he would be caught. He knew it. As he struck the rise, his speed
dropped. Not so that of the grey car, it seemed to come on faster than
ever. It roared like an angry monster; its panting deafened him....
What was that? A bullet. They were near enough to shoot; they had him!
He crouched low as another bullet sung past his ears. In a moment
more he would jam in his brakes, stop the car brutally, leap into the
_maquis_. He had a revolver; he would sell his life for a grim price.
At least two of these devils should pay!
Then he heard another report, and his heart gave a leap of joy. Could
it be the bursting of a tire? Yes, he was right. There were shouts,
curses, furious exclamations, then silence. On he hurtled, hardly
believing in his luck. He could no longer hear them, and at the head of
the valley, he slowed up and looked round. The grey car had come to a
standstill. The men had gotten out and were busy fitting on a new tire.
That would take them ten minutes at least. He had already gained nearly
a mile. In ten minutes he could do another five. Let him only have six
miles between them, and, with luck, he would beat them yet. He put on
speed again.
How marvellously the road was mounting! Great craggy peaks soared up
on every side. Dark ravines yawned beneath him. Ahead was a cloud-mass,
heavy as a sponge. The rainy drizzle had thickened to a downpour. The
car now splashed through pools of water, now slithered over stretches
of mud. Then the forests began to close in on both sides of the road
and give him a sense of security. The country had completely changed.
The road descended into dripping oakgroves, and spanned dark gulleys,
down which brawled angry torrents.
Then it began to climb again, and the oaks gave way to pines. He had
been travelling for nearly an hour, and had heard no sound of his
pursuers. What had happened to them? Perhaps something worse than a
damaged tire. He must be far ahead of them by now. He was rapidly
mounting to the Col of Vizzavona. According to his map, when he had
crossed the divide, he would drop down into Agaccio. Only let him
surmount the Col and he could coast downhill for the rest of the way.
He should make Agaccio by dark. For the third time that day he glowed
with exultation.
It was getting very cold. The pines were chill and gloomy. The rain
seemed to sting.... What was that just ahead, that patch of white?
Surely it could not be snow? Yes. It was a short stretch, quite
shallow. The car bounded through it easily. But look, another, broader,
deeper! The car slid a little this time, and his heart sank. Then he
saw the road was clear, and his hopes rose again. He mounted a ridge.
He must be in the very heart of the mountains now. The mist rolled and
dipped, cloaking the stark peaks that ringed him round. Surely he could
not go much higher.
Again the road dropped swiftly. At the bottom of the dip, his car
plunged into a great drift of snow, a foot deep and half melted. For
a few yards it struggled on, them slackened speed and came almost to a
standstill. Desperately he strove to force his way through; his wheels
were whirring and slipping in the rain-rotted snow. He could not budge.
He realized that it was useless.
Jumping out he reconnoitred the road ahead. It was filled with drifts,
snow without a break. He never could get through. Stalled! Hopelessly
stuck! Going back he tried once again. The car struggled gallantly, but
to no use. He looked at it ruefully.
“Bless you, you gallant little beast,” he said. “You’ve served me more
than nobly. Now it’s got to be good-bye.”
Then he left the road and plunged into the forest.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE FOREST
1.
He intended to remain in the cover of the forest, even, if need be, to
spend the night there. In any case he would keep well away from the
road and work through the wild country to Agaccio. Fortunately the
forest was an open one. On the heights were pines, in the hollows oaks.
Under the trees the rocks were covered with moss or a short growth of
fern. There was nothing to impede him save the frequent gorges and
brawling streams, and he made good progress. He was wet through; but in
his excitement he felt neither cold nor fatigue, not even hunger.
Then, as night drew near, he began to be conscious of all three. The
prospect of passing the hours of darkness in the forest daunted him. He
might become crippled with rheumatism, perhaps contract pneumonia. He
was afraid.
So presently stumbling on a narrow trail, he followed it eagerly,
even breaking into a run. It was well defined and must lead to some
habitation.
It had grown dark and he could hardly see the path. Several times
he lost it and stumbled into wet fern. He went on more cautiously,
drenched, shivering, discouraged. Would the trail never end? It went up
and up, climbing deeper into the savage fastnesses. He was so tired,
so miserably tired; he longed to lie down and rest. But that would
be fatal. He must struggle on. His heart failed him, his weakness
increased. Perhaps the little trail led nowhere. Despair seized him.
