THE CLOSE OF THE WEEK-END
A sensation of dreadful pain swept through an eternity of obscurity,
impenetrable to all but a subconscious emotion. Horror floated through
a world unseen, unknown. Terror thrilled senses dead to all reality. An
abyss yawned on every hand, a black abyss in which stirred, all unseen,
a threat so overwhelming that the victim remained passive, defenceless;
waiting, waiting for the final crushing torture.
The blackness changed. It gave place to a deep, ruddy light. It was a
light which inspired a sensation of fierce burning. The scorch of it
was devastating, yet the torture went on as if the limit could never be
reached.
The ruddy light faded to a grey twilight, through which shot tongues of
forked flame, and, with each rift in the grey, pain shot a hundredfold
more intense for its broken continuity. A terrified shrinking resulted.
The moments of respite became a period of mental torture greater than
the reality of the stabs of blinding light.
It seemed that no suffering could ever equal such agony again. It was
living death.
Again it all changed. The bodily suffering no longer broke
intermittently. Terror had given place to a grinding physical burden of
agony in which something approaching consciousness had place. It came
with a hammering upon the straining brain, and beat its way through the
body, right down to the very depths of the tortured soul. It was
unbearable, yet its burden seemed inevitable, and complaint seemed
hushed by an irresistible power.
Then in the midst of all the torture a sound reached the victim. It was
the sound of a voice, of voices. Harsh, jarring voices, carrying threat
in every tone. It was the magic touch which brought about a vague
semi-consciousness, and Vita's eyes slowly opened.
The pain went on, burning, throbbing pain, but she did not mind it. She
was scarcely aware of it. The voices held her, and she struggled with
all her power to grasp and hold their meaning. But the effort was
beyond her. Only the words came, and with them a growing, unaccountable
fear inspired by the violence of their intonation.
"Trapped like rats in a pit," she heard a voice cry out in thick tones.
"That door. Fool! They must come that way. We can shoot them down as
they come. Trapped? They'll pay dearly for the trapping."
What were they talking of? And why in such tones? What were those other
sounds she heard? Vita remained unmoving, helpless, and without
understanding.
Suddenly a crash overwhelmed every other sound. It left her poor head
whirling with uncertainty.
Then something else shivered through her every nerve. Another
sound--different. There was a clatter and bumping, and strange, sharp
explosions, such as in a vague way she half remembered having heard
somewhere before. What was it? Each sound seemed to bite the air, echo,
then die out. Then quickly on its heels another followed, and then
another. Every explosion gave her a stab of exquisite pain in the head,
her aching, throbbing head, in which the sufferings of her body seemed
to find a sort of dull, constant echo.
Now came the sound of voices again. But they were indistinct
exclamations which conveyed nothing to her. What was that tearing and
crunching? A perfect pandemonium had suddenly been let loose, in which
voices and biting explosions blended with the rush and scuttling of
many feet. A dreadful nightmare of noise disturbed her. The hoarse
cries of the voices were distressing. Something, something---- Hark!
What was that? That voice. She knew it.
"Hold him! Gad! He's like a tiger. Smash his wrist! Only get that gun
from him! Ah! That's it. Now--see if he has any more weapons."
Full consciousness had suddenly awakened. The familiar voice had
succeeded where pandemonium had failed. Vita stirred with infinite
pain. With a great effort she moved her body. She could have wept with
the torture of it. That voice. She must see him. She must gaze upon the
face of the speaker. She must---- With a lurch she strove to raise
herself upon her elbow. For one dreadful second an agony surpassing
anything she had ever endured crowded her brain, and swept through her
nerves to every extremity of her body. Then she fell back, engulfed in
the black abyss of complete unconsciousness.
Three men were seated in the dishevelled saloon of the gently rocking
vessel. Brilliant electric light shone down upon the wreckage about
them. At the far side of the apartment lay the still form of a woman
stretched out upon a luxurious settee, which was built against the
ship's side. In another direction another inanimate form was stretched
out upon a lounge. But this was the lean figure of a tall man with grey
hair and bushy eyebrows. His face was ghastly, and his eyes were
staring. His square jaw was hanging loose, and his lips were agape.
These two figures seemed to have no interest for the three men who sat
facing each other. One of them was seated on a chair that was fixed to
the deck with its back swung round against the table. He was sitting in
a hunched attitude of great pain. One hand was supporting the other arm
just above the wrist. His stone-grey eyes burned with a desperate light.
The other men were within two yards of him. One, a youngish-looking
man, in British naval uniform, was seated on the edge of a table. With
his right hand he was grasping the butt of a revolver, whose muzzle was
lying across the fleshy part of his thigh. The other, in civil dress,
was astride of a chair.
The man in civil dress was speaking. His voice was stern and cold. And,
by the expression of his dark eyes, it was obvious that he was holding
himself under a great restraint.
"This is a bad end for a man holding the great position which Prince
Frederick von Berger occupies," he said. "I want you to understand,
Prince, that it is the end, just as surely as the sun will rise
to-morrow. Do you grasp the position? I am not here to taunt you with
it. But for your own sake I must make it clear to you. Your
fellow-conspirator, Von Salzinger, has by this time been lowered to his
last resting-place beneath the waters. For you there will be less
mercy."
