet a vague terror laid its hand upon them; they remained motionless
and speechless.
Something, some one had entered the room--slow footsteps and the rustle
of trailing garments. Then the sound of a lever snapped to its
connecting points, and the great, shining face flamed out of the
darkness. In his intense absorption, the old priest saw nothing of the
two who also waited there. Advancing to the centre of the room, he stood
and looked upon the countenance of the Shining One, while a man might
count twoscore. Then he spoke, slowly and hesitatingly, as one who
excuses himself of grievous fault:
"Let the Shining One be content--it is accomplished. And now, O father,
have mercy. For the sins of thy people--a sacrifice----"
With unfaltering step he walked to the great chair and seated himself.
Then, in a clear voice, "Lord--if indeed thou art lord----" There was
the click of a switch-key; the man's body half rose from its seat and
sank back again.
Piers Minor felt the girl's dead weight thrown suddenly upon him.
"Nanna!" he cried, and she responded bravely, fighting with all her
strength against the inflowing tide of faintness. One forward step,
taken with infinite precaution, and then another. The stillness remained
unbroken.
The great chair stood with its back towards them, and they could not see
the seated figure. But Piers Minor caught one glimpse of a hand gripped
hard upon the chair arm, and he saw that it was burned hard and black as
a coal. Now the door was within reach and they passed out. In the little
room, Prosper, the priest, sat upon the knees of the Shining One, and
the great, white face looked down upon him.
* * * * *
Not an instant too soon had Piers Minor and Nanna reached the open
street. The wind had shifted back to the northwest, and the fire,
breaking out in one place after another from the gale-scattered brands,
was coming down upon them in great bounds, as though it were some
gigantic beast of prey. A suffocating smoke choked their throats and
nostrils; they could neither speak nor breathe. Then, by the mercy of
God, a fierce counter-current drove the smoke back a little way; they
ran at full speed towards the south-east. Now they stopped an instant to
refill their panting lungs, then on again, for the air about them was
full of flying sparks that stung the unprotected flesh and even burned
holes in their clothing of stout woollen. On and on, till their heads
felt light as a child's toy balloon and the blood in their ears pounded
like a mill-wheel. Piers Minor stumbled and fell.
"I am blind," he gasped. "Leave me." But Nanna would not give over,
tugging at the man's weight until she had him to his feet again, with a
convenient railing at his back. She picked up some water from the gutter
with her hands held cup-wise, and dashed the liquid in his face. Piers
Minor straightened up, and from his eyes the darkness cleared away.
"Courage!" she said, and he smiled back at her.
There was the shining of the river; now they could see the pier and the
boats of the shad-fishers lying alongside. Piers Minor cast off the
largest and most seaworthy-looking of the lot, and, without troubling to
bail out the standing water, he brought the craft broadside to the wharf
and held out his hand to Nanna. But she, looking to the northward, where
the gilded cupola of Arcadia House shone out against the sky, neither
moved nor spoke.
"Come," he said.
The girl turned. "She is there," she said, and pointed to the north. "I
must go to her--my little sister."
Piers Minor swung himself up on the wharf and seized her.
"You shall not," he said.
She tried to wrench herself free; she struck him full in the face. But
Piers Minor only smiled grimly and held on the tighter. And then, to his
astonishment, this tiger-cat became suddenly metamorphosed into a dove.
Her breast heaved, and she turned her head away; he knew that she was
weeping just like any other woman. Whereat Piers Minor smiled again, but
not grimly, and held her a little closer.
"Listen," he said, and forced her gently to look at him. "It is
impossible to reach Arcadia House; even now the fire is there before
you. You must believe that Constans received the message and was able to
get there in time. Believe it, because it is I who tell you."
She did believe, but, being a woman, she hesitated again--at the very
brink of surrender.
"Let me go," she said, in a low tone, and Piers Minor was so astonished
that he immediately complied, and stood looking at her helplessly. But
when, coloring like a rose and with downcast eyes, she would have passed
him, the masculine instinct of possession awoke again; he barred the way
determinedly.