Just as he was about to succumb, he saw a light. It was streaming
through the shuttered window of a house, a house so near he almost
blundered into it. He found the door and knocked. A step; then a voice
asked:
“Who is there?”
“A traveller. I’ve lost my way. Please let me in.”
A heavy bolt was drawn, and the door opened cautiously. A tall old man
holding a lamp over his head, stood in the doorway. His face was in the
shadow, but Hugh could see that it was round and jovial. The man looked
at him for a long moment, then said:
“Ah! my poor monsieur, you are indeed in a plight. Excuse me that I
did not open sooner. But there are bandits about, and one has to be
careful.”
He led Hugh into a bare room in which there was a long table and some
rough benches. It was like the public room of some country _auberge_,
hard, primitive, nakedly clean, but its cheerlessness was vanquished by
a huge fire that blazed in the great open fireplace. The old man set
the lamp on the table.
“Welcome, monsieur. My name is Pascal Martini. I keep a place of public
entertainment; you have fallen well.”
“And I am a tourist,” said Hugh. “I was going to Agaccio in a car, but
got stuck in the snow near the summit, and followed a trail that led me
here.”
“It is good,” said Martini. “If you had followed the road you would
have gotten waist deep in snow. It has lasted now for three days, the
storm. And to think that down near the coast they have oranges and
peach trees in blossom. It is wonderful, our Corsica. We have three
climates in so small a space. I regret that we are giving you at this
moment a taste of its most unpleasant one. You are wet through. If you
will condescend to wear some of my poor garments I will give you a
complete change.”
Hugh expressed his gratitude, and, standing in the glow of the blazing
logs, stripped and rubbed himself with a rough towel. He felt the glow
return to his frozen limbs. He put on the woollen shirt, stockings, and
the corduroy breeches Martini handed to him.
“The costume of a hunter,” said the inn-keeper. “It is chiefly hunters
and fishermen who come here. Sometimes wood-cutters. Occasionally
bandits.”
“Where am I?” asked Hugh.
“About five miles up in the mountains behind Vizzavona. Later in the
year hunting parties come and my place is always full. Now there is no
one. I am indeed glad to see you. But I waste time. I must prepare you
some supper. You must be ravenous.”
“I am rather.”
“Ah, my poor monsieur! And I have no meat in the house. What a
misfortune. All I can offer you is fish, fresh mountain trout. Come,
you shall see. I will catch them fresh from the water.”
He lit a pine torch at the fire, and taking a scoop-net in his hand,
led the way to the back of the house where Hugh heard the roar of the
stream.
“In the dark you cannot see,” said Martini; “but it is really very
picturesque here. The back of my house is level with the face of rock
that falls to the stream. It forms a very deep pool that I call my
fish-pond. I stock it against the time when I have many guests. At
the upper end is a small waterfall, and at the lower I have a grill
so that the fish cannot escape. You can hear the roar of my waterfall.
I love it. It is something alive in the deadness and silence of the
forest. In the night I awake and hear its friendly roar. I have been a
sailor, monsieur, and it reminds me of the sea. In the morning I strip
and stand under it. I brace myself and let it crash down on me; it
beats and stings. In the coldest weather it is only pleasantly bitter,
a hearty tonic.... Now, if monsieur will wait here, I will descend the
rock and get some fish.”
As Hugh looked down, he thought how strange and wild was the scene. The
old man bent over the water and the flare of his torch revealed the
mysterious depths of the pool, and the white curtain of the waterfall.
Overhead was the harsh foliage of the pines. The inn-keeper scooped
round in the coppery eddy of the water, and presently climbed back up
the face of the rock. In his net two silvery trout were leaping and
gasping.
“There! I have already supped; but I expect you can manage both.”
2.
Hugh always remembered that evening before the glorious fire. He smoked
old Pascal’s tobacco, and listened to his yarns. The inn-keeper had
voyaged far, and could talk of many lands, but always he brought the
conversation back to Corsica.
“It is the vendetta that makes the bandits,” said Pascal. “They are not
bad men as a rule. But they have made their kill, and from then on are
forced to live beyond the clutches of the law. Very often it all arises
from a political brawl; for we Corsicans are fiery politicians. That
was the case with Angelo Rocco, who lives in a cave five kilometres
from here. They say he had quite a future before him in public life.
But one night in a café the heady Corsican wine was flowing, words ran
high, pistols were drawn, an opponent of Rocco was shot; and Rocco had
to take to the mountains. He belongs to a very old and distinguished
family, too. Every one sympathizes with him; even the gendarmes let
him alone. He often comes here. He can have all I’ve got.... But, of
course, they are not all like that.”
