They had alighted some distance short of the gateway where the sentries
would be on guard. The message for Varensky had been handed over. The
horses had been wheeled about; save for their trotting growing fainter
down the slope, the night was without a sound. The moon shone fitfully.
Stars were obscured. The city out of which they had climbed lay
pulseless in an unillumined pit of blackness. The Palace, piled high
above them, loomed sepulchral.
The Captain groped his way beneath the wall of the ramparts, searching
for something which at last he found. It pushed inwards at his touch.
The door closed behind them.
In the intenser darkness Hindwood stretched out his hands. They
encountered the rough surface of clammy masonry. He was in some sort of
a tunnel. The floor sloped gradually upwards. The atmosphere smelt dank.
He spoke. Getting no answer, he held his breath. Going away from him he
heard the stealthy hurrying of the Captain's footfall. Rather than be
left, perhaps to be forgotten, he started forward at a blundering run.
He came to steps. He was prepared to be attacked. It might be here that
he would be hurled back. He climbed them almost on all fours, steadying
himself with his hands. It seemed to him that he had been ascending for
hours, when he heard footsteps returning. A match was struck; he saw the
Captain staring down at him.
“We're in time.” The match went out.
“Catch hold of me. Tread softly.”
They passed through another door. The air was growing warmer. It was
evident that they were traversing a secret passage which wound within
the Palace walls. At a turn they heard a muttering of voices. The
Captain whispered, “Do nothing till I give the word.”
They approached more cautiously to where a needle of light stabbed the
darkness. Hindwood caught the fragrance of tobacco smoke. As he stooped
to the spy-hole, a purring voice commenced speaking almost at his elbow,
“My dear lady, you're mine--a fact which you don't seem to realize. I
have only to press this button, which summons my attendants; I can snuff
out your life with as little effort as I flick this ash.”
He found himself peering into a room, furnished with oriental
lavishness. He had a confused glimpse of beaten brass-work, shaded
lamps, low tables, cushions piled about in place of chairs. It was a
blaze of color. At the far end was a gilded throne and bound to it was
Santa. Her hands were tightly corded. Her ankles were lashed so that she
could not stir. Her face was pale as ivory. Only her eyes seemed alive;
they flashed indomitably. Pacing up and down, never shifting his gaze
from hers, was the black-bearded man who had disappeared from the
_Ryndam_.
She spoke defiantly. “Summon your attendants. Do you think I fear
death?”
“I know you don't, dear lady. That's why I've invented a more subtle
revenge. If I were an ordinary man, I should detest the very sight of
you; whereas, so magnanimous am I, that your attempt to murder me
has added a novel piquancy to your fascination. I have been too much
loved--too spontaneously, too adoringly. You afford me a contrast. I
intend to keep you caged like a lioness. The hatred in your eyes will
spur my affection. Always, even when I caress you, I shall have to be
on my guard. Our courtship will be a perpetual adventure. The goal of
desire will be forever out of grasp, yet forever within handstretch.”
He stroked his black beard thoughtfully. “With you I shall never know
satiety. This continual hoping will keep me young. You, my dear, will
be my secret source of romance. Every day I shall take you down, as one
takes down a volume, and turn your latest pages which I alone may scan.”
She strained at her bonds. “It will be no romance.”
He smiled with terrifying quietness.
“Your value to me,” he continued in his purring voice, “is that you've
cost me so much. Ugh! Every time I look at you I remember how it felt
when I sank and sank. When I rose above the waves, I saw your lights,
streaking like a golden snake into the blackness. I struck out after you
hopelessly. I shouted. Then I found myself alone, with no one to
take pity on me and not one chance in a million of being rescued. The
millionth chance arrived.” He stooped at her feet, kissing her tortured
hands. “And here we are met, under these auspicious circumstances,
carrying on this pleasant conversation. What were you doing while I
was drowning? Making love beneath the stars to your infatuated
American--leaning on his arm, perhaps, warmly wrapped in your sables?
And I was so cold! Did you give me a thought, I wonder?”
She stared past him like a woman frozen. “Let me know the worst.”
Tapping her cheek with pretended kindness, he resumed his pacing.
“Why the worst? Is that flattering, when I've spoken of our courtship?
We're well matched in wickedness, if in nothing else. You're wanted for
the scaffold, whereas I should have been hung long ago if I'd received
my deserts. I'd be interested to know what you'd do, if you were in my
place. How much mercy would you show me? You must own that merely to
kill a person who has tried to drown you is too brief a punishment. The
punishment I've planned for you is one that'll make you pray every hour
for extinction. For a woman who has dispensed annihilation so lavishly
I can think of nothing more just than that, when her own life has become
intolerable, she should be refused the boon of death.”
She spoke humbly. “There's nothing too bad that you can do to me. But
I'm not the woman who tried to murder you. I'm changed. I've learnt
something. I learnt it from a man.”
He bowed towards her mockingly. “Your American?”
“My American, who can never be mine. I've learnt that even when we don't
acknowledge Him, there's a God in the world who acts through us. It was
He who saved me from the woods of Vincennes. It was He who prevented you
from drowning. He had some purpose--a divine moment for which He waited.
That purpose has yet to be accomplished. Who are you or I----?”
“I can tell you who you are,” he snapped: “a dancing-woman, with a price
upon your head. As for myself,” his pale face flooded with a strangely
Satanic beauty, “it would puzzle the wisest man to say who I am.
To-night I am Prince Rogovich; tomorrow I may be Emperor. My puppets are
mustering. By dawn they'll be marching. They're hungry; victory to them
means bread.”
“But if one were to feed them--?”
“Your American again!” He gazed down on her, showing his white teeth
and laughing. “What faith you have in the man! If your American is God's
unaccomplished purpose, then God and all His angels are thwarted. The
messenger I have sent to execute him will not fail; he has good reason
to hate him. He's his rival for your affections. You were the bribe I
offered him. You may rest assured the Captain's work will be done well.
His turn comes next.”
Jerking back her head, he stooped lower, drinking in her despair.
“Millionth chances come once, if then. Yours came at Vincennes. Cease
hoping. Your American is----”
“It's a lie.”
Hindwood felt himself flung violently back. The wall turned inwards.
There was a report--then silence.