"Have you any idea of who could take it?"
"Why--no! I hid it in the corner of my grip, and was sure no one could
find it."
Jarvis laughed grimly.
"Your castle ghost is no slouch at finding things. He is no ignoramus,
either, for he must be able to read and write and understand geography
to get any good out of that memorandum. Does it give the exact details
of the treasure trove?"
"As plain as ABC!" she answered.
"You think...?"
"Yes, I've been thinking ever since you first told me the story. Now
I'm going to load my revolver with those thoughts, and earn the title
of my profession. Time is everything. I take the northern road, don't
I?"
"Yes, and the second turn to the right, through a broken wall."
"Yes, you've told me all this a dozen times before. But it's life and
death, and I want to make sure. What then?"
"That road leads to the postern gate at the top of the hill," she
added.
The outer door had opened softly.
Its position, sheltered under the long sweep of the old balcony, was
out of their immediate view.
They had been speaking in rapid English, but the man who slouched
noiselessly through the entrance, toward the arch under the stairs,
surmised the gist of the conversation.
He drew a revolver, well hidden in the shadow, and waited.
"I understand. I have my bearings, too."
Warren stepped down, to the level of the floor.
"Wait," said Maria Theresa softly. "This little cross--it is a token
which I wish my knight to wear in the tourney--to-night!"
She slipped the golden chain, and the simple religious emblem, over his
head and about his neck, with a movement which was a wireless touchless
caress.
"Only for to-night?" asked the Kentuckian, as he looked squarely into
the crimson face above him;--how the roses and lilies played
hide-and-seek beneath the soft skin of those clear features!
"You may never see to-morrow," she murmured, and she drew up the cross,
from its pendent position, pressing it to her red lips with reverence.
The American spirit cried out within for honest self-expression.
"Then, if I never see to-morrow, forgive me for telling you to-night
that I love you."
She would have spoken, but he raised his hand for silence.
Beneath the archway the shadowed figure drew nearer, slipping into the
sharp angle behind the stairs.
"Do not rebuke me to-night--wait until to-morrow--if to-morrow ever
comes!"
He paused, and still she was silent--except for the soft music of her
breathing--that regal bosom so close to his own upturned face!
"And now your humble vassal goes forth in his liege-lady's name and
cause, and, while all Seguro waits, Ghost and Ghost Breaker shall stalk
those haunted, melancholy halls!"
Again they looked into each other's eyes.
"Your Highness, within the hour I shall hang the signal of victory
within the window of the castle!"
He carried her hand to his lips, even as he had done on the memorable
night so far across the waters. But this time the fingers were burning,
and the slim flower of a hand was not drawn away!
"God be with you!" she answered softly, and crossed herself. The
Kentuckian watched her silently, a thousand mad thoughts whirling
behind the calm and resolute brow. She slowly ascended the stairs and
returned to her room.
He murmured tenderly under his breath:
"Highness ... Highness ... now, I understand how titles fit!"
A new noise came to his ears, and he listened without a tremor or
movement of his body.
It was the click of a revolver cock!
The Kentuckian knew this sound too well to be deceived. Slowly he
turned about, toward the large table on which stood the solitary oil
lamp of the room.
He began to unfold his overcoat, which had been hanging over his left
arm. Then he started whistling the first rippling bars of that good old
Southern battle-song "Dixie."
Slowly he walked toward the lamp, apparently examining his overcoat.
The man drew out from the shelter of the arch, and the revolver was
pointed straight at his back.
Suddenly the overcoat flew from the American's hands, covering and
extinguishing the glass lamp, which fell with a crash in the darkness.
There was a portentous pause--it seemed hours; its length was the bare
fraction of a second.
Two shots rang out, and scurrying feet were the only indication of life
within the room. Another shot sent its tongue of blood-thirsty flame
into the black void. There was a groan of anguish.
Then footsteps advanced to the door.
The cheery tune of "Dixie" was continued in the moonlight!
XVI
AS IN DAYS OF OLD
"Rusty! You lazy coon! Get on that horse of yours and hike along to the
castle. See--the moon is helping us!"
"Yassir. I was jest finishin' another hunk of po'k-chops dat I forgot
an' put in my pocket. Won't you have a bite?"
