Dimsdale brings his accusing words to a close in a silence that is
almost painful in its intensity. All eyes are upon him. He remains
calm and unperturbed as ever, and there is no flush of triumph in his
face but rather on the contrary a slight pallor, befitting one who
has accomplished a duty, to his own cost.
A gurgling throaty sound diverts the gaze of all from the secretary
to the fallen victim of this duel.
Sheridan is trying to speak, and is clutching at his throat as if
something is there that blocks the passage of his words. His livid
face has changed to an angry blotchy purple, not pleasant to look
upon.
The game is up and he knows it. Then the furious torrent of his
abuse finds utterance.
"Curse, ye, ye murdherin' lawyer," he shouts at Dimsdale, "may the
divil take ye!--I'll keep it up no longer--why should I? Sure, 'tis
my glory and pride to call myself England's enemy! I defy ye! I'll
fight ye fair, and I'll tell ye all!"--he glares around the court
with such fierce blazing eyes that more than one man involuntarily
lowers his gaze before them--"No need for that sneaking hound to drag
the truth from me by inches--I'll not demean myself, talking to such
trash! 'Twill be my proudest boast that I did what I could, an' may
there be many to follow after me! I did not sail from America, then.
'Twas from a little spot on the coast of Scotland that I put out, the
very same day the _Marathon_ left harbour, knowing well the way she
would pass, an' prayin' in me heart I might be the desthruction of
her--as I would be of ivery ship in the cursed English Navy if 'twas
in my power to be! I hoped that I might fool thim on board of her
and bring them to their death!"
A gasp of horror at this devilish avowal escapes the admiral's lips.
But for this, not a sound nor a word is raised in interruption as
Sheridan goes on:
"An' we did fool ye, fine! I could have laughed aloud at the lot of
ye, poor simpletons that ye were, ready to listen to the first
foolish tale that was poured into your long ears! 'Tis the English
all over--and ye think yourselves the cleverest nation on earth.
Pah, I deshpise the lot of ye."
"Then it was you that--Call in the guard, we must have him under
arrest," exclaims the President.
"Under arrest is it? Dye think I hadn't made provision for the
chance of that same? Bad luck to me that I failed to blow up the
ship! Though as things turned out----"
"_He failed! Listen to him--do you hear what he says? He failed to
blow up the ship!_"--It is Stapleton who cries aloud like an inspired
prophet to whom has been revealed a life-giving message; and the
glory of this enlightenment transfigures his face with a wonderful
radiance.
He staggers across the room even as he speaks, and stands at Norah's
side. He would show her, it seems, that his love is not dead, and
would have her to understand how utterly glad he is that his hateful
duty has been accomplished without bringing the dreaded results upon
her head.
But she sees nothing of her lover's pleading looks and gestures. She
has hidden her face, and is cowering down before the stinging fury of
Patrick's invective. Well she knew that her cousin would not spare
her.
"As for you, you traitress," he snarles at her, "black shame to you
for preventing me! To hell with you for a perjured girl that has
brought disgrace upon her country and dishonoured her mother's grave!
Ah, then, don't think ye'll escape for your treachery--you and your
fine lover for whose sake ye've sold yourself. I say, to hell with
ye--to hell with ye all! _The Saints above be praised, I've still
got the bomb!_"
Before anyone can realise what the man is doing, much less make any
attempt to prevent him, he plunges his hand beneath his coat and
draws from its hiding place there something which he holds closely to
his eyes and fumbles with hastily.
What this object may be is not clearly discernible; it is hidden by
Sheridan's hands except for a momentary gleam of white metal.
But Norah knows and so does Netta. Both the girls spring to their
feet and raise their voices simultaneously in a warning cry.
Too late! Patrick has succeeded in securing the moments necessary
for adjusting the bomb for instantaneous explosion, and with a
mocking laugh of triumph he flings it to the ground in the midst of
the court.
There is a shriek from Netta--the first start of a movement on the
part of everyone to make a rush for the doors; as if there could be
time to save themselves--and the crashing noise of the metal bomb
falling on the wooden floor.
And no other sound follows. The bomb has failed to explode!
Already most of those present are crowding at the doorways. Sheridan
stands with folded arms, smiling contemptuously; he knows that it is
only an affair of an instant, and that before anyone can force a way
from the room the whole building will be wrecked to atoms.
