She stood motionless, staring, as one dazed. He, without apology or word
of any sort, strode straight forward. His face expressed stern
determination, naught else.
But ere he reached her she awoke to action, stepping sharply backwards
so that the table was between them. He came to a stand perforce in front
of it, and looked her full and piercingly in the eyes.
"Mademoiselle," he said, and his voice was so curt that it sounded
brutal, "you must come at once. The palace is in the hands of murderers.
The Governor has been assassinated. In a few seconds more they will be
at your door. Come!"
She recoiled from him with a face of horror.
"With you, monsieur? Never!" she cried.
He laid his hand upon the table and leaned forward.
"With me, yes," he said, speaking rapidly, yet with lips that scarcely
seemed to move. "I have come for you, and I mean to take you. Be wise,
Mademoiselle Stephanie! Come quietly!"
She scarcely heard him. Frenzy had gripped her--wild, unreasoning,
all-mastering frenzy. The supreme moment had come for her, and, with a
face that was like a death-mask, she raised the silver flask to her
lips.
But no drop of its contents ever touched them, for in that instant
Pierre vaulted the intervening table and hurled himself upon her. The
flask flew from her hand and spun across the room, falling she knew not
where; while she herself was caught in the man's arms and held in a grip
like iron.
She struggled fiercely to free herself, but for many seconds she
struggled in vain. Then, just as her strength was beginning to leave
her, he abruptly set her free.
"Come!" he said. "There is no time for childish folly. Find a cloak, and
we will go."
His tone was peremptory, but it held no anger. Turning from her, he
walked deliberately away into the outer room.
She sank back trembling against the wall, nearer to collapse than she
had ever been before. But the momentary respite had its effect, and
instinctively she began to gather herself together for fresh effort. He
had wrested her deliverance from her, but she would never accept what he
offered in exchange. She would never escape with his man. She would
sooner--yes, a thousand times sooner--face the mercy of the mob.
"Mademoiselle Stephanie!" Impatiently his voice came to her from the
farther room. "Are you coming, or am I to fetch you?"
She did not answer. A sudden wild idea had formed in her brain. If she
could slip past him--if she could reach the outer door--he would never
overtake her on the corridor. But she must be brave, she must be subtle,
she must watch her opportunity.
With some semblance of composure she took out a long travelling-cloak,
and walked into the room in which he awaited her. With a start of
surprise, she saw him standing by the open window.
"This way, mademoiselle," he said curtly; and she realised that he must
have entered from the garden.
"One moment, monsieur," she returned, and quietly crossed the room to
the door at the other end.
It was closed. It must have swung to behind her, for she did not
remember closing it.
He made no attempt to stop her. He could not surely have guessed her
intention, for he remained motionless by the window, watching her. Her
heart was thumping as though it would choke her, but yet she controlled
herself. He must not suspect till the door was open, till the passage
was clear before her, and pursuit of no avail.
She reached out a quivering hand and grasped the ebony knob. Now--now
for the last and greatest effort of her life! Sharply she turned the
handle, pulled at it, wrenched it with frantic force, finally turned
from it and confronted the man at the window with eyes that were hunted,
desperate.
"Let me go!" she gasped hoarsely. "How dare you keep me here against my
will?"
"I have no desire to keep you here, mademoiselle," he answered. "I am
only waiting to take you away."
"I refuse to go with you!" she cried. "I would rather die a thousand
times!"
His brows contracted into a single grim line. He left the window and
came towards her.
But at his action she sprang away like a mad thing, dodged him, avoided
him, then leapt suddenly upon a chair and snatched a rapier from a group
of swords arranged in a circle upon the wall. The light fell full upon
her ashen face and eyes of horror. She was beside herself.
All her instincts urged her to resistance. She had always shrunk from
this man. If she could only hold him at bay for a little--if she could
only resist long enough--surely she heard the feet of the murderers upon
the corridor already! It would not take them long to batter down the
door and take her life!
As she sprang to the ground again, Pierre spoke. The frown had gone from
his face; it wore a faint, ironical smile. His eyes, alert, unblinking,
marked her every movement as the eyes of a lynx upon its prey. He did
not appear in the least disconcerted. There was even a sort of terrible
patience in his attitude, as though he already saw the end of the
struggle.
