Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: The figure remained as before, staring past the lantern
at the solitary oak. PAGE 4]
_The_
GOLDEN BOUGH
BY
GEORGE GIBBS
AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET WITNESS," "PARADISE GARDEN,"
"THE YELLOW DOVE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
TORONTO
GEORGE J. McLEOD, LIMITED
PUBLISHERS
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1918, BY THE PICTORIAL REVIEW CO.
Printed in the United States of America
TO
DR. JOHN BACH McMASTER
Your Muse, a-weary with the stress
Of putting facts in careful dress,
Has doffed her dignity and made
Of History a masquerade.
She prays you, sir, to follow me
Into the Realm of Fantasy
Where Clio in a cap and bells,
With blither mien, our story tells.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Crepuscule
II. Enigma
III. Mystery
IV. Tanya
V. Khodkine
VI. Zoya
VII. Camouflage
VIII. Disaster
IX. Surprises
X. Flight
XI. The Plot
XII. Pursuit
XIII. A Scent
XIV. The Clue
XV. The Turkish Cigarette
XVI. Rescue
XVII. The Central Committee
XVIII. Von Stromberg
XIX. A Samaritan
XX. Escape
XXI. The Visitor
XXII. Pilgrims
XXIII. The Priest
XXIV. A Night Adventure
XXV. Kempelstein
XXVI. Finis
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the solitary
oak . . . _Frontispiece_
The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon
Her grave eyes met his in one luminous moment
"Listen to me, Philippe! I swear to you that you have misunderstood"
"Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe"
THE GOLDEN BOUGH
CHAPTER I
CREPUSCULE
In the still evening air the dust hung golden for a moment and then
slowly settled on tree and hedgerow; from a distance, faintly
diminishing, the tinkle of sheep bells, the call of a bird, the sighing
of a breeze, and then, silence.
Against the stillness, suddenly, as though pricked upon the velvety
background of the summer night, a quick, sharp staccato note near at
hand, a crackle as of brittle things breaking and a large thorn bush by
the side of the deserted road quivered and shook as its leaves parted
and a head appeared.
It was an eager, boyish head, but almost unpleasantly alert, its brows
furrowing, its dark eyes peering to right and left, with a swift
furtiveness that held little of assurance. A moment of quick inspection
and a pair of broad shoulders emerged, followed by a body and long legs
which strode into the middle of the road where the man paused a moment
looking at the afterglow in the west and then set off with long steps to
the south. He wore what had once been a uniform of the Legionnaire, but
rough contacts and hard usage had eliminated all distinguishing marks,
and a coating of dust and stain had further disguised him. It seemed as
though Nature, conspiring as it does against the enemies of its wild
people, had given this man its protective coloring, that he might elude
those who sought him. To carry the analogy further he was shaggy,
unkempt, dusty and lean, like a brown bear sniffing the breeze after a
long period of hibernation.
The stride was rapid but it was cautious too and once at a fancied
shadow in the road ahead of him, the soldier darted into the bushes and
crouched listening. Fear had made him cautious, but his necessity knew
no law, so he rose at last, went onward more rapidly into the gathering
dusk, aware that the end of his pilgrimage was near at hand--there just
beyond the hills before him in the free republic of the Swiss.
As he neared the lights of the village, his pace grew slower, and
leaving the road he turned into a meadow to his right in the direction
of a grove of trees which seemed to promise a temporary refuge while he
planned a raid upon some nearby larder or hen-roost. But contrary to
his expectations, when he reached the shadows of the trees, he found his
way impeded by a high stone wall, which thrust suddenly upon him out of
the darkness. A wall! A monastery? Or a barracks perhaps, full of the
hated gray uniforms guarding the frontier! He paused a moment,
deliberating, but conscious of more than a mild curiosity as to the
purpose of this walled enclosure, high up on this mountain side which
seemed so peaceful and so free from the horrors he had left back there
in the levels below. Only yesterday, down the valley he had seen
them--the gray uniforms--and here too, at any moment...
