IN THE ENEMY'S HOUSE
Once--the man above letting the rope slip a little too quickly around
the body of the tree--he felt the speed at which he was descending
increased, and, a moment later, that descent stopped by a sudden jerk.
And he thought the rope had broken; that, in another second, he would
be dashed to pieces on the stones below! No wonder, therefore, if from
all the pores of his body the sweat oozed out, that his heart seemed
to have stopped beating. Yet, another second, and the rope was running
slowly again, and he understood what had happened and thanked God
fervently. One of the turns had been made too loosely round the trunk
of the tree. That was all! Yet, for the time being, bad enough!
A few more moments and again it stopped with another jerk, though from
a different cause. It had come to its end.
And now he had to prepare for the plunge across to the unseen roof
that he knew was there; would have, when he arrived on the other side,
to feel with feet and hands--since his eyes were useless in this black
darkness!--for something, either coping of roof, chimney, or gable to
which to clutch, and, thereby, find foothold. "Oh!" he thought, "if I
could but see, could but know how to direct my body." Yet, even as he
so thought, he remembered that the darkness served him as equally as
it rendered his task more difficult. If he could not see, neither
could he be seen. No one could fire at him, as he had suggested might
happen, or, firing, could hope to hit him.
He had not recognized before, though he did so now, how fair a boon
the darkness and the reeking clouds of autumn fog were to him, by
hiding from his vision the dreadful depth below. For, though he knew
'twas there, and that, between him and a swift flight down to death
and destruction, there was naught to save him but the goodness of the
rope's strength and quality--he did not see it! Therefore, he felt it
less, could keep his head cool and his nerves calm in a manner that he
doubted if he could have done on a bright sunny day, or even moonlight
night.
Turning his face towards where the roof was, he prepared to take the
plunge, his feet drawn up behind him and pressed against the wall, so
as to get the full force of his propulsion, as a swimmer drives
himself forward into a stream from the river's bank. Also--again like
a swimmer--he threw his long arms in front of him so that he might
either grasp aught which his hands should encounter or, with them,
defend his face and head from being struck by wall or parapet.
Then--for the moment had come!--he pushed with all the force of his
feet against the rope and shot himself swiftly across the chasm. A
minute later and he knew that he had failed!
His outstretched hands had struck something--he thought it was a
horizontal water-pipe beneath the edge of the roof--but the strong
fingers missed their grasp, the weight of his body in the rebound tore
them away from whatever the object was which they had touched; a
moment later and his form was swung back to the spot whence he had
come, while the impetus given to the rope by the concussion of the
rebound caused him to spin round and round like a teetotum till he was
sick and giddy. Yet, with his hands against the damp, slimy wall, he
managed to arrest the spinning at last; a moment or so later and he
was hanging as before.
His breath was coming laboriously from his breast now, the swift
return to the wall having nearly knocked him senseless--also the rope
had tightened so about his body that it seemed as though it must cut
through him. He lifted his hands above his head, therefore, and,
seizing the rope, while he placed his right heel on a little
unevenness it had encountered in the wall, eased himself somewhat by
relieving the strain.
"Next time I must not fail," he thought. "If I do, I must desist and
be drawn up." But as he set his teeth firmly, he muttered through
them: "I will not fail. Now for it!"
With even more force than before he repeated what he had previously
done, drew his feet a little higher behind him so that, as he
thought--for quaint ideas come to our minds, even in the moment of
most deadly danger!--he must present the appearance of some huge
gargoyle, had there been any eye to see him, and then launched himself
again across the chasm.
This time he did not fail.
He had shot himself beyond the edge of the roof, his hands
struck against some hard substance which he clutched with all his
might--breaking his nails as he did so--his feet scraped something
beneath them; then he let them fall with all the weight he was capable
of--and a moment, a second later, he was standing firm.
"I have arrived!" He said. "Arrived! Thank God!" Whereon he sat down
exactly where his feet were just before, and felt all around him with
his hands to discover how much more solid space there was beneath and
about him. For, with all his wariness and coolness returned to him, he
knew that he might be on the immediate edge of the roof, from which
one false move would hurl him to as instant destruction as must have
been his lot had the rope broken during his aerial flight.
