Talking in an undertone, not to be heard through the log walls, Bess and
Ned made their hasty plans for deliverance. They gave no sign of the
excitement under which they worked. Seemingly they were unshaken by the
fact that life or death was the issue of the next hour,—the realization
that the absolute crisis was upon them at last. Bess did not recall, in
word or look, the trying experience just passed through. Like Ned she
was wholly self-disciplined, her mind moving cool and sure. Never had
their wilderness training stood them in better stead.
Here, in the cabin they occupied, the assault must be made. The reason
was simply that their plan was defeated at the outset if they attempted
to master Doomsdorf in the squaw’s presence. For all her seeming
impassiveness, she would be like a panther in her lord’s defense: Bess
had had full evidence of that fact the first day in the cabin. And it
was easier to decoy Doomsdorf here than to attempt to entice the squaw
away from her own house.
The fact that their two enemies must be handled singly required the
united efforts of not only Ned and Bess, but Lenore. Two must wait here,
as in ambush, and the third must make some pretext to entice Doomsdorf
from his cabin. This, the easiest part of the work, could fall to
Lenore. Both Ned and Bess realized that in their own hands must lie the
success or failure of the actual assault.
The plan, on perfection, was really very simple. As soon as Lenore came,
she would be sent back to the cabin to bring Doomsdorf. She would need
no further excuse than that Bess had asked to see him: Ned’s knowledge
of the brute’s psychology told him that. The scene just past would be
fresh in his mind, and it would be wholly characteristic of his
measureless arrogance that he would at once assume that Bess had come to
terms. He would read in the request a vindication of his own philosophy,
the triumph of his own ruthless methods; and it would be balm to his
tainted soul to come and hear her beg forgiveness. Likely he would
anticipate complete surrender.
Neither of the two conspirators could do this part of the work so well
as Lenore. For Bess to summon Doomsdorf herself was of course out of the
question; he might easily demand to hear her surrender on the spot. If
Ned went, inviting Doomsdorf to a secret conference with Bess, he would
invite suspicion if he reëntered the newer cabin with him; his obvious
course would be to remain outside and leave the two together. Besides,
Lenore was the natural emissary: a woman herself and thus more likely
chosen for woman’s delicate missions, she was also closer to Doomsdorf
than any other of the three, the one most likely to act as a
confidential agent. Doomsdorf would certainly comply with Bess’s request
to meet him in her cabin. The fact of the squaw’s presence would be
sufficient explanation to him why she would not care to confer with him
in his own.
Ned would be waiting in the newer cabin when Lenore and Doomsdorf
returned. He would immediately excuse himself and pass out the door, at
the same instant that Bess extended a chair for Doomsdorf. And the
instant that he was seated Bess would dash a handful of the blinding
snuff into his eyes.
Ned’s axe leaned just without the cabin door. Doomsdorf would notice it
as he went in: otherwise his suspicions might be aroused. And in his
first instant of agony and blindness, Ned would seize the weapon, dash
back through the door, and make the assault.
The plan was more than a mere fighting chance. It would take Doomsdorf
off his guard. Ned had full trust in Bess’s ability to do her part of
the work; as to his own, he would strike the life from their brute
master with less compassion than he would slay a wolf. He could find no
break, no weak link in the project.
They had scarcely perfected the plan before Lenore appeared, on the way
to her cot. Just an instant she halted, her face and golden head a glory
in the soft light, as she regarded their glittering eyes.
Their eyes alone, luridly bright, told the story. Perhaps Ned was
slightly pale; nothing that could not be explained by the inroads made
upon him in the critical hour just passed. Perhaps Bess was faintly
flushed at the cheek bones. But those cold, shining eyes held her and
appalled her. “What is it?” she demanded.
Ned moved toward her, reaching for her hands. For a breath he gazed into
her lovely face. “Bess wants you to go—and tell Doomsdorf—to come
here,” he told her. His voice was wholly steady, every word clearly
enunciated; if anything, he spoke somewhat more softly and evenly than
usual. “Just tell him that she wants to see him.”
She took her eyes from his, glancing about with unmistakable
apprehension.
“Why?” she demanded. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“He _will_ be disturbed, before we’re done,” Ned told her grimly. “Just
say that—that she wants to see him. He’ll come—he’ll merely think it
has to do with some business we’ve just been talking over. Go at once,
Lenore—before he goes to bed. That’s your part—to bring him here. You
can leave him at the door if you like—you can even stay at the other
cabin while he comes.”