Hugh saw the inn-keeper through an increasing veil of drowsiness. As he
leaned forward to prime his pipe in the glow of the great fire Pascal
was a striking figure, a tall, strong, hearty old man with thick grey
hair and a pleasant smile on his ruddy face. Then suddenly a shadow
seemed to fall on it; it grew grim, even sinister. The tone of his
voice changed.
“No, they are not all like that. Monsieur, I, too, am involved in a
blood feud. It is for that I sailed the seas for half a lifetime; for
that I now shutter my windows at night. Yet it was long ago, that last
vengeance. It was a younger brother of mine who fell. He was only a
child, playing on the doorstep before my mother’s eyes. A dark man came
out of the mountains and shot him even as he rushed to her arms. ‘Bad
weeds are best uprooted young,’ the murderer said cynically, and went
away....”
Pascal rose suddenly. His face was convulsed with passion, his hands
knotted. He seemed transformed into a savage beast.
“I’ll get him yet,” he cried. “He’s an old, old man now, but I’ll kill
him like a dog. Yes, I’ll get him yet....”
Then the inn-keeper gave an uneasy look at his shuttered windows and
added: “That is, if he doesn’t get me.... But here I am, I am yarning
away about my own affairs, and monsieur is so weary, he drops asleep.
Pardon me. Come, I will show you to your room.”
He conducted Hugh up a steep stairway that gave on a narrow corridor.
“Here are three rooms. I will give you the middle one, which is the
biggest. It looks out over the valley. To-morrow you will see the red
fire of the sunrise on the snowy peaks.”
When he had gone, Hugh opened his window. The night air was icily
pure; it smelled of snow and pines. He breathed it quietly for a time.
Against the dark blue of the higher heavens rose the black blue of
mountain pinnacles. In savage majesty they soared among the stars. He
heard the continuous roar of the little waterfall.
Then a melancholy born of the absolute solitude came over him. He
longed for the lights of the city, the comfort and security of the
streets of Paris. Why Paris? Perhaps because Margot was there. He
thought of her with a sudden poignant sense of desire. He was tired of
adventures and unrest. He wanted to settle down ... a placid life ...
always. Margot would shield him from the worries of every day, be like
a buffer, make him a home. She was that sort. He didn’t want a wife he
had to fuss over; he wanted one who would fuss over him.... But it was
too late to think of Margot. She was marrying another man. He had lost
her.... In a profound mood of gloom and regret, he wearily undressed
and went to bed.
He awoke with a curious sense of fear, a strange stiffening of the
scalp. Surely he heard the sound of voices. He sat up with beating
heart and listened. Yes, voices and the sound of feet crushing through
the crisp snow.... With a leap he was at the window.
CHAPTER FIVE
HUNTED DOWN
His worst fears were realized.
In the eerie half-light he saw four black shadows draw near to the
house and a knock at the door followed. He heard Pascal grumbling as he
got out of bed. Then the inn-keeper’s voice:
“Who is it?”
The answer came in the harsh metallic voice he knew so well.
“Travellers from Vizzavona. Open quickly. We are cold.”
Pascal was unbolting the door.
“Pardon, gentlemen. I did not expect guests at so late an hour. Please
to enter.”
He heard them stumbling into the big room with the fire, then again
that grating voice.
“Ah! you have another guest?”
“Yes, a young man who arrived this evening.”
“These are his clothes, no doubt, drying by the fire?”
“Yes, he was very wet.”
“Then he is sleeping, perhaps. We must not make a noise.”
“Yes, he was very tired. He went to bed early, directly after supper.
That makes me think.... Do the messieurs want anything to eat?”
“No, we have supped. We are tired, however. We would sleep. What rooms
have you?”
“There are three upstairs, but the young gentleman has the middle one.
I can give you gentlemen the others.”
“Good. You will take one, Castelli; I the other. The two men can sleep
here by the fire. Now, patron, if you have some good brandy, a drop
might not be amiss.”
Hugh had heard enough. He crept back hastily, locking his door. He must
escape from this house, and quickly. He began to dress in the clothes
Pascal had given him. With a groan he remembered that he had left his
revolver in the pocket of his coat. Too bad, that!
Fully dressed, he went to the door and listened again. Doctor Bergius
and Castelli were being shown upstairs to their rooms, one on each side
of his own. He heard them enter, then Pascal descend the stairs again.