As far as his hands--and feet--could reach there was a roof under him
covered by some metal--which he guessed to be sheets of tin placed
there to keep out the rain and damp from the woodwork beneath--covered
also by soft masses of innumerable leaves blown across the chasm from
the trees on the slope. Leaves that, maybe, had deadened any sound of
his falling feet as he alighted; would have almost, he thought, have
deadened the sound to any who might be immediately below. So far all
was well.
Still, he was not satisfied of his whereabouts, nor of how much
solidity there was around him; he drew, therefore, his long sword and,
bending over in each direction, felt about with its point, discovering
that there was no open space near. He had landed well upon the roof,
he knew, consequently; until he should move from this spot there was
no danger.
The object against which his hands had struck and his nails been
broken and torn was, he found out directly afterwards, a great
chimney--it was quite warm, and showed thereby that fires were burning
somewhere below; also, as he reclined a moment with his back against
it, the warmth was grateful. It served likewise for attaching the rope
to, which he now removed from his arm and body, though as he did so he
did not forget that, should aught arise to prevent his return with
Marion Wyatt ere the day dawned, it must be allowed to fall back to
the other side, and be drawn up by Laurent. To be seen from below when
the dawn came--as undoubtedly it would be seen ere the day was an hour
or so old--would tell too plain a tale.
He had reflected long ere this present moment that, once inside the
house, it was more than possible he might have to remain within it
until another night had come; even, perhaps, longer. For the
prisoner's fears might prevent her from being able to summon up
courage to cross that awful gap at a moment's notice; she might be
ill--twenty things, he knew, might bar the way to an immediate flight.
Wherefore, the tell-tale rope must not be there. Must be returned, and
later on, when wanted, cast across again by Laurent. That could be
effected easily; a stone attached to it would make its passage sure,
as well as cause the end to remain when once it had landed on the
roof.
From Laurent there came no noise nor signal--on the other side all was
as still as death! That this should be so they had agreed, yet now
Andrew could not resist sending a little whistle across the chasm, a
whistle that, to the man watching over there, would be understood,
while, if heard by others, it would doubtless be thought to be the cry
of some bird in the night. That it was heard and understood he had no
reason to doubt.
A second or so afterwards a similar sound was returned. Therefore,
Andrew knew that Laurent kept his watch well; knew also that nothing
untoward had arisen on that side.
He was refreshed now with his slight rest; the time had come for him
to continue his task, to commence, as he recognized, the harder
portion of it. To penetrate into the house of the man whom he had
forced to be his enemy, to endeavour to rescue by the same perilous
means which had so far gained him admission to the outer part of that
house, a woman. Truly, if his arrival at this spot had been dangerous
and terrible, how much more so would the quitting it be for her?
Yet he meant to do it--or die in the attempt.
Upon his hands and knees now, one after the other of the former
carefully put out before him to feel for any break in the roof which
might plunge him to the depths beneath, as well as to seek for, and
haply find, any trapdoor or entrance to what was below, he crept
carefully forward, directing his course to where he supposed the
centre of the roof was. Yet, at first, he encountered nothing beneath
the mass of leaves swept on to the roof by the autumn winds, or
nothing else beyond another stack of chimneys. Chimneys that were warm
like the others.
"They keep good fires," he thought. "'Tis fortunate! Pray heaven the
whole house is warmed, if I can find a way into it. Otherwise I am
likely to perish of the cold."
While he so reflected his hand struck a projection, something that
rose perpendicularly from the roof for some three feet or so, as he
felt by running that hand upon it. What was it?
He knew in an instant. The side-rail of a ladder rising above the
roof--a side-rail which anyone, on emerging from below, would grasp as
they stepped forth. Here was the entrance!
Yet, flat and level with the tin covering, or leads, there was still
the closed trap, it being fastened from within by some bolt or pin,
but--as further search proved--with its great hinge outside, so that
it could be pushed upwards from the inside.
Shortly, however, he had forced the trap open--the dagger-knife with
which he had provided himself having cut away the tin and woodwork
from around that hinge, so that he could lift it some few inches, and,
drawing it towards him, he drew also the bolt inside from out the
staple. The road was free to him now!