"Would it not be wiser, mademoiselle," he said, "to reserve your steel
for an enemy?"
She met his piercing look for an instant as she compelled her white lips
to answer. "You are the worst enemy that I have."
He threw back his head with an arrogant gesture very characteristic of
him. "By your own choice, mademoiselle," he said.
"Yes," she flung back passionately. "I prefer you as an enemy."
He laughed at that--a fiendish, scoffing laugh that made her shrink in
every nerve. Then, with unmoved composure, he walked to the mantelpiece
and took up one of the foils that lay there.
"Now," he said quietly, "since you are determined to fight me, so be it!
But when you are beaten, Mademoiselle Stephanie, do not ask for mercy!"
But she drew back sharply from his advance. "Take one of those rapiers,"
she said.
He shook his head, still with that mocking smile upon his lips. "This
will serve my purpose better," he said. "Are you ready, mademoiselle? On
guard!"
And with that his weapon crossed hers. She knew his purpose the moment
she encountered it. It was written in every grim line of his
countenance. He meant the conflict to be very short.
She was no novice in the art of fencing, but she was no match for him.
Moreover, she could not meet the pitiless eyes that stared straight into
hers. They distracted her. They terrified her. Yet every moment seemed
to her to be something gained. Through all the wild chaos of her
overstrung nerves she was listening, listening desperately, for the
sound of feet outside the door. If she could only withstand him for a
few short seconds! If only her strength would last!
But she was nearing exhaustion, and she knew it. Her brain had begun to
swim. She saw him in a blur before her quivering vision. The hand that
grasped the rapier was too numbed to obey her behests. Suddenly there
came a tumult in the corridor without--a hoarse yelling and the rush of
many feet. It was the sound she had been listening for, but it startled,
it unnerved her. And in that instant Pierre thrust through her guard and
with a lightning twist of the wrist sent her weapon hurtling through the
air.
The sound of its fall was lost in the clamour outside the door--a
clamour so sudden and so horrible that it did for Stephanie that which
nothing else on earth could have accomplished. It drove her to the man
she hated for protection.
As he flung down the foil, she made a swift move towards him. There was
no longer shrinking in her eyes. She was simply a trembling,
panic-stricken woman, turning instinctively to the stronger power for
help. A little earlier she could have died without a tremor, but the
wild strife of the past few minutes had broken down her fortitude. Her
strength was gone.
"Monsieur!" she panted. "Monsieur!"
He caught her roughly to him. Even in that moment of deadly peril there
was a certain fiery exultation about him. He held her fast, his eyes
gazing straight down into hers.
"Shall I save you?" he said. "I can die with you--if you prefer it."
"Save me!" she cried piteously. "Save me!"
He bent his head, and suddenly, fiercely, savagely, he kissed her white
lips. Then, before she could utter cry or protest, he whirled her across
the room to the open window, catching up her cloak as he went; and,
almost before the horror of his kiss had dawned upon her, she was out
upon the balcony, alone with him in the awful dark.
He kept his hand upon her as he stepped over the stone railing, but all
power of independent action seemed to have left her. She was as one
stunned or beneath some spell. She stood quite rigid while he groped for
and found the ladder by which he had ascended. Then, as he lifted her,
she let herself go into his arms without resistance. He clasped her
hands behind his neck, and she clung there mechanically as he made the
swift descent.
They reached the ground in safety, and he set her on her feet. The
terrace on which they found themselves was deserted. But as they stood
in the dark they heard the fiends in the corridor burst into the room
they had just left. And Pierre Dumaresq, lowering the ladder, laughed to
himself a low, fierce laugh, without words.
The next instant there came a rush of feet upon the balcony above them
and a torrent of angry shouting. Stephanie shrank against a pillar, but
in a moment Pierre's arm encircled her, impelling her irresistibly, and
they fled across the terrace through the darkness. The man was still
laughing as he ran. There seemed to her something devilish in his
laughter.