A little distance away an enormous brick storehouse was burning
fiercely. A tremendous explosion threw a roof bodily into the air; a
shower of incandescent particles descended and drove directly at the
fugitives. Nanna felt herself lifted bodily off her feet and swept with
a rush down the wharf. One little gulp of regret for her lost
independence and she yielded--deliciously. The boat rocked from side to
side, then it shot out upon the open river.
Piers Minor had stopped rowing, for the sparks no longer fell about
them. The spectacle of the burning city was a magnificent one. The
inverted bowl of the sky shone as though it were made of copper, and the
gale had flattened out the flames horizontally so that they resembled
the flying masses of a woman's unbound hair.
Nanna's eyes filled with tears.
"It was my world," she said, softly, "the only one I knew."
"Nanna!" said Piers Minor. She let her hand rest in his, and the boat
floated on.
XXVIII
IN THE FULNESS OF TIME
The streets were as light as noonday, and Constans found no difficulty
in keeping the dying figure in sight. But, run as he would, he could not
gain a yard.
"Arcadia House," muttered Constans, under his breath, as he noticed the
direction taken by the runner. What more natural than that a man should
seek his own home at such a time? But Constans's brow was clouded as he
followed in Quinton Edge's footsteps.
Arcadia House, and why? There could be but one answer to that question
after Nanna's message, conveyed to him through Ulick's dying lips. Esmay
had disappeared, and yet had remained in Arcadia House. He, who knew
Quinton Edge, would understand.
Constans told himself grimly that he did understand. This insolent
wanted the girl, just as he had desired many another thing in life, and
it had always been his way to take what he coveted. But this
time--Constans set his teeth hard, and now, at last, Arcadia House was
in sight.
During this last quarter of an hour the progress of the conflagration
had been perceptibly slower, and the great sheaf of flame in the western
sky had almost disappeared. It was like the lull that so often takes
place in a storm, a period of sudden quiet in the element strife that
should warn the prudent that the worst is still to come. To Constans it
was the most fortunate of happenings, the comparative darkness enabling
him to keep close upon Quinton Edge without risk of discovery.
As though satisfied that he had arrived in time, Quinton Edge now
slackened his pace, making for the gateway on the side street. Whereupon
Constans determined to scale the wall at the rear and take the short cut
through the garden, so as to intercept the Doomsman at the entrance.
Once over the wall, the way was clear. Disdaining caution, he crashed
recklessly through the shrubbery, the wet and tangled grass wrapping
itself exasperatingly about his ankles as he ran. At the carriage-drive
he stopped, flinging himself full length on the ground and close against
the wall that marked the sunken way. The run had winded him, and he was
thankful for the moment's breathing-space.
From where Constans lay he could command sight of the north terrace that
connected the porticos of the river and western fronts. Suddenly it
seemed to him that the terrace was occupied by some living thing. A
moment before he had noticed a darker blur in the shadows at the river
corner; it had appeared to move. He heard a soft padding on the
flag-stones as of an animal moving cautiously. He strained his eyes,
striving to resolve that dusky blotch into shape intelligible; then a
new burst of flame lit up the western sky and he saw clearly--it was
Fangs, the hound.
The dog stood motionless, her head thrown upward as though listening.
She could not possibly see Constans where he lay, but the smallest noise
must betray him.
His revolver was in a side pocket, and he drew it forth with infinite
care. Then he discovered that it was unloaded and that he had no more
cartridges. His knife also had disappeared from its sheath; he realized
that he was absolutely unarmed and helpless.
The hound leaped lightly from the terrace and began ranging in great
half-circles. Constans looked on with fascinated eyes. It could be a
matter of seconds only when she must cross his scent, and he knew that
she would remember it--there was a blood-feud between them--the death of
Blazer, who had been her mate.
The pass-key rattled in the lock of the postern-door, and Quinton Edge
entered the sunken way. Fangs heard the noise, hesitated a moment, then
tossed her black muzzle in the air and bounded forward to meet her
master. Constans wiped away the sweat that was blinding his eyes and
waited. Quinton Edge, with the hound by his side, went up the steps
leading to the terrace.