Without a moment's hesitation he descended, one hand grasping the
side-rail, the other the hilt of his sword; carefully counting the
steps as he went. Fifteen in all he numbered, so that he thought the
floor below must be close at hand--when, suddenly, the steps ceased.
Yet--there was nothing below! No floor that he could feel, though he
lowered himself as far as he might, grasping the bottom rung and the
rail for support, and plunging his long leg down into the space. Nor
even when, bending down as low as possible in another position, he
tried to touch something solid with his sword!
Nothing!
He was not cold now; instead, all over him he felt the perspiration
ooze out at the idea that here was a _guet-apens_, into which he had
almost stumbled.
"Doubtless an oubliette," he thought, "a death-trap for any coming
hastily down. Heavens! those _loups de Lorraine_ forgot no precaution.
Have any others ever passed the way that I have come, found an
entrance from across the chasm to the roof, only to perish here?" Yet,
even as he spoke, he was standing firmly on the lower step and feeling
for his tinder box and lanthorn. A few moments and the latter was
ignited, and, even with the dim rays it cast around, he was able to
see and appreciate his position.
Below that last step there yawned a circular opening some ten or
twelve feet in circumference, and large enough, therefore, for any
human body to pass through it; the opening of a great shaft that,
doubtless, passed all down the centre of the mansion, to end, perhaps,
in some stone-floored dungeon or, maybe, some bottomless well fed by
the mountain streams. Led to--no matter in what form--certain death
below!
But, glancing round the rough, wooden-walled garret, or _sous-toit_,
in which he was, and observing all that was possible by the flickering
of the lamp, he saw, too, that, for those who were acquainted with the
place, the ascent or descent of the ladder offered no difficulty. To
the left of it, outside the rim of the shaft and not a foot away, was
a species of wooden mounting block by which one could step on to, or
off, it--the danger threatened only those who did not know of the
trap, or should come hurriedly down the ladder in the dark as he had
done! Also, he perceived almost immediately opposite to where he
stood, a small door let in to the wall or side of the garret, or
rather a doorway or arch.
"My way lies there," he said to himself, and stepping on to the block
he proceeded to follow it.
The lamp in one hand, it being shielded by his other palm, he passed
beneath that arch and so encountered another flight of steps, or, in
this case, stairs, having balustrades on either side, and thus
descended to what was, in actual fact, the topmost floor, since that
which he had just quitted was no more than the support of, and space
beneath, the roof.
He was now in the house proper; now was the time when danger was close
at hand, when one false step, a stumble, the slightest creak of a
board beneath his foot, one glimmer from his lanthorn, would bring
destruction on his head.
For, up to this floor the great staircase rose unbroken, and up the
well of the house which that staircase made there came the warmth from
the hall below, the odour of the burning logs, the noise made by
snoring men. And Andrew, the lamp out now, peered over the topmost
rail of the stair's balustrade and gazed down.
As before, the watchers slept, Beaujos in his great chair, the tankard
on the table by his side; upon that table also his sword. Only, now,
the weapon was flanked by two others--by two great pistols. He saw,
too, that in the belts of each of the serving-men were pistols added
to their wooden-sheathed knives. All were doubly armed!
"Thank God!" he muttered; "the dog at least is not there. It must have
met its end: perhaps 'tis from that end and my previous visit, added
to the death of its companion, that they take this double caution.
Yet, had they taken five hundred times as much, I must go on. I have
embarked; I must see the voyage through."
He knew--had known all along--none could have failed to know!--the
risk he was running, the door of Death at which he stood. One slip
now, a cough alone, and he would be face to face with those
doubly-armed men. Yet the knowledge of his danger did but one
thing--it made him all the more determined, while resolving at the
same time to exert his utmost caution.
Removing his eyes from the men below, he let them roam swiftly round
the floor on which he was, though, up here, all was in so much
darkness that he could distinguish nothing. Yet he knew that there was
at least one room upon it used and inhabited; a room which faced, as
he calculated, to the front, and looked out over the great courtyard.
A room from under the door of which, as he peered through the
darkness, there stole now a gleam of light.