SANSON
For a long time I could not persuade them to let me go. But I pleaded so
hard and set out the arguments so forcibly that at last I persuaded
them. For it was clear that if Lembken, realizing that his power was
waning, should accept our offer, then my plan was the wisest; and, if he
refused, our desperate chance would lose but little by my death.
It was even possible that the rôle for which he had cast me was the same
that I was to play for the Cause. He had meant to use me against Sanson;
and the more I thought of it the stronger grew my conviction that he had
meant to have me challenge Sanson in the Temple.
So, one by one, the opposing arguments ended, and the committee leader
gave me my instructions.
“You must evade the battleplanes and enter London afoot,” he said. “You
will proceed to the People’s House, demand admission, and offer Lembken
our terms: his palace, honors, wealth and pleasures. If he accepts you
will return to us bearing his acceptance in the form of writing, that we
may have a hold on him to use with Sanson, should he betray us
afterward. If you are detected by the searchlights before you reach
London, you will be taken before Hancock, to whom you will make your
demand for an interview with his chief. A messenger will remain posted
near this meeting place in order to convey you to us on your return,
wherever we may be. Now, God be with you, Arnold!”
I think they understood the turmoil in my heart, for they were very
considerate, and troubled me with no more suggestions than these. For
myself, I confess that the thought of Esther’s peril obliterated from my
mind nearly all other considerations, and, in truth, I cared more for
her safety than for the Cause. I could do nothing till the time of her
awakening came; but, when she awakened, I meant to be at her side.
The rushlights were blown out, and we bade each other adieu at the
cellar entrance, and separated. Many of those who were present had
traveled miles through the forests in order to attend the meeting. It
had been arranged that David and Elizabeth should make their quarters
with the band commanded by the leader, to which the bishop and Paul
belonged. I was to accompany them as far as the old road, where our
paths divided.
When we reached it, Elizabeth turned and, putting her hands upon my
shoulders, looked very earnestly at me.
“Arnold,” she said, “the day is near when we four shall be friends in a
happier world. God bless you and protect the woman you love.”
I pressed her hands. Then David grasped my own in his.
“Good-bye, Arnold,” he said. “The Providence that brought you to me will
act to save us all.”
And he, too, was gone. I waited at the edge of the old road, watching
them disappear among the trees. The last thing that I saw was the
bishop’s white beard, a spot in the darkness. Then I was alone, with the
London road before me, and a mission as desperate as any that was ever
undertaken, and as pregnant with possibilities.
I do not know how long I had been traveling, whether five minutes or
twenty, nor whether I walked or ran. I became conscious of a soft
whistling in the air, and, glancing up, saw a dark airplane, black
against the risen moon.
I sprang from the road and hid myself in the underbrush.
The airplane dipped, passed me, and dipped again, with the purpose,
evidently, of alighting in the road. It passed beyond my sight, flying
low, and veering from side to side as its occupant examined the ground
for a resting place.
As I rose to continue my journey I heard a low hail among the trees. I
started around, to see the old bishop approaching me at a jog-trot. He
came up panting, and stood before me, holding his pastoral staff against
his breast.
“Did you see the airplane?” he asked, following the road with his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Bishop Alfred?” I asked in astonishment, for
there was an expression of supreme, benignant happiness upon his face.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, alone,” he answered, smiling. “I left them quietly. They would not
have let me go. I followed you until I saw the airplane. I am going to
Lembken in your place.”
“But you will be put to death!” I cried. “Surely, you know—”
“Yes, but that is all right,” he answered. “It is three years now since
any priest was burned for the faith. I have been thinking about it for a
long time. Now I am ready. I am going into the People’s House to preach
the Gospel. I—I ran away from David,” he added, chuckling at the success
of his maneuver.
I threatened and pleaded in vain, for the old man’s face had the
joyousness of a child’s.
“It’s no use talking, Arnold,” he said, patting my arm affectionately.
“I am a stubborn man when my mind is made up, and it is made up now. I
have thought about it a long time. You see, I am the last bishop in
England. I am not a learned man, but the Lord Bishop of London”—how
happily he said that!—“laid hands on me an hour before they burned him
in Westminster Hall. Now it is right that I should follow him and take
on martyrdom. It will give inspiration to the people. It will be a
wonderful encouragement to them to see me among the fagots. I have
prayed the Lord to give me strength, because I am a cowardly old man,
and He has done so. I should like to consecrate my successor before I
die. But the Russians will take care of that, and it is fitter that they
should renew the line in England. They will be here in a few days to
save the world, and then we shall all be one.”
“How do you know?” I cried.
“It is given to me to know,” he answered, wagging his white head. “So
there is no longer any reason why I should not go into the People’s
House and bear testimony to the truth. You can go back now. I will carry
your message to Lembken before I die.”
Before I could restrain him he had started off along the road, and his
quick jog-trot gave him almost as much speed as my scrambling, wild
pursuit. I caught him, however, a hundred yards away.
“Bishop Alfred, you must go back to your friends,” I said. “Your idea is
nonsense. There is no need to sacrifice yourself.”
He shook his head and detached himself. I stumbled over a projecting
root, and when I was on my feet again I saw the old man another fifty
yards away. Once more I was approaching him. And then I halted suddenly
and drew back among the trees, for just beyond the bend in the road lay
the dark airplane, and the old man had stopped beside it, evidently
waiting to be taken in.
However, since he continued to wait there, I advanced noiselessly toward
it, with the hope of rescuing him, until I realized that the dark
airplane was empty.