"No. I want to eat up something worse than pork to-night," and Jarvis
swung into the saddle with the lithe skill acquired from childhood days
on the backs of Blue-Grass thoroughbreds.
"What was dat gun-play, Marse Warren?" asked Rusty, after he had
calculated that they had ridden a respectful distance for inquiries.
Rusty had a certain inherited pride!
Jarvis laughed, and the dull glow of his cigarette tip was discernible.
"Oh, Rusty, why worry over history? Leave that sort of thing to these
'spigotties'--that's all they have to think about over here. It was
just a question of being 'pinked' or 'pinking' a certain gentleman who
was working beyond union hours."
"Huh!" snorted Rusty. "I'll bet de razor I has in my jeans dat he was
moh red dan pink when you-all got finished wid dat cannon o' yourn,
Marse Warren. It runs in de fambly ter shoot straight!"
"Well, Rusty, let's ride straight for a while. We must go up this road
to the turn."
They passed dark cottages, and finally reached the fateful angle of the
road. Rusty groaned apprehensively.
"Say, Marse Warren, I wouldn't mind dis all in de meanest moonshine
district in Kaintuck, but I don't like for to ride in dis yere foreign
district. W'y didn't you-all pick out some place w'ere dey speaks
human talk, instead of dis on-Christian lingo? It don't seem releegious
to me, Marse Warren."
"Rusty, I'm beginning to think you've got a yellow streak in you, with
all this talk about objections. You used to have a name for not even
being afraid of your weight in wildcats," said Warren.
Rusty nodded, as he clung tightly to the saddle, on the increasingly
rough trail.
"Marse Warren, dat was right. But wildcats is purty heavy, an' you-all
can hit 'em with a shotgun. De trouble wid ghosts is dat dey don't
weigh nuffin!"
"Lookout, Rusty. Here's a brook," and suddenly Jarvis' horse stumbled
to its feet, after sliding down a sharp declivity which had been hidden
by the shadows of the big moonlit trees. Rusty was not so
fortunate,--he was rolled off despite his efforts, to receive a
ducking.
Then did his teeth have reason to chatter, as he mounted again to
follow his master up the declivity with dripping clothes.
"Whaffor dey want a crick like dat just below de doors of a castle,
Marse Warren?" he complained.
"That's how they got their water supply--I wouldn't be surprised if the
old place weren't built right on top of that spring. You know when this
place was built they didn't have any faucets or taps in these old
places.--Except on the heads!"
They mounted higher, ever higher, swinging on their saddlebows the
unlighted, antique lanterns. Rusty was unmistakably becoming more and
more nervous.
The road took a sharp turn to the right now, and they clattered over
the wooden bridge of the moat.
They faced the great doorway of the old castle now. In the moonlight it
was an eerie sight indeed. The castle stood on a broad rocky shelf. A
cold wind swept over the mountain top, rattling the naked branches near
by the dismal walls.
"Ooooh!"
"What's that?" grunted Rusty in terror.
"Just the wind trying to get out through those barred windows up there,
you fool."
"Laws-a-massy, I don't blame it fer gittin' out. I wish I wasn't goin'
in."
A lone cloud took this occasion to cover the moon, and the shadow
darkened the outlines of the sinister structure. The castle, so Warren
had judged on his trip up the hill, must have been built in the period
of the Spanish Moors. Later, perhaps when the Moors had been driven out
of the country, two dismal wings, several towers and turrets had been
added, reminding one of the castles on the Rhine cliffs.
The face of the structure, which Jarvis scanned quickly, was about two
hundred feet long and maybe sixty feet high--with two stanch square
towers at either end.
Thin slits in the walls and two round windows high up appeared to the
mind of the Kentuckian (humorous in the face of the unknown danger) as
"architectural bungholes." On either side of the great arched door
jutted a turret, slit with many smaller openings and possessing
castellated tops.
As they rumbled over the planking of the open drawbridge Rusty's
chattering teeth were audible to the rider close at his side, and
Jarvis muttered angrily, drawing up his horse by the gate which led to
the inner courtyard.