All was quiet.
He opened the window very softly and peered out. It was a drop to the
ground of about twenty-five feet. He dared not risk the fall. Then his
heart leaped. At the side of the window was a rain pipe running from
the roof to the ground. It would be easy to slide down that. He did not
know their plans, but they would wait, no doubt, until Pascal had gone
to bed before attempting anything.
A long silence.
Now there were stealthy steps in the corridor and whispering. With his
ear to the door he listened. His hearing was unnaturally acute, and he
distinctly heard Castelli:
“Gamba, where is Golaz?”
“Waiting by the door, Master.”
“Right. Our man is trapped. He can’t escape this time. You and Golaz
watch to see he doesn’t descend by the window. If the inn-keeper
interferes, settle him. And mind, we must take the Englishman alive. No
reckless shooting. After we’ve got what we want out of him, you can do
as you please. Now go.”
Again a long silence.
Hugh thought, “They suppose I am asleep. Soon they will try my door.”
He waited. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour passed. Everything was
still. One might have thought that all the house slept.... Some one was
gently trying the handle of his door, turning it softly first one way
and then the other. He heard a harsh whisper: “Locked.”
Again he heard the grating voice of the doctor. “I thought so. Well,
there’s nothing for it but violence. Put your pistol to the lock and
burst it.”
_Crash!_ In the silence of the house the explosion seemed terrific.
There was a splintering of wood and the lock was torn from its fixings.
But the bolt still held, and though Castelli shook and hammered on the
door it would not open. Again he heard the voice of Doctor Bergius.
“Brace yourself against the wall of the corridor. Come, we’ll both put
our strength into it.”
Hugh heard the door strain, crack. It was stout and still held. But it
could not last long. In another minute it would give way. He ran to the
window and leaned out. Then he drew in sharply, for from the darkness
two bullets shattered the pane. Golaz and Gamba were on watch down
there. No escape that way.
He wheeled around, desperate. The door under the combined weight of
Castelli and the doctor was beginning to bulge, to crack. In another
minute they would be in the room. He was trapped, unarmed, helpless. He
was lost.
Then suddenly the pressure on his door ceased. They had paused to
listen to what was going on below. The inn-keeper had jumped out of
bed and run into the kitchen.
Hugh heard him cry: “What’s wrong! _Nom de Dieu!_ What’s the matter?
Ho! there, you two fellows!... Why, they’re gone. Ah! the door’s
open....”
Daring another shot Hugh leaned from the window. Golaz had taken up a
position behind the door and as the inn-keeper came out, threw his arms
around him. In that bear hug of a grip, Pascal was as helpless as a
child. He gave one great, hoarse cry, then Gamba had him by the throat.
The three were locked in a silent, deadly struggle. All at once Hugh
heard again the ominous crack of the breaking door. Now was his time,
now or never. He would slip down the pipe and then ... leave the rest
to luck. As he climbed out on the sill of the window he heard a cry of
alarm. Golaz and Gamba had seen him. They still gripped the inn-keeper.
When he slipped to the foot of the pipe he, too, would be seized and
held. No, that way was madness. What to do then?
There was another way ... up! The eaves of the house were only a few
feet above his window. That was it, the roof.
So instead of slipping down the iron pipe, he wriggled upward. He
clutched the gutter that collected the rain. It held and with a fierce
jerk he pulled himself level. A second later he was sprawling on the
slope of the roof.
From below came a howl of baffled rage. Golaz and Gamba were cursing
both him and themselves. At the same instant Castelli and the doctor
burst into the room. Soon came the voice of Doctor Bergius from the
window.
“Where is he? Have you seen him?”
“Yes, the roof. He’s on the roof.”
“Oh, you fools, you cursed fools! Why did you let him get away again?
What have you got there?”
“The inn-keeper. He tried to interfere.”
“Seems to me he’s lying suspiciously still. Hold on, I’m coming down.”
There was a pause; then again the voice of the doctor. “Gamba, you
little devil, the man’s dead!”
“Yes, Master,” said Gamba humbly, “I’m afraid I squeezed a little too
hard.”
“Bah! well, too late now. Take the body and throw it into the stream at
the back. People will think he was drowned. Where’s the Englishman?”
“One can’t see him. The angle of the house hides him. But he’s up there
all right.”
“Very well. You two men dispose of that body; Castelli, you run back a
bit and see if you can see him.”