The occupant had left it, but for what reason, or where he had gone, I
could not surmise.
I was just where the old road joined with a small, twisting path that
struck back among the trees. Some instinct cautioned me to silence. If I
had spoken ... but I did not speak, and then, among the trees, following
the crooked trail not fifty paces away, I saw the aviator, walking with
head bent downward, evidently unconscious of human proximity.
I held my breath in terror lest the old man should speak. But he stood
motionless as a statue beside the dark airplane; he seemed wrapt in a
reverie. The hope arose of saving him. That was Hancock’s airplane; his
fate, then, lay with Hancock, and Lembken had told me that the
Air-Admiral was a Christian. Surely he would take pity on the old,
childish man. He knew me. I might appeal to him....
The twisting track, which had hidden him from my eyes, brought him into
view once more, clear against the low moon that made the moving figure a
silhouette against its circle. I crept up, until suddenly I reeled and
nearly fell, overcome by the magnitude of my discovery. For this was not
Air-Admiral Hancock, but Hugo Sanson, the madman who ruled the
Federation!
For a few moments I was powerless to stir. A raiding beast of night went
rustling through the trees behind me. I heard an owl hoot. I lurked like
some savage in the underbrush, and everything went from my memory, save
Esther in peril, and Sanson, the evil genius of humanity, powerless in
my hands if I could spring on him and strangle him before he had time to
draw his Ray rod.
Then the tracking instinct awoke in me. I began stalking him as
stealthily as any moccasined redskin followed his quarry. He was now
only twenty paces away, and his walk showed that he suspected no danger.
It was a trail unknown to me, and I could only follow in patience. It
wound to right and then to left, until at last it blended in a wider
trail. And then I knew where I was. We were on the road that led to the
cellar.
The scattered bricks became the heaping piles. I crouched low. Almost
upon this site Sir Spofforth’s house had stood. There, where the beeches
waved their leafless arms had been Esther’s tea-roses. And here were
briers, sprung, perhaps, from those. It did not need these remembrances
to make my resolution firm.
Sanson was going down. If he had gone there an hour earlier he would
have walked alone into the presence of men who had a thousand deaths
laid up against him. But Fate had saved him for me!
For an instant the thought occurred to me that possibly Sanson,
acquainted with the details of the popular conspiracy, had come to offer
terms against Lembken. But I dismissed that thought as impossible.
Sanson would hardly have come there for such a purpose; at least, he
would have come with the Guard.
The short ladder had been removed and hidden among the trees, but Sanson
seemed to know the way intimately. Lying upon my face among the bricks,
I saw Sanson enter the cellar, holding in one hand a little solar light.
He passed through the gap in the wall into the vault.
I made my own descent with infinite care, taking pains to dislodge no
stone that might betray my presence. Now I was in the cellar on hands
and knees, watching Sanson as he moved to and fro inside the inner
chamber. My brain was working like a mill—and yet I did not know wholly
what I should do. If I killed Sanson, could I be sure that his death
would set Esther free? Could I seize him and exact terms from him? Then
there was a certain difficulty in springing upon the man quickly enough
to prevent him from drawing his Ray rod; and there was the innate
revulsion against choking a man to death.
As I deliberated, Fate seemed to solve my problem, for my fingers
touched and closed about a smooth object that lay on the ground. For a
moment I thought it was the branch of a tree. But no branch grew so
smooth. A polished stave? It had been fashioned and grooved.... It was a
Ray rod.
If I had doubted my mission I ceased to do so in that moment. I felt
along the weapon in the darkness, from the brass guard, which stood up,
leaving the button unprotected, to the little glass bulb near the head,
through which the destroying Ray would stream. I raised the Ray rod and
aimed it.
The solar light moved in the vault, and the shadow cast by the wall went
back and forth as Sanson tramped to and fro. He was muttering to
himself. He passed across the gap, and the little light shone on me. But
he did not look toward me, and then he was behind the wall again and the
light vanished.
Next time he passed I would fire. Yet I did not fire, and back and
forth, and forth and back he tramped, talking to himself as any lesser
man might have done. I had no compunction at all; I would have killed
him as I would have killed a deadly snake; and yet, so diabolical was
the fascination he exercised over me, I could not press the button.
I gathered my resolution together. I would fire when he passed the gap
again. No, the next time. Well, the next, then. My fingers tightened on
the handle. I saw Sanson emerge, the spark of light in his hand. The
tight, white tunic was in the center of the gap. Now! I pressed the
button, aiming at his heart.
The glass of the Ray rod grew fiery red. The button seared my hand, and
a smell of charred wood filled my nostrils. I dropped the weapon, and it
fell clattering to the ground. Sanson was standing in the gap, unharmed.
My Ray rod was the one that I had unwittingly discharged on the occasion
when I scrambled for the cellar roof. It had given me life then; it
seemed now to have brought me death. Of course it was useless till it
had been recharged; now it emitted only the red-mull rays: heat, not
cold combustion.
Sanson had halted as I aimed. Now, at the sound of the falling Ray rod
he sprang forward and turned his solar light on me. His poise was a
crouching leopard’s. In his left hand he held the light, and in his
right was his own Ray rod, covering me.
I looked at him, I stared at him, I rose upon my feet and staggered to
him. Something in his poise, the whitening hair, brushed back, something
in the man’s soul that the years could not conceal reminded me.... I
stood looking into the face of Herman Lazaroff!