He grinned at the wall. He was weary of flight. A wall. A garden
within--a monastery most likely ... sanctuary.... At any rate he could
go no further without food. This place would do as well as another. If
there were monks within there would also be a kitchen and with such a
wall, a larder unguarded. Moving to the right he found a tree the lower
branches of which extended over the coping of the wall. At the foot of
the tree he paused again, looking upward curiously, for upon the leaves
of the tree he saw the reflection of yellow lights which seemed to be
moving within the enclosure. Climbing noiselessly he drew himself to the
level of the coping of the wall, and peered over. Through the foliage
of his tree he could distinguish nothing clearly but he was aware of a
lantern and a figure which moved slowly in an open space just beyond the
thicket below him. It seemed that the figure wore a hood upon its head,
and a gown. A monastery, of course--and this a monk, the gardener
perhaps upon a lonely vigil of penance and meditation.
In any event the fugitive was now in no immediate danger from his
pursuers, so he crawled out along a heavy branch of the tree which
extended over the garden and noiselessly lowered himself to the top of
the wall.
Here he hung in a moment of indecision, preparing an avenue of escape
should his venture prove hazardous, and then peering again toward the
dark habit of the holy man, now in silhouette against the light, he
lowered himself by his hands and dropped to the ground. Danger had made
him skillful, but he was aware of the thud of his heavy boots in the
soft loam and crouched cautiously behind the thicket, ready for the
slightest movement of alarm in the figure by the lantern. After a
moment in which he reassured himself that the sound of his fall had not
awakened the watcher from his revery he crawled forward until he reached
the furthermost bush where he paused again, still in hiding and peered
across the small stretch of lawn toward the light.
There was a raised dais or platform of earth, approached from two sides
by steps of stone. There were two stone benches above, and upon one of
them, leaning forward toward a small oak tree in the center of the
guarded space, sat the dark figure which had carried the lantern. The
eyes of the Legionnaire, now grown accustomed to the glow of the light,
made sure that the figure had not moved, nor was aware of his silent and
furtive approach. Two plans of action suggested themselves, one to move
behind the foliage to the right and intercept the monk with the lantern
should he attempt to flee toward the lights of the house nearby, the
other to risk all in a frank statement, a plea for charity and asylum.
But as the figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the
solitary oak tree as though lost in contemplation of its branches, the
Legionnaire rose, silently crossed the lawn, and reached the stone steps
where the crackle of a twig beneath his foot with a sudden and startling
clearness revealed his presence. He was aware of the dark figure above
him springing to its feet and turning with a swift graceful motion which
swept the dark cowl from its curly head and betrayed the identity of its
owner--a girl--quite lovely in her fear of this tattered brown ghost
that had come upon her vigils.
In an awed whisper, she spoke a few words in a language he did not
understand and then was silent, watching him, frightened.
"Bitte, Fraeulein," he began softly.
The sound of his voice reassured her. She turned toward him and seemed
to search his figure more intently. And then in French peremptorily,
"What do you want? Who are you?" she said.
At the sound of the French tongue spoken rapidly and without a trace of
accent, the brown ghost smiled eagerly. "Ah, Mademoiselle is French.
Then I am sure of her charity and forgiveness."
He had put one foot upon the lowest step of the dais when she took a
pace toward him and extended her cloaked arms as though barring the way,
repeating her former questions.
"What are you doing here? And what do you want?" "I am hungry,
Mademoiselle, also thirsty, for I have come far."
Her glance swept his figure and then, as though identifying him,
returned with more assurance to his face.
"You are a soldier, a Frenchman?"
"A soldier----" He hesitated, looking down at his tattered sleeve. And
then more deliberately as his gaze sought her face, "Mademoiselle is not
a German. No German speaks French as you do."
"And what?"
"Merely that I am an escaped prisoner of Germany on my way to
Switzerland," he smiled. "You see, I am frank with you. Something
tells me that you're friendly."
"Switzerland!" she said. "Did you not know that you were already
fifteen kilometers within the Swiss border?"
