THE PHANTOM VOICE.
The night was become darker; we took the darkest ways.
When we had run for about a quarter of an hour, and were come, panting,
to the side of a wood, Ambrose stood and hearkened intently. Then he
cast himself upon the ground, setting his hand to his heart.
“Do you suffer pain?” asked I.
“Ay,” said he, and groaned. “Do not speak to me,” added he, with a
woful pang. His face was white and drawn, and he kept clutching at the
prickly boughs of a bramble bush, tearing the flesh of his hand all
bloody.
“What can I do?” said I. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, no,” said he. “It will pass.”
I sat down by his side, hearkening dismally to the croaking of the
frogs, watching the sombre flying bats.
Suddenly there came a sound of singing. It was that magical high treble
voice which had sung before my brother died. Thus it came, small and
faint, yet perfectly clear:
He led his little pilgrim band
In thirst and hunger, frost and fire,
Unto a very pleasant land,
Unto a land of heart’s desire.
It affected me with a sort of awe; so that, when it ceased, I was as
one spell-bound, and could not at first move or speak.
“What is it?” said I. “It came before my brother died.”
“Ay,” said Ambrose in a quaking voice, “It means death.”
“To whom? To you or me?”
“Nay, it is too far off,” said he.
“Is’t a spirit?” said I.
“Ay,” said he, getting to his feet. “Let us be gone.”
“Whither?” asked I.
“To the Cells.”
As we set off, I asked him why he was so much afraid at the volcan.
“The lad descried us,” said he--“did you not see it? If he told the
Doctor, we may say good night!”
“Can’t we escape?” said I.
“Escape!” said he, “from this island?”
“Why should we not abscond into the woods, near to the shore, and live
on fruits and shell-fish, until we could make us a boat?”
“And where would you voyage to in your boat? The nearest land is a
hundred miles away.”
“We might be taken up,” said I.
“A chance in a thousand thousands, and then by one of the Doctor’s
ships belike! You speak as a child.”
“Well then,” said I desperately, “why should we not abscond into the
woods until a ship leaves, and smuggle us away on board of her, and
take our chance?”
“Of being tormented to death,” said Ambrose.
I could answer nothing to this; and I left that discourse, to ask him:
“Is that lad crazy? The Doctor conversed him as though he was rational.”
“The lad is a dæmon, or familiar, of the Doctor,” answered Ambrose. “He
is, as I may say, super-rational. He hath strange powers. He can see
spirits.”
“What meant he by saying the Toad was out?”
“It makes a sort of shrieking sound,” said he.
“What do you mean?” said I. “Is’t a wild beast?”
“I think it’s a wild beast of hell,” said he. “I know nought of it. The
island is full of mysteries. Ask me no more questions. I am sick at
heart.”
We went a little farther, and then stopped; for a lamentable and
piercing cry was lifted in the night.
“What is it?” cried I aghast. But Ambrose answered not.
The cry had sounded from in front of us. We began to advance again, but
had not gone thirty paces when we heard a sort of gasping sound that
came from the side of a thicket in our path. Hasting thither, we spied
the form of a man lying huddled upon the ground.
We bent over him, peering into his face. ’Twas ghastly white, and all
twisted to one side as with strong pain. His eyes were shut. Presently
they opened, glazed and staring, and we perceived that he was dead.
I looked to see where he was stricken; but found no hurt upon him.
“Let us be gone,” said Ambrose; and immediately started off.
He went swiftly, but retired into the inward of his mind, so that he
returned me no answer when at any time I spoke to him, nor gave any
sign that he heard me. So we came, at last, through the second wood, to
the entry of the Cells, having met with no man, nor with any further
adventure. And, indeed, what we had met withal was enough, for me!
Ambrose opened the great door, pressing a knob beneath the hanging
creepers, and we passed in, going straightway to the cell which was
allotted to me. There Ambrose set his finger to a little brass button
upon the wall, telling me that this would ring a bell in the kitchen.
However, he had to ring again before a servant was summoned.
At last he came, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He was a short, thick,
swarthy man, dressed cleanly in a shirt and breeches of Indian
cotton-stuff. He wore his black moustachios long and curled.
“Supper, Roc,” said Ambrose; and the man made a bow to him, grinning so
that his moustachios did stick up on his face like a ram’s horns; and
went swiftly from the cell, without opening his mouth.
I asked Ambrose why the man spoke not; he told me that he could not,
being a mute. I asked whether he was so born. He told me, no, but that
his tongue had been cut out for a punishment.