I
HINDWOOD stood rooted to the ground. He had thrust Anna behind him. She
was tugging at his hand with the tenacity of terror. He scarcely dared
breathe while he watched the green-eyed man dragging himself inch by
inch to safety. To go to his assistance might cause his death. Any move
that startled him might fling him back over the precipice. In falling he
would sweep away the unseen woman who must be clinging to the face of
the cliff below him.
To Hindwood it seemed that he was present at a fantastic rehearsal of
the Day of Resurrection. When the last trumpet blew, it would probably
be precisely in some such fashion that the sea would give up its dead.
It would happen about sunrise, when mankind was still abed. It would
commence very quietly, when clouds were hanging low and the first of the
barnyard cocks were crowing. Without warning, graves would open, and
all the tired people, who had been so long resting, would begin to stir.
Like the sound of falling rain, they would patter through the drowsing
country, searching for their ancient dwellings. At first they would walk
alone, then in groups, later in crowds. By the time the living looked
out of their windows there would be no standing room on earth. Across
seas and oceans the drowned would come swimming. They would wade through
waves and clamber up cliffs, just as this man was doing.
The vision became so probable that Hindwood glanced behind him to make
sure that it was not happening. In a shimmering expanse of dew and
autumn coloring lay the sweet, green landscape of living men, the kindly
hedgerows, the sheltering valleys, the friendly villages. Everything was
gentle and unaltered. It was only at this barrier, which the green-eyed
stranger was struggling to surmount, that the tranquillity ended. At
its brink eternity commenced, a pulsating oblivion of mist and grayness
across which the rising sun peered curiously.
The stranger was too occupied with his danger to be aware that he was
being observed. Clutching at tufts and digging with his fingers, he was
easing himself out of the abyss. Little by little he was gaining ground
till at last, pulling his knees clear of the edge, he sprawled exhausted
on the turf. But it was only for a moment. Twisting about, still lying
flat, he reached down to his companion. As she appeared, he retreated,
steadying her efforts and dragging her with him. Side by side they
collapsed, breathing heavily and staring in dazed defiance at the death
they had avoided.
Hindwood made a step to approach them. He found himself tethered. Anna
was gazing up at him, silently imploring. Her hair seemed a mass of
solid gold, weighing her down. The blue veins in her temples stood out
beneath her fairness. Her throat was milk-white and stretched back. Her
lips were parted, revealing the coral of her mouth. It was as though she
had been caught from behind by an assailant and brutally jerked back.
With little endearing motions she caressed Hindwood's hand. He tried to
fathom her necessity; in the presence of her weakness there was nothing
that he would not have granted.
The man with the green eyes had recovered. In the act of rising he had
caught sight of them. His jaw had dropped open. If it was possible, his
complexion had gone a shade whiter. His expression bore testimony to the
medley of his emotions, the chief of which was astonishment. He made
an oddly pathetic figure, with his scratched hands and torn clothing,
crouching in that hunted attitude. He had lost his hat in the ascent.
His brown hair was lank with perspiration. He was a lean man and
graceful as a greyhound. Even in his present ungainly posture there was
a hint of something swift and gallant in his bearing. One forgot that
he was a vagabond who had eluded formalities and completed an illegal
landing; he looked more like a champion unhorsed in a tourney. His brow
was wide and noble, but the top of his head was shaped like a deformity
and rose into a point like a dunce's cap. His eyes were well-spaced
and piercing; they penetrated with a sense of power. His mouth was
thin-lipped and sensitive--too sensitive for a man's. His face was
narrow and smooth as a girl's. He had a haggard appearance of perpetual
suffering, which the extremeness of his pallor served to enhance. He
was indefinably tragic. He might have sat equally well for a portrait of
Lucifer or of Harlequin overtaken by his folly.
Very wearily he lifted himself from the ground and stumbled toward them.
As he did so, Santa uttered a nervous cry and turned--after which she
watched broodingly what happened.
Paying no attention to Hindwood, the man made straight for Anna. Bending
over her humbly, he whispered unintelligible words. Her terror left her.
Making no sound, she raised to him eyes eloquent with compassion.
“What did he say?” Hindwood questioned.
She was prepared to reply, when the stranger stayed her with a gesture.
“I was apologizing in Russian for having returned.”
Hindwood glanced at the ragged edge of the cliff and shrugged his
shoulders. “An apology's scarcely necessary. You're to be congratulated.
You seem to have recognized this lady. Who are you?”
The stranger drew himself erect. A grim smile played about his mouth.
“Ivan Varensky, at your service.”
[Illustration: 0187]