THAT WE ONLY KNEW THE SECRET
"Well," remarked Milton Rhodes, his expression one of the utmost
gravity, "when in Drome, Bill, do as the Dromans."
And we returned the bow of the Hypogeans, whereupon the men stepped
back to their weapons, which they at once resumed, and the young women,
without moving from the spot, inclined the head to us in a most stately
fashion. Bow again from Rhodes and myself.
This ceremony over--I hoped that we had done our part handsomely--the
angel turned to us and told us (in pantomime, of course) that we were
now friends and that her heart was glad.
"Friends!" said I to myself. "You are no gladder, madam, than I am; but
all the same I am going to be on my guard."
The girls moved to the angel and, with touching tenderness, examined
her bleeding hand, which the younger at once proceeded to bandage
carefully. She had made to bathe the hurt, but this the angel had not
permitted--from which it was patent, I thought, that there would be no
access to water for some time yet.
Our Amalthea and her companions now held an earnest consultation. Again
we heard her pronounce that word Drome. And again we saw in the look
and mien of the others doubt and uneasiness and something, I thought,
besides. But this was for a few moments only. Either they acquiesced
wholly in what the angel urged, or they masked their feelings.
I wished that I knew which it was. And yet, had I known, I would have
been none the wiser, forsooth, unless I had been cognizant of what it
was that the angel was urging so earnestly and with such confidence.
That it was something closely concerning ourselves was, of course,
obvious. That it (or part of it) was to the effect that we should be
taken to some place was, I believed, virtually certain. Not that this
made matters a whit clearer or in any measure allayed my uneasiness.
For where were we to be taken? And to what? To Drome? But what and
where was this Drome? Was Drome a place, was it a thing, was it a human
being, or what was it?
Such were some of the thoughts that came to me as I stood there.
But what good to wonder, to question when there could be no answer
forthcoming? Sooner or later the answer would be ours. And, in the
meantime--well, more than sufficient unto the day was the mystery
thereof. And, besides, hadn't Rhodes and I come to find mysteries?
Assuredly. And assuredly it was not at all likely that we would be
disappointed.
This grave matter, whatever it was, decided, the angel plunged into a
detailed account of what had happened on the bridge. We thought that we
followed her recital pretty closely, so expressive were her gestures.
When she told how we had saved her from that frightful chasm, she was
interrupted by exclamations, all eyes were turned upon us, and I felt
certain in that moment that we were indeed friends. Still Heaven only
knew what awaited us. It was well, of course, to be sanguine; but that
did not mean that we should blink facts, however vague and mysterious
those facts might be.
There was a momentary pause. When she went on, I saw the angel's lower
lip begin to tremble and tears come into her eyes. She was describing
the death of her demon, her poor, poor demon. Well, as regards
appearances, I must own that I would greatly prefer that hideous
ape-bat of hers to many a bulldog that I have seen. The others too
looked distressed. And, indeed, I have no doubt that we ourselves, had
we known all about demons, would have been--well, at least troubled.
Little did Milton and I dream that the loss of that winged monster
might entail upon our little band the most serious consequences. So,
however, it was, as we were soon to learn.
When she had ended her account, the angel turned to us forthwith and
went through an earnest and remarkable pantomime. She and the others
awaited our answer with the most intense interest. But the only answer
that we could give her was that we did not understand. That pantomime
had been wholly unintelligible to Milton Rhodes and myself. I say
wholly unintelligible; we could see, however, that it had something to
do with ourselves and something to do with _something_ up above; but
everything else in it was an utter mystery.
The angel went through it again, more slowly, more carefully and more
fully this time. But still we could not understand.
"Perhaps," I suggested, "she could tell us with paper and pencil."
"Not a bad idea, Bill."
Thereat Rhodes produced pencil and notebook. These he gave to the
angel, with a sign that she put it down in the book. She regarded
the pencil curiously for some moments, tried it upon the paper, and
then--with some difficulty and undoubtedly some pain, what with her
hurt hand--she began. Rhodes moved to her right side, I to her left.
Yes, there could be no mistaking that: she had drawn the Tamahnowis
Rocks. Then she drew a crevasse and two figures, plainly Rhodes and
myself, going down into it. That was clear as the day. Then she put
those figures that were Rhodes and I into the tunnel, and, presto, with
a wave of the hand, she brought them down to that very spot where we
were standing. Clear again, lovely Sibyl. What next? More figures, and
more and more; and were they too coming down into the tunnel? Yes, at
last it all was plain, at last we wise numskulls understood her.
_Were we alone?_
Rhodes made it clear to her that we were. But he did not stop there; he
proceeded to make it clear to her that _we only_ knew the secret. She
was some time in understanding this; but, when she did understand it,
what a look was that which passed across her lovely Sibylline features!
"Great Heaven," said I to myself, "he's gone and done it now!"
The look was one of joy, the look of a soul triumphant. In a moment,
however, it was gone; her features were only lovely, impassive.
But the thoughts and the feelings which that strange look of hers had
aroused were not gone. I felt something like a shudder pass to my
heart. Of a truth, this lovely woman was dreadful.
I glanced at Rhodes; I thought that even he looked grave and troubled.
Well, so I thought, might he be.
I said nothing, however, until the angel had rejoined her companions.
Then:
"There can be not the slightest doubt that they look with great fear
upon the coming of people from that world above, a world as mysterious,
I suppose, to them as this subterranean world of theirs is to us. And,
now they know that they have the great secret also when they have you
and me--well, Milton, old _tillicum_, I think it will indeed be strange
if either of us ever again casts a shadow in the sun."
"It may be so, Bill," he said soberly. "I did not think of that when
I told her. Still--well, who knows? Certainly not I. It is possible,
indeed probable, it seems to me, that we may do them, _her_, Bill, a
harsh injustice."
"I sincerely hope so."
That grave look left his face, and he smiled at me.
"And, besides, Billy, me lad, maybe we won't ever want to return to
that world we have left--that world so full of ignorance, and yet
so full of knowledge and science too; that world so cruel, and yet
sometimes so strangely kind; that world so full of hate and mad
passion, and yet with ideals and aspirations so very noble and lofty.
Yes, who knows, Bill? It is possible that we may not want to return."
Was it significant, or was it purely casual? I could not decide. But
Rhodes' gaze was now on the angel. And, whilst I stood pondering, she
turned and signed to us that they stood in readiness to proceed.
She raised a hand and pointed down the cavern, in some subtle manner
making it clear that she was pointing to something far, so very far
away.
"Drome!" she said.
"Drome," nodded Milton Rhodes.
"Ready, Bill?"
"Ready," I told him.
And so we started.