Her searching eyes suddenly turned in fascinated horror to Bess.
Standing near the open door, so that the room might not be filled with
the dust of the snuff and thus convey a warning to Doomsdorf, she was
emptying the contents of the snuff-box into her handkerchief. Her eyes
gleamed under her brows, and her hands were wholly steady. Lenore
shivered a little, her hands pressing Ned’s.
“What does it mean——?”
“Liberty! _That’s_ what it means, if the plan goes through.” For the
first time Ned’s voice revealed suppressed emotion. Liberty! He spoke
the word as a devout man speaks of God. “It’s the only chance—now or
never,” he went on with perfect coldness. “You’ve got to hold up and do
your share—I know you can. If we succeed—and we’ve got every
chance—it’s freedom, escape from this island and Doomsdorf. If we fail,
it’s likely death—but death couldn’t be any worse than this. So we’ve
nothing to lose—and everything to gain.”
Was it not true? Have not the greatest of all peoples always known that
it is better to die than to live as slaves? It was the very slogan of
the ages—the great inspiration without which human beings are not fit
to live. Overswept by their ardor Lenore turned back through the door.
Her instructions were simple. The easiest task of the three was hers.
Bess took one of the crude chairs, her handkerchief—clutched as if she
had been weeping—in her lap. Ned sat down in one of the other chairs,
intending to arise and excuse himself the instant Doomsdorf appeared.
His muscles burned under his skin.
It was only about fifty yards to the cabin. If Doomsdorf came at all, it
would be in the space of a few seconds. Lenore started out bravely: her
part of the task would be over in a moment. Just a few steps in the
glare of the Northern Lights, just a few listless words to Doomsdorf,
and liberty might easily be her reward. All the triumphs she had once
known might be hers again; luxury instead of hardship, flattery instead
of scorn—freedom instead of slavery. But what if the plan failed? Ned
had spoken bluntly, but beyond all shadow of doubt he had told the
truth. _Death_ would be the answer to all failure. Destruction for all
three.
The door of the cabin closed behind her, and Lenore was alone with the
night. The night was rather temperate, for these latitudes, yet her
first sensation was one of cold. It seemed to be creeping into her
spirit, laying its blasting hand upon her heart. The stars appalled her,
the Northern Lights were unutterably dreadful. She tried to walk faster,
but instead she found herself walking more slowly.
The wind stirred through the little spruce, whispering, whimpering,
trying to reach her ear with messages to which she dared not listen,
chilling her to the core, appalling her with its hushed, half-articulate
song of woe and death. There was nothing but Death on these snowy hills.
It walked them alone. It was Death that looked into her eyes now, so
close she could feel its icy hand on hers, its hollow visage leering
close to her own. Life might be hateful, its persecutions never done,
but Death was darkness, oblivion, a mystery and a terror beyond the
reach of thought.
So faint that it seemed some secret voice within her own being, the
long-drawn singsong cry of a starving wolf trembled down to her from a
distant ridge. Here was another who knew about Death. He knew the woe
and the travail that is life, utter subservience to the raw forces of
the North; and yet he dared not die. This was the basic instinct.
Compared to it freedom was a feeble urge that was soon forgotten. This
whole wintry world was peopled with living creatures who hated life and
yet who dared not leave it. The forces of the North were near and
commanding to-night: they were showing her up, stripping her of her
delusions, laying bare the secret places of her heart and soul, testing
her as she had never been tested before.
Could she too take the fighting chance? Could she too rise above this
awful first fear: master it, scorn it, go her brave way in the face of
it?
But before ever she found her answer, she found herself at the cabin
door. It seemed to her that she had crossed the intervening distance on
the wings of the wind. In as short a time more Doomsdorf could reach the
newer cabin,—and the issue would be decided. Either they would be free,
or under the immutable sentence of death; not just Bess and Ned, but
herself too. She would pay the price with the rest. The wind would sweep
over the island and never hear her voice mingling with its own. For her,
the world would cease to be. The fire was warm and kindly in the hearth,
but she was renouncing it, for she knew not what of cold and terror. Not
just Ned and Bess would pay the price, but she too. Listless, terrified
almost to the verge of collapse, she turned the knob and opened the
door. Doomsdorf had not yet gone to his blankets; otherwise the great
bolt of iron would be in place. He was still sitting before the great,
glowing stove, dreaming his savage dreams. The girl halted before him,
leaning against a chair.