Hugh realized that, where he lay flat on the snow-covered roof, he was
an easy mark. A belated moon gleaming through the cloud-fleece, would
direct their aim. On the other side of the house was darkness and the
protection of the stream. He must gain that. Keeping his feet in the
gutter he worked along the roof till he came to the end of it, then
gripping the slate edge, desperately he pulled himself up until he was
astride of the ridge.
A shot whistled past him. That would never do. Castelli could pick
him off as he crouched low on the ridge. He allowed his body to slip
a little way down the side next to the stream. Thus hidden from them,
half embedded in the snow, he clutched desperately at the angle of the
ridge and waited. What would they do next?
Everything was very quiet, a quiet full of menace. Beyond a doubt they
were carrying out some fresh scheme. The suspense was too great to be
borne; he must know at all costs what they were doing. With a great
effort he drew himself up and peered over.
He saw a sight that filled him with terror and despair ... the head and
shoulders of Gamba, appearing over the edge of the roof. Stealthy and
catlike the little man was climbing with no apparent effort. Now he was
sliding like a monkey along the gutter, now he was drawing himself up
to the peak, now he was astride the ridge. Hugh stared into his black
vindictive eyes, saw his lips parted in that grin of incredible evil,
the revolver held ready in his hand.
“Don’t shoot, Gamba,” he heard the doctor say from below. “Get him
alive. Make him come down.”
Gamba bent over and seized Hugh by the arm; behind the pointed pistol,
his eyes glittered malignantly.
“Come,” he hissed.
With a sudden wrench Hugh freed himself from the hand that gripped him,
and as he did so, he felt himself sliding. He clutched desperately
at the angle of the roof, but in vain. The snow on which he lay was
slipping, slipping. Gamba clawed at him frantically. Too late! the
whole snow mass crashed down like a miniature avalanche. Helpless,
turning over in the descent, Hugh went with it, down, down over the
edge of the roof into the black depths below....
He felt himself rushing through space. His one agonizing thought was:
“When I stop falling what will I strike? Is this the end?” Then....
He plunged into deep water. Instinctively he broke the force of his
descent with his arms and legs; but even then he struck the rocky
bottom forcibly. He rose quickly to the surface.
He realized that he was in the fish pool, swirling round and round.
He put out his hand and clutched at an object. Ugh! It was the dead
body of the inn-keeper. Horror and fear maddened him. With half a dozen
swift strokes, he had gained the opposite bank. He clutched hold of
some bushes and pulled himself out.
The men had rushed around to the back of the house, and were firing
into the black pool. It was so dark that they did not see him as he
staggered up the rocky bank. He heard Doctor Bergius shouting in
violent anger:
“Gamba, I’ll flay you for this. By God, I’ll kill you. He’s escaped us
again.”
Yes, he was safe--at least for awhile. He stumbled through the darkness
of the forest, half crazed, walking like a blind man, fear and despair
urging him on.
It seemed to him he must have walked for hours, over rocks, through
bush, knee deep in streams, always climbing. His hands and feet were
torn and bleeding. At length he could go no further....
Some one was shaking him, telling him to get up. Reluctantly he roused.
Above him were a pair of grim, scornful eyes and a face stern as Fate.
Over the hills the dawn was breaking.
CHAPTER SIX
THE OUTLAW
1.
“Who are you?”
The voice that addressed Hugh was rich and imperious.
Hugh looked at the strange face with startled eyes. “A hunted man,” he
answered.
The other laughed. “I, too, am a hunted man. Come, you are faint with
cold and fatigue. I will give you shelter.”
Hugh clutched his arm. “Don’t let them get me,” he said with a shudder.
The other laughed scornfully. “Don’t be afraid. With me you will be
safe. Come.”
He lifted Hugh to his feet, and, half supporting him, led the way up
the rocky path.
“You see the door of my home?”
“No, I see nothing.”
“Yonder black hole in the mountain side. That is my front entrance.
Incidentally there is a back one for my private use, and only known to
myself. But maybe you have heard of me. I am Angelo Rocco.”
Hugh started.
“The ... ah! Celebrity?”
The man laughed again.
“Do not be afraid. You are no enemy of mine, and he who is not my enemy
is my friend. Come, you shall bear witness to a bandit’s hospitality.”
They reached the mouth of the cave.
“See,” said Rocco, “from here I can overlook the whole mountain side.
If twenty men came to take me, I could shoot them all down before they
reached the door. If fifty came I could shoot half, and the other
half would look for me in vain. But then no one troubles me. It is
understood if I keep out of the way they will leave me alone.”