"Switzerland? Here?" The mingled expression of bewilderment and
surprise upon his dirty face was comical.
"Switzerland!" he gasped again.
"You must have passed the frontier in the night," added the girl.
"You're quite safe now, I should say."
"Sacred name of a pipe!" he grinned. And then, with an air of apology,
"Pardon, Mademoiselle. If I'd known that I'd passed the border, I
shouldn't have intruded. But I was hungry, thirsty, too, and I thought
that I might find meat, drink, a place to sleep in peace."
He paused, waiting for the girl to speak, but she said nothing and only
stood frowning toward the lights at the other side of the garden.
"Of course, Mademoiselle, since I'm now safe from pursuit, if you wish
it, I can retire by the way I came." He shrugged and turned half away
when the sound of her voice halted him.
"I--I do not wish to be inhospitable," she said softly. "It is your
right to ask asylum of us. But you have come, Monsieur, upon cloistered
soil----"
"A convent?"
"No, not a convent," she said "But private land, dedicated to solitude,
and--and----" she paused uncertainly. "You would not understand."
He waited for her to go on. But she stopped abruptly and said no more.
The strangeness of her garb, the mingled frankness and reticence of her
speech, which excited friendly curiosity while it repelled inquiry, gave
the fugitive a new interest in the cowled figure, an interest in which
even the pangs of hunger and weariness were forgotten. From the top
step she towered above him, her dark robe hanging with a majestic
stateliness which somehow belied the testimony of the curly reddish
brown hair and the red lips which had already been perilously near a
roguish smile. Something in the eager expression of the face of her
guest as he looked at her made her suddenly aware of the exigencies of
the occasion, for she drew the cowl about her head and came down the
steps, leaving the lantern upon the stone bench beside the small tree.
"Wait here," she said quietly, "at the foot of the steps. If you will
promise me not to----" She turned and looked toward the mound. "If you
will remain here without moving, I'll see what can be done."
"I will promise anything, Mademoiselle."
They looked into each other's eyes a moment, smiling in a friendly way,
and then she passed him and vanished within the house.
The soldier took off his cap and rubbed his head thoughtfully.
"Cloistered soil----" The phrase hung in his ears. A queer place this,
a queer creature this girl. To his western eyes she seemed better suited
to a tennis match or a game of golf than to this mooning by lamp light,
with shadows in eyes which were only meant for joy and laughter. What
was her nationality? Not French, though she spoke it like a native, not
Swiss, and surely not German, something more Easternly, Oriental almost.
She was a paradox, a lovely paradox indeed to eyes long starved of
beauty and gentleness.
But other considerations were less important to the fugitive than the
gnawing ache of his hunger and the demands of a body already taxed for
many weeks to its utmost. Obeying the injunction of the girl not to
move, he sank to the stone step. When she returned, she found him with
his head bent forward upon his knees, already dozing; but at the light
touch upon his shoulders he sprang to his feet, his club raised upon the
defensive, almost oversetting the dish which carried his supper.
"Be careful," said the girl.
He stared at her in a moment of incomprehension, but the sight of the
bread, meat and cheese, quickly restored him to sanity.
"I--I beg pardon," he began, "I dreamed----"
But his hands were already reaching forward toward the dish and with a
smile she handed it to him.
"Sit again, eat and drink. There is milk."
He obeyed, wasting no words and she sat beside him, watching calmly
while he bolted the food like a famished wolf. He finished what was on
the platter and all of the milk before he spoke again. Then he wiped
his mouth on the back of his hand and gave a great grunt of
satisfaction.
"Shall I bring you more?" she asked.
"No, no, thanks. You're very good, Mademoiselle. I didn't know I was so
hungry."
"Are you sure you've had enough?"
"Oh yes."
"When was the last time that you ate?"
"The day before yesterday. I didn't dare to leave the woods, even at
night."
"You've traveled far?"
"A million miles, I think. I don't know how far. They had me working
on the railroad near Mannheim."
"And you escaped?"