Mrs. Shaw, brave woman, has not joined in the general stampede. She
is seizing the two girls and endeavouring to pull them down to the
ground as the safest place where little safety of any sort is to be
found.
But Norah tears herself away.
Ah, what is the rash girl about to do?
Stapleton sees, and leaps after her to prevent her; but he is not in
time, she is too quick for him.
She dashes across the floor of the room to where the bomb lies in the
midst. It is but a second since it has left Sheridan's hands. He
too, starts forward to stop her, but she evades him.
She has picked up the bomb and is holding it tightly in her hand. No
time to alter the adjustment now--there is only one thing to be done,
and she does it.
She takes a few quick running strides towards one of the windows, and
hurling the bomb with all her strength sends it crashing through the
glass.
It scarcely touches the ground outside before it explodes with a
deafening roar. The whole building rocks, and the windows of the
room are blown inwards, the clatter of broken glass and splintered
framework adding to the noise and confusion.
Stapleton has reached Norah's side a moment after the bomb leaves her
hand, and is bending over her to shelter her with his body as the
building sways with the concussion.
A moment, and the danger is seen to be over. The force of the
explosion has spent itself in the open air, and save for a few
falling stones and loosened plaster, broken windows and unhinged
doors, the house is unscathed, and so are all within it.
Still holding Norah in his arms, Stapleton whispers incoherent words
of love and admiration for her deed. He scarcely knows what he is
saying; but he knows that he will never let her go away from him
again.
And, indeed, she pays but little heed to her lover's words. Gently
disengaging herself from his arms she turns from him and moves
towards the admiral, who is one of the few who have not attempted to
escape from the room; both he and Dimsdale have kept their places
calmly through it all.
Norah is standing before the admiral and looking up appealingly into
his kindly face. She comes to him as a suppliant; but as a suppliant
who claims rather than begs for mercy.
"It was quite true," she says in a low voice, but so clearly that
everyone can hear what she is saying, "there was a bomb--but you have
seen what has become of it! That bomb was never used for the wicked
purpose it was intended for; whatever it was that sank the
_Marathon_, it was no deed of ours."
"Bad cordite, right enough; no doubt about that now!" interrupts
Dimsdale, speaking quite cheerfully as if it were something he is
greatly pleased about.
"And I saved you, I saved the lives of all of you," continues Norah's
pleading voice. "That makes some difference, doesn't it? Will that
atone for what I have done?"
The admiral hardly knows how to answer her in words, though his
moistening eyes show what he thinks of the brave girl who has risked
her own life to make amends for the past.
It will not be a difficult matter to deal leniently with these girls
who have been misled and have now striven their hardest to make
amends. Indeed, there is not much that can be said to their charge
even in intention.
With Patrick Sheridan, however, the ease stands very differently.
Not only has he deliberately made the attempt to destroy one of His
Majesty's ships, an attempt thwarted by those who were to have been
his accomplices, but now there is this other murderous outrage of
attempted wholesale slaughter. But where is Sheridan? He is not to
be seen. Has he succeeded in escaping in the general confusion?
What is that little group of officers over there in the corner of the
room as if with the purpose of hiding something from view?
From the group emerges the fleet surgeon, Stapleton's fleet surgeon,
and coming up to the admiral whispers to him to get the ladies out of
the room as quickly as he can.
No charge will ever be laid against Patrick Sheridan. The justice of
Fate has found him out, fulfilling that ancient doom pronounced upon
the doers of evil; "_they have digged a pit for others and are fallen
into the midst of it themselves._"
Just a tiny fragment of the steel bomb has winged its way in a flight
so direct that surely the hand of Destiny must have guided it, and it
lies buried in the brain of the man who devised both the infernal
instrument itself and its still more infernal purpose.
Norah divines the meaning of the fleet surgeon's whisper; she has
guessed what it is that lies concealed by that hedge of men.
"No need, sir, to hide it from me," she says, undaunted even by this
dread blow, "I know what it is! Whatever else Patrick was, he was no
coward; he was willing to die with the rest of us for what he thought
right. Let me go to him. He was a brave man."
"And you are brave, too," says the admiral, "it is you who have saved
all our lives!"
"At the risk of your own, Norah, my beloved," adds Stapleton.
"What did that matter?" exclaims the girl, locking her hand into that
of her lover. "That was a very little thing! What value is my life?"
"It is everything in the world to me," Stapleton answers her.
_Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London and Reading_