chains, every step a punishment. This man who had begun life so high,
gliding easily and arrogantly down the gentle incline, now found
himself struggling bitterly just to reach the level ground of final
judgment.
Halfway up it was clear that he should go no further. His breath came
in tight gasps, as almost unconsciously he clutched at the growing
pain in his left arm and shoulder.
Becoming alarmed, his orderly called a halt, and approached his
failing master. "Your Lordship must rest," he whispered emphatically.
But the others looked down in sneering silence. As soon as he regained
his breath the old man pushed him off, and said harshly.
"We go on."
"But surely," said Purceville, in his best native tongue. "'Tis no
trouble to stop."
"We move
!" The procession continued, always upward.
Ten steps from the top, Arthur collapsed. Rushing toward him with a
look of sudden concern, the Lord Purceville lifted his shriveled form,
and carried it like an injured child up to the broad final landing.
"Oh, this is bad," he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine
him. "I fear I've made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings," (this was
the orderly), "Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell
him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary's heart. I'll
do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move
him." The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the
steps.
As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in
its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest.
"Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He'll
be nine parts down before he remembers he can't get out without my
key. And he's half winded as it is."
"You must not take that for granted!" growled Purceville, himself not
immune to the rigors of the climb. "Did you bring the flask as I told
you?"
"Of course." And a look of reproach.
"Then give it to me. Now
!"
Ballard glared at him, but the other was not even looking. He lifted
the tin from his pocket, and placed it in Purceville's outstretched
hand.
Burning with rage, Henry Purceville took the fine embroidered
handkerchief from the breast pocket of the crumpled man. Then soaked
it with water, and brought it slowly toward his face.
"What are you going to do?" ejaculated Arthur helplessly. But his
voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper, and his imagined safety
deserted him.
"This is for the soldiers, your Highness
. And for me." And the son of a sailor stuffed the cloth full into his
mouth. Then with one great hand holding the jaw shut, he pinched off
the nose with the other, and stopped all flow of air.
The old man could not endure it long. Suffocating, struggling to
breathe and break free, his heart gave one last, violent pump, then
seized and ceased forever. The life slowly left his body, and his eyes
sank deeper in their sockets. Earl Emerson Arthur, was dead.
But a moment later a sound became audible below: the soft rasp of
leather on stone. The orderly was returning.
Purceville reached hurriedly into the dead man's mouth and began to
pull out the soiled cloth, but too late. The orderly turned the final
arc, his head rising above the floor of the landing. . .and he saw.
The scene before him, the events of the entire evening, required no
further explanation.
"You--- You've killed him!"
And though weary to his very bones, the man whirled and flew down the
steps once more. For now his own life was in danger, and the fear of
death worked like lightning on his limbs, still young enough to
respond. It could not occur to him that he was still trapped inside
the tower (as he had realized halfway down), or that all its doors
remained locked to him. He only knew that these men would try to kill
him, and that he still wanted to live.
"What are you waiting for?" bellowed Purceville at his Lieutenant. "Go
after him!" But Ballard stood very still, his eyes narrowing.
"And what about them bitches?" he said, motioning with his head toward
the door of Mary's cell, pierced by the barred window. "They heard the
whole of it, too."
"Fool!" cried Purceville, with deliberate menace. "They'll not live
out the night. Now go!
"
Ballard lowered his head, then walked sullenly past his two superiors:
the one living, the other dead. He began to descend in pursuit, but
his pace was far from running.
After a time he slowed to a walk. . .then finally stopped altogether.
He knew the man could not escape him. The thick and impenetrable door
sealed him in, and two of his own men guarded the long, unapproachable
corridor. No outsider would hear his cries, or come to his aid.
But this was not what made him pause. Things were becoming too
complicated, as the old man took more and more chances to protect
himself. And what if he failed? Who had been his `loyal right hand'
these many years, doing the dirty work, and taking all the risks?
"Toby Ballard," he muttered. "That's who. And likely to have my neck
stretched for the trouble." That very day he had killed a King's
messenger---the man Arthur had despatched---for which he might well
taste the gallows.
And there was yet one more bitter savor added to the stew: he had
developed a weakness for the girl. What he felt for his `little
prisoner' could hardly be called love, and he knew that in time she
would have to be done away with. But to be killed by him
, tonight, before his desire had been met and served..... He sat down
on a middle landing, neither high nor low, trying to work it all
through in his mind.
For the Lord Purceville had misjudged him. What this man felt for him
was not loyalty, but merely a primal respect for his strength, such as
any pack animal might feel. And now that strength had begun to fail.
Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own
way
. But who was the meanest dog now, and which side would prevail?
Arthur was dead, but the power of the Crown.....
These were the things he tried to weigh, knowing that very soon he
must decide. And then he must act.