"FROM OUT LIFE'S THUNDERS TO A STRANGE, SWEET WORLD"
She was dead, and, after all, her end had been crowned with peace.
She did not hear the door thrown roughly open, the swelling of angry
voices, or the fast-approaching tramp of many feet. Nor did Paul heed
any of these signs of coming danger; he had folded his strong arms
around her, and his lips, pressed close to her, seemed to draw the
last quivering breath from her frail body. It was only when her head
sunk back, and he knew that she was dead, that he laid her reverently
down and turned around.
The room was full of strange flashes of light and grotesque shadows
falling upon the white faces of half a dozen monks. Standing in front
of them was Father Andrew, and by his side was an old man, tall and
straight, with snow-white beard and hair. He stood in full glare of
a torch held by one of the monks behind him, and his face seemed like
the face of a corpse, save for the steady, malignant light in his
jet-black eyes. As Paul turned round, with his features suddenly
visible in a stream of lurid light, he raised his arm and pointed a
long, skinny finger steadily towards him.
"The son of the devil!" he cried, his deep, tremulous voice awakening
strange echoes in the high vaulted chamber. "Welcome! Welcome! Thrice
welcome!"
Paul straightened himself, and reverently laid the little white hand
which he had been clasping across the coverlet. "She is dead!" he said
solemnly. "What I came here to learn from you, I have learnt from her.
Let me go!"
He moved a step forward, but the old man remained there in the way,
motionless, and around the door were gathered a solid phalanx of
monks. Paul halted, conscious at once of his danger. The white faces
of the monks were all bent upon him, full of savage, animal ferocity,
and a gleam of something still worse lit up the dark eyes of that old
man. Their very silence was unnatural and oppressive. Paul bore it,
looking round amongst them with questioning eyes, until he could bear
it no longer.
"Am I a prisoner?" he cried. "What do you want with me? Speak! some of
you! Count of Cruta, answer me!"
A dull, hollow laugh echoed through the chamber. Paul turned away,
sick with horror. It was like being in the power of a hoard of madmen.
The air of the place, too, seemed suddenly to have become stifling.
The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead in great beads. It
was a relief when the Count spoke.
"You have done well, Paul de Vaux, to find your way here--here
into the very presence of a dying woman, and force from her lips a
confession that has made you glad. You think that you will go back now
to your country, and cheat me of my well-planned vengeance. You will
hold up your head once more; you will mock at the Church's rights. You
will go your way through the world rich and honoured; you will call
yourself by an old name. You will pluck all the roses of life. Worthy
son of a worthy father! Look at me! Who was it who blasted my life, my
happiness, my honour, my name? A name grander and older than his, as
the oak is older and grander than the currant bush. When he took my
daughter into his arms, he wrote the funeral of his race! I played
with him, as a tiger plays with a miserable Hindoo! When life was
sweetest to him, I struck. He came here for mercy; I laughed, and I
was merciful. I stabbed him to the heart. The knife hangs side by side
with the arms of the Crusaders of Cruta. You are his son! You are the
next to die! You will not leave these walls alive! These monks know
you! It is you who hold the lands of De Vaux, which by right belong to
their Holy Church. You would go back to resist their just claims! The
good of the Church demands that you should not go back! You shall not
go back! The Count of Cruta demands that you shall not go back. You
shall not go back! You shall be slain, even where your father was
slain, but you shall not creep back to your hole to die! Your bones
shall whiten and shrivel upon the rocks. Your blood shall be an
honoured stain upon my floor. Monks of Cruta! there he stands! He who
alone can resist your just possession of the broad lands and abbey
of De Vaux. The despoiled Church cries to you to strike. The end is
great! Haul him away!"
They were around him like a pack of wolves, their lean faces hungry
and fierce, and their long, skinny fingers clutching at his throat and
at his clothing. One silently drew a knife and brandished it over him.
Paul wrenched himself free with a tremendous effort, but they were
upon him again. They forced him slowly backwards, backwards even
across the bed where that dead woman lay with her eyes as yet
unclosed. The great heat, as much as their numbers, was overpowering
him. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a choking in his throat.
Again the long knife was lifted; other hands held him motionless,
ready for the blow. He was too weak to struggle now. He saw the blue
steel quivering in the air. Then he closed his eyes.
What was that? There was a shrill cry from one of the monks, and Paul,
finding their grasp relaxed, started up. They were cowering down like
a flock of frightened animals. The room seemed full of red fire. The
glass in the windows cracked; it flew into pieces, and a column of
smoke curled in. The door was thrown open; Guiseppe stood for a moment
on the threshold.
"Fly!" he cried. "Fly! The castle is on fire. The flames are near!"
They rushed for the door like panic-stricken cattle before a great
prairie fire, biting and trampling upon one another in their haste.
Paul followed, but the old Count stood in his way, trembling, not with
fear, but with anger.
"Cowards! beasts!" he cried after the flying monks. "But you shall not
escape me!"
He wound his long arms around his enemy, but the strength of his
manhood was gone, and without effort Paul threw him on one side. Then,
through the smoke, he found himself face to face with Guiseppe.
"This way, Signor!" he said coolly. "Follow me closely!"
The old Count was up again, and seemed about to attack them. Suddenly
he changed his mind, and with a hoarse cry, ran down an empty
corridor. Guiseppe and Paul turned in the opposite direction.
"We must fly, Signor!" the man cried. "He goes to the cellars! He is a
devil! He will blow up the castle! Cover up your nose and your mouth!"
They hurried along wide, deserted corridors, down stone stairs, and
finally reached what seemed to be a circular underground passage.
Round and round they went, until Paul's head swam; but the air was
cooler, and every moment brought relief. Suddenly there was a cold
breeze. They turned one more corner, and Guiseppe stopped. They were
in an open aperture facing the sea, barely twenty feet below. A small
boat with a single man in it was there waiting.
"Dive!" cried Guiseppe. "We must not wait for the rope!"
Over they went almost simultaneously. The shock of the cold water
sent the blood dancing once more through Paul's veins. He came to the
surface just after his guide, cool and refreshed. They scrambled into
the boat, and Paul gave a little cry of wonder. They were drifting on
a sea of ruddy gold, and the space all around them was brilliant with
the reflection. High above, the flames were leaping up towards the
sky, and the dull sing-song of their roar set the very air vibrating.
Guiseppe, still dripping, seized an oar.
"Pull, for your lives! pull!" he cried anxiously.
His companion shrugged his shoulders. "But why?"
"Ask no questions! You will see!"
They did see. They were barely half-way to the yacht, when there came
the sound of a low rumbling from the castle. Suddenly it broke into a
roar. Belching sheets of flame burst out on every side. Huge cracks in
that brilliant light were suddenly visible in the walls, creeping in a
jagged line from the foundation to the turret. Fragments of the
stone work flew outwards and upwards. It seemed as though some mighty
internal force were splitting the place up. The men in the boat sat
breathless and transfixed. Only Guiseppe whispered: "It is the old
Count! He is the devil! He has blown the place up!"
There was another, and then a series of explosions. Fragments of the
rock and stone fell hissing into the water scarcely a hundred feet
away. Great waves rolled towards them. It seemed as though the earth
underneath were shaking. Then it all died away, and there was silence.
Only the blackened walls of the castle remained, with the dying flames
still curling fitfully around them. The air grew darker, and the
colour faded from the sea.
"It is the last of the Count of Cruta, and his castle of horrors!"
cried Guiseppe. "God be thanked!"