"If you're still too much of a coward to go on, you can ride back,
Rusty. This is the first time you've ever failed me in a time of
danger."
The negro remonstrated nervously.
"I'm not skeered--Marse Warren, I'm jes' gittin' straight hair fer de
fust time in my life. I'm goin' wid you. I'ze jes' mighty onhappy."
A doorway somewhere swung shut with an iron clang. Rusty's nerves were
stronger now. He breathed hard but said nothing.
"They used to hitch their horses here, I suppose," said Jarvis, as he
slid from the saddle. The moonlight gave them a better illumination by
this time. He hitched his horse, and Rusty followed his example with
trembling fingers.
"Now, light the lamps. My, but those lamps would sell for a fortune in
a Fourth Avenue antique shop!"
Rusty obeyed silently.
Then followed the most horrible experience of Rusty's life, in what
seemed an endless exploration. They trod along weirdly echoing
corridors, through spacious chambers, where ancient tapestries hung
from the walls, while strange _debris_ lay about amidst the curious
carved furniture. Everything was covered by a pall of dust. Squealing
and scurrying, the shining eyes and ghastly noises betrayed the
presence of myriad rats.
"What can they find to live on?" wondered Warren.
From the high battlements they peered into the valley, and could see a
few faint lights in the distant inn. Warren felt sure that one of those
lights was in the room of her Highness.
They explored the bedchambers of the lords and ladies of the castle,
the little pigeonholes in which the men-at-arms must have slept.
Strange subtle odors met them like an actual presence as they peered
into dungeons, stone chambers, and horrid vaults.
"I don't even see why a ghost would want ter hang around dis misserable
place, Marse Warren," ventured Rusty, as for the second time they
entered the largest room of all, within the central keep.
"We've been here before, Rusty," replied Warren, sitting down for a
moment on an old bench. Rusty looked around with rolling eyes.
Suddenly Jarvis jumped up and sniffed.
"Yes, and someone else has been here before. Do you smell that, Rusty?"
"Marse Warren, I'm so skeered dat I can't smell nuthin',--I can' see
nuthin', hear nuthin'--except dem moans and yowls in all dose powerful
big rooms we was in."
"The room's full of smoke and the smell of oil." Jarvis walked about,
to make certain. "Somebody's been carrying a smoky lantern. We're
getting warmer with that ghost."
A dull thud came to their ears, from far within the building. Rusty
jumped like a frightened fawn.
"Good godelmity! What's dat?"
Jarvis quietly walked across the room, to peer into the big stone
fireplace.
"Oh, Marse Warren, I want to go home!"
Rusty had turned about, and his eyes took in two figures of ancient
armor at the top of the broad half-flight of stairs, on a balcony dais.
He sank upon his knees and bobbed his head to the floor in obeisance.
"What's the matter?" and Jarvis whirled about, with revolver drawn. His
own nerves were beginning to get too taut, with the tension exaggerated
by the superstition and fright of the negro.
"Look! Look! Look at dem big black boogies standin' dere, Marse Warren.
See 'em standin' dere?"
Jarvis laughed and put his gun into his side pocket.
"They're the same black things that scared you before, don't you
remember?"
"Oh, I'm so skeered, boss, dat I can't remember nuthin' at all."
"Get up on your pins--they're nothing but old suits of armor, and
you're liable to get some moonlight through you, Rusty, if there's
another rear-end collision like that. You've been treading on my heels
every step I take, and when I stop you bump into me."
"But Marse Warren," pleaded the frightened darky, "I'm powerful 'fraid
I might lose you!"
"A fine chance," snorted Jarvis, looking about. "Well, Rusty, we've
been through this old place pretty thoroughly, and not a sign of a
soul--unless they pound or carry a smoky lantern. It's a clew, Rusty,
it's a clew. We'll stick right here until we find out. This is the best
room of the castle, and the ghost may prefer it."
Jarvis crossed to the fireplace again, and striking a match, held it
into the opening. Its flicker indicated a good draught.
"There, Rusty," he said. "It's a good chance for a fire. The chimney's
clear. Now break up that lopsided, rickety table there and make a fire.
You won't feel half so scared with a good blaze behind you."