At first her tongue could hardly shape the words. Her throat filled, her
heart faltered in her breast. “Bess—asked to see you,” she told him at
last. “She says for you to come—to her cabin.”
The man regarded her with quickening interest, yet without the slightest
trace of suspicion. It seemed almost incredible that he did not see the
withering terror behind those blanched cheeks and starting eyes and
immediately guess its cause: only his own colossal arrogance saved the
plot at the outset. He was simply so triumphant by what seemed to be
Bess’s surrender, so drunk with his success in handling a problem that
at first had seemed so difficult, that the idea of conspiracy could not
even occur to him. He hardly saw the girl before him; if he had noticed
her at first, she was forgotten at once in his exultation. Even the
lifeless tone in which she spoke made no impression upon him: he only
heard her words.
He got up at once. Lenore stared at him as if in a nightmare. She had
hoped in her deepest heart that he would refuse to come, that the great
test of her soul could be avoided, but already he was starting out the
door. She had done her part; she could wait here, if she liked, till the
thing was settled. In a few seconds more she would know her fate.
Yet she couldn’t stay here and wait. To Doomsdorf’s surprise, she
followed him through the door, into the glare of the Northern Lights.
She did not know what impulse moved her; she was only aware of the
growing cold of terror. Not only Ned and Bess would pay the price if the
plan failed. She must pay too. The thought haunted her, every step,
every wild beat of her heart.
All her life her philosophy had been of Self. And now, that Self was
once more in the forefront of her consciousness, she found her wild
excitement passed away, her brain working clear and sure. The night
itself terrified her no more. She was beyond such imaginative fears as
that: remembrance of _Self_, her _own_ danger and destiny, was making a
woman of her again. Only a fool forgot _Self_ for a dream. Only a madman
risked dear life for an ideal. Once more she was down to realities: she
was steadied and calmed, able to balance one thing with another. And now
she had at her command a superlative craft, even a degree of cunning.
She must not forget that lately her position had been one of comparative
comfort. She was a slave, fawning upon a brute in human form, but the
cold had mostly spared her; and she knew nothing of the terrible
hardships that had been the share of Ned and Bess. Yet she was taking
equal risks with them. It is better to live and hate life than to die;
it is better to be a living slave than a dead freeman. Besides, lately
she had been awarded even greater comforts, won by fawning upon her
master. Her privileges would be taken swiftly from her if the plan
failed. She would not be able to persuade Doomsdorf that she was
guiltless of the plot; she had been the agent in decoying him to the
cabin, and likely enough, since her work took her among the various
cabin stores, he would attribute to her the finding and smuggling out of
the tin of snuff. If the plot failed, Doomsdorf would punish her part
with death,—or else with pain and hardship hardly less than death. If
Bess failed to reach his eyes with the blinding snuff, if Ned’s axe
missed its mark, _she as well as they would be utterly lost_.
Doomsdorf was walking swiftly; already he was halfway from the door. The
desperate fight for freedom was almost at hand. But what was freedom
compared to the fear and darkness that is death?
The ideal sustained her no more. It brought no fire to her frozen heart.
It was an empty word, nothing that could thrill and move one of her kind
and creed. Its meaning flickered out for her, and terror, infinite and
irresistible, seized her like a storm.
There were no depths of ignominy beyond her now. She cried out shrilly
and incoherently, then stumbling through the snow, caught Doomsdorf’s
arm. “No, no,” she cried, fawning with lips and hands. “Don’t go in
there—they’re going to try to kill you. I didn’t have anything to do
with it—I swear I didn’t—and don’t make me suffer when I’ve saved
you——”
He shook her roughly, until the torrent of her words had ceased, and she
was silenced beneath his lurid gaze.
“You say—they’ve got a trap laid for me?” he demanded.
Her hands clasped before him. “Yes, but I say I’m not guilty——”
He pushed her contemptuously from him, and she fell in the snow. Then,
with a half-animal snarl that revealed all too plainly his murderous
rage, he drew his pistol from his holster and started on.