"At night, from the pen. They shot at me, but I swam down a stream and
got away. I lived on berries for a while--and potatoes, when I could
steal them. I'm a living example of food conservation. It was risky
work approaching the farm houses, on account of the dogs. Some of us may
think Germany will go to the dogs, but I'm sure of one thing and that is
that all the dogs in the world have gone to Germany. And they never
sleep. I went miles out of my way to avoid the roads. You're the first
human being I've spoken to for weeks. It's quite extraordinary to be
able to talk again, to have some one listen. Sometimes in the deep
woods I used to talk to myself just to hear the sound of my own voice."
"I'm very sorry for you."
There was no doubting the sincerity of her tone or the gentleness in her
eyes.
"Sorry? Are you? That's very wonderful. I thought that people had
stopped being sorry for anything in this world."
"It's terrible to be so bitter."
He laughed. "I'm not bitter. I never felt more amiable in my life.
But the world has gone mad, Mademoiselle."
"The Germans treated you badly?"
He smiled and shrugged.
"What would you have? It is war."
"It is terrible. And what will you do now that you are across the
border? Will they not intern you?"
"I must find civilian clothing."
"And then?"
He laughed joyously.
"I will cross into France at the Swiss border, and rejoin my regiment.
_Parbleu_! There are some there who will think I have risen from the
dead."
She was silent for a moment regarding him thoughtfully, her eyes
brightening with a new interest. At first he had seemed a man of middle
age, a broken man, such as passed begging along the roads of the
village. And the dirt and the ragged beard that covered his face had
done nothing to dispel the illusion. But she saw now how far she had
been mistaken, for his laughter rippled forth from his lean muscular
throat as though in pure joy at its own utterance. He was not
bitter--he was merely experienced.
"You're a Frenchman, Monsieur?"
"No, Mademoiselle, an American."
"American! And you've fought long for France?"
"More than two years."
"You were living in France?"
"No, Mademoiselle, in America. But I could not stand what happened in
Belgium. And so I came. It's very simple."
"But you speak French----"
"German and Italian. I've been much in Europe. I had a gift for
languages. But I'm not of much account otherwise. I'm a
ne'er-do-well--a black sheep." He grinned at her.
"I do look rather black now, don't I? You'd be surprised to see how
much better I look when I'm clean."
"I don't doubt it, Monsieur."
Youth called to youth. Her laugh echoed softly among the venerable
trees and as she raised her chin, the cowl slipped from her head again
disclosing her curly hair, a copper-colored nimbus against the glow of
the lantern.
He turned a little toward her and glanced at her with more assurance,
and then with a smile.
"You're just a girl, aren't you?"
She laughed again.
"What did you think I was?"
"I didn't know," he said more slowly. "You seemed something between a
Shade and a Mother-Superior."
"A very inferior Mother-Superior, Monsieur," she smiled, and then with
more soberness, "I don't wonder you were perplexed. Sometimes I am a
little perplexed myself----"
She halted and did not resume, and so:
"I should not be inquisitive," he said, "Your hospitality gives me no
further claim----"
"What is it that you wish to know?"
"Who and what you are. Is it not natural that I should like to know to
whom I am indebted----"
"It doesn't matter. What I have done is little enough beside what you
have suffered for poor bleeding France. At least we are allies."
"You----"
"A Russian----"
"Ah----"
"A modern Russian, Monsieur. A free spirit of the times in which we
live. It is the aim of my life to do for my own country what you have
done for France."
"But to fight, Mademoiselle----?"
"With subtler weapons than yours. It is to that I dedicate my life----"
She rose suddenly as though realizing that she had already said too
much. She picked up the dish and bowl and took an irresolute step away
from him. "I would like to ask you to stay, but----"
She paused and whispered quickly. "He comes. Say nothing. Let me tell
your story. Perhaps you may remain to sleep here."
And following her glance, he saw a figure emerging from the gloom in the
direction of the house, the tall figure of a man, with shoulders bent
and eager eyes which, like those of a black nocturnal cat had already
caught a pale reflection of the lantern's gleams.