He paused, narrowly observing the fierce light shining in the desperate
eyes. Ruxton had no desire for unnecessary cruelty, but Vita was lying
injured and unconscious just across the room, and he had no thought to
spare the author of her troubles.
"Make no mistake, Prince," he went on again, continuing his use of the
Prussian's own tongue, and fighting down his own deep feelings, "there
will be no succor from your countrymen. You have deliberately caused
the murder of Von Hertzwohl upon British soil, and for that you will
pay the full British penalty. That penalty, Prince, is the rope which
awaits every common murderer."
Von Berger threw up his head in a fury of denial. The naval man sat
alert, and the barrel of his revolver moved a shade. But the Prussian
made no attempt at the violence which was gleaming in his eyes. His
wrist had been smashed in the struggle which had taken place, and he
knew he had no chance with these men.
"England dare not place me on trial, and condemn me," he cried fiercely.
Ruxton raised his brows.
"Dare not? You can put those words out of your head, Prince. The time
has gone by when international relations could affect the
administration of our courts of justice. Your own country has taught us
the absurdity of such a policy. We have learned the necessity of
protecting our own at any cost--even at the cost of war. You will be
tried, and hanged for the murder you have committed."
The solemnity of Ruxton's words was not without effect. A curious
questioning incredulity crept into Von Berger's desperate eyes. His
lips parted to protest. Then they closed again in a spasm of pain. But
a moment later his cold voice was speaking.
"There is no power on earth which can give you the right to hand a
royal prince over to your police," he said. And his coldness and
calmness were a triumph of the man over physical suffering.
"There is no power on earth which will stop me doing so--if you land at
Dorby, where we shall presently head for."
Ruxton's manner was frigidity itself. His dark eyes looked steadily
into the other's.
Quite abruptly a hard, mirthless laugh broke the silence.
"If I land?"
"If you land."
"Will you explain?"
Ruxton shrugged coldly.
"Is there need? I am prepared to display a lenience which is the only
mercy you need hope for. You will be given the freedom of the deck for
half an hour. We are lying awash. There is only a bare rail about it, a
rail between you and the water. After that we return at once to
Dorby--and the authority which deals with every common felon."
The two men sat eye to eye for a few moments. It was a rapier-like
exchange of glances. It was the Prince who yielded. He stirred. A sweat
had broken out upon his forehead. His physical suffering was beyond
words. But he rose to his feet and stood firmly confronting his
antagonist.
"I will accept--the freedom of the deck," he said.
Frederick von Berger gazed out over the restless waters. He swayed
easily to the added motion of the now stationary vessel. Twenty feet
away stood the young naval officer lounging against the steel casing of
the doorway of the conning-tower. His eyes never left his charge. Nor
could he help a faint twinge of regret. He had been brought up in that
wonderful school of the British Navy in which physical bravery counts
for so much, and he knew that such was not lacking in the man whose
movements he was so closely following.
The night was clear and cold. A great wealth of stars shone down upon
the phosphorescent waste of water. So intense was their brilliancy that
even the distant sky-line, towards which Von Berger's gaze was turned,
stood out with remarkable clearness.
Beyond that sky-line lay Germany--the country whose curious fate it had
been to breed a race of brave men and brutes, and to mould them into
the single form of a splendid manhood. To that country the motionless
figure belonged, an epitome of those curious racial characteristics.
Birth had given him the place, and opportunity the power. Thus, through
a soulless intellect and courage, he had been able to help in the
fashioning of the monstrous machine, as yet unbroken, which was still
seeking to plough its furrows through a world's spiritual civilization
for its own ruthless ends.
Possibly he yearned for the cradle of his aspirations. Possibly now,
now that it lay so far away, hidden beyond the watery limits, he felt
something of the futility of the cold striving for earthly power. If it
were so his expression gave no sign. The eyes remained the same coldly
shining windows of an empty soul. The hard mouth was tightly shut, and
the muscles of his square jaw were tense. All he left for the shining
eyes of the night to witness were the beads of moisture upon his broad
forehead. And these were the simple outward signs of the frailty of the
human body, its vulnerability, its narrow limitations. The spirit
alone, whatever its quality, remained invincible.
He moved a step nearer the steel rail. He leant against it. Then, for
some terrible moments, from the manner in which he nursed his injured
member, agony seemed to supervene and shut out every other emotion.
The moments passed. The young naval officer shifted his position. The
strain was telling upon him.
The man at the rail moved again. His gaze was withdrawn from the
horizon. It was turned towards the sailor. The officer averted his
gaze. He could not face the eyes which were yet beyond his discernment.
He knew their expression without seeing it. He understood the man's
object. This was the moment he had awaited. The Teutonic mind was
silently hurling all the power of hate and defiant contempt of which
the distorted spirit was capable at those who had forced him to his
final desperate act.
There was the faintest sound of a splash. The young officer's eyes came
back, searching for his charge. But where Frederick von Berger had
stood there only remained the unbroken line of the rail.
Then a voice spoke sharply behind him. It was the voice of Ruxton
Farlow conveying orders to Captain Ludovic in the turret.
"Dorby without delay," he said. "The pilot will pick us up at the
Northbank buoy."