Down through the palace garden they sped, she gasping and stumbling in
nightmare flight, he strongly upholding her, till half a dozen revolver
shots pierced the infuriated uproar behind them and something that
burned with a red-hot agony struck her left hand. She cried out
involuntarily, and Pierre ceased his headlong rush for safety.
"You are hit?" he questioned. "Where?"
But she could not answer him, could not so much as stand. His voice
seemed to come from an immense distance. She hardly heard his words. She
was sinking, sinking into a void unfathomable.
He did not stay to question further. Abruptly he stooped, gathered her
up, slung her across his shoulder, and ran on.
V
When Stephanie opened her eyes again the sound of the sea was in her
ears, and she felt as if she must have heard it for some time. She was
lying in a chair amid surroundings wholly strange to her, and some
one--a man whose face she could not see--was beside her, bending over a
table, evidently engaged upon something that occupied his most minute
attention. She watched him dreamily for a little, till the immense
breadth of his shoulders struck a quick-growing fear into her heart;
then she made a sudden effort to raise herself.
Instantly she was stabbed by a dart of pain so acute that she barely
repressed a cry.
"Keep still, mademoiselle!" It was Pierre's voice; he spoke without
turning. "I shall not hurt you more than I can help."
She sank back again, shuddering uncontrollably. She knew now what he was
doing. It had flashed upon her in that moment of horrible suffering. He
was probing for a bullet in her left hand. Dumbly she shut her eyes and
set herself to endure.
But the pain was almost insupportable; it seemed to rack her whole body.
And the presence of the man she feared, his nearness to her, his touch,
added tenfold to the torture. Yet she was helpless, and, spent,
exhausted though she was, for very pride she would utter no complaint.
Minutes passed. She was near to fainting again, when abruptly Pierre
stood up. She heard him move, and she was conscious of a blessed
lessening of the pain. But she dared not stir or open her eyes, lest her
self-control should forsake her utterly. She could only lie and wait in
quivering suspense.
He bent over her without speaking, and suddenly she felt the rim of a
glass against her lips. With a start she looked up. His swarthy face was
close to her own, but it was grimly immobile. He seemed to have clad
himself from head to foot in an impenetrable armour of reserve. His lips
were set in a firm line, as though all speech were locked securely
behind them.
Mutely she obeyed his unspoken command and drank. The draught was unlike
anything she had ever tasted before. It revived her, renewing her
failing strength.
"I thank you, monsieur," she said faintly.
He set down the glass, and busied himself once more with her wounded
hand.
"I shall not hurt you any further," he said, as involuntarily she
winced.
And he kept his word. The worst of his task was over. He only bathed and
bandaged with a gentleness and dexterity at which she marvelled.
At last he looked at her.
"You are better?" he asked.
She met his eyes for an instant. They were absolutely steady, but they
told her nothing whatever of his thoughts.
"Yes, I am better," she said, with an effort.
"Can you walk?" he said.
"I think so, monsieur."
"Then come with me," he rejoined, "and I will show you where you can
rest."
She sat up slowly. He bent to help her, but she would not accept his
help till, rising to her feet, she felt the floor sway beneath her.
Then, with a sharp exclamation, she clutched for support and gripped his
proffered arm.
"Monsieur!" she gasped.
He held her up, for she was tottering. Her pale face stared
panic-stricken up to his.
"Monsieur!" she gasped again. "What is this? Where am I?"
He made answer curtly, in a tone that sounded repressive.
"You are on board my yacht, mademoiselle." She swayed, and he put his
arm round her. "You are in safety," he said, in the same brief fashion.
"As--as your prisoner?" she whispered, trying weakly to free herself
from his hold.
"As my guest," he said.
By an immense effort she controlled herself, meeting his stern eyes with
something like composure. But the memory of that single, scorching kiss
was still with her. And in spite of her utmost resolution, she flinched
from his direct gaze.
"If I am your guest," she said, her low voice quivering a very little,
"I am at liberty to come--and to go--as I will."
"Absolutely!" said Pierre, and she fancied for an instant that he
smiled.
"You will take me wherever I desire to go?" she persisted, still
battling with her agitation.
"With one exception," he answered quietly. "I will not take you back to
Maritas."