He turned toward the half-flight of stairs, with a studious expression
as he mentally measured the heights and thickness of the walls and
ceiling.
"I'll scout around a bit, Rusty."
"Don't you do scoutin' outsiden dis room."
Rusty crossed to the fireplace, with the pieces of easily-smashed table
legs, and began to light the fire.
"This was probably the banquet hall, Rusty."
"Yes, and say, Marse Warren, when we-all goin' ter eat?"
"When we get through with this job." He turned thoughtfully toward the
big windows on the south of the room, and mused aloud: "That's the way
through the two long rooms to the postern gate. Umm."
"That's where that black thing followed me."
"Yes, and a black thing followed me, walking on my heels every step I
took. I couldn't see where I was stepping."
"That goes to the armory."
"I seen eyes in dere and a cold grimy, green smell in dere. Ain't dat
where dat broad-faced bird flew at me, an' I slipped down de stairs?"
"Don't you know an owl, Rusty? That's all it was."
Jarvis was walking across the room to another door. Rusty was close
behind him, following by habit now.
"I wonder if that door is...."
He did not finish the sentence! His foot had touched a swiveled rock,
so delicately balanced that he had noiselessly fallen half through the
large opening in the rock floor when Rusty caught him by the collar and
under the arm.
[Illustration: _Rusty caught him by the arm_]
"Here, I'm holding on now better, Rusty. Give me your hand." They both
tugged, and he was soon safe, peering into the black opening together.
"That was a close call. Give me that lantern, Rusty!"
He dropped an old pewter cup, left on a side table, down the opening.
There was a delayed, faint splash.
"Lord!--water and a long drop. No wonder people disappear in this
castle. Great Scott! What if her brother fell in there? Rusty, whatever
happens, keep clear of this. Get me a burned stick, and I'll mark a
cross on it, so we can tell--it makes me nervous to see that open mouth
of death gaping for us. If you step on this you'll never see Kentucky
again, for sure."
Rusty obeyed.
"Did you hear that groan, Marse Warren?"
"Groan--that's the wind!... There it is again--it does sound like a
moan."
"Ough!" and Rusty's teeth chattered in perfect rhythm with his shaking
knees. "Ough!"
"Shut up! Listen ... I guess it's the wind, at that. But this place is
getting on our nerves all right."
Rusty controlled his teeth enough to talk now.
"Marse Warren, dat warn't no wind. Ah hope to die if dat warn't a shore
'nuff human groan." He turned and looked toward the big oil portrait of
an ancient Spanish hidalgo over the fireplace. "An' I wants to tell you
somepin else. Has you ever been in church or somew'ere an' all of a
suddent a feelin' comes over you dat dere's someone's eyes a-starin' at
de back of your haid ... you jest knowed it--until you couldn't stand
it no longer, an' jest had to turn 'round an' see who it was?"
"Yes, Rusty, I've had that. Why?"
"Dat's jest de way I feel now. Like dem eyes in dat picture was
a-lookin right through me. Like he'd like to step right outen de frame.
Or dem two boogie battleship men would like to jump right down on me,"
and he pointed toward the two suits of armor on the landing above.
"It's been a good many hundred years since those boys jumped. But
listen--there's someone running as sure as you're alive, Rusty."
It was unmistakable. The steps came nearer and nearer, and then came a
repetition of that dull thud in a distant room.
"I want to go home," moaned Rusty.
Jarvis had drawn his revolver again, and he was standing close to the
stairs.
"Great Scott, Rusty! The man with the smoky lantern has been up these
stairs. There are oil drippings, still fresh."
"You-all ain't going up, is you?" pleaded Rusty.
"Not at all. Because this Mr. Ghost or some of his spooky friends are
probably waiting at the top of the stairs with a long gun, and I'm no
book hero."
"Suppose it might be dat dere Mrs. Princess'es brother?"
"Well, he might blow my head off because he doesn't know what I came
here for, and if it's someone else they'd blow it off because they do
know why I'm here. There's somebody trying to scare us, Rusty. They're
probably watching every move we make.... That's where that pounding
comes from--why don't they shoot?... They're trying to scare us as they
did the poor boobs down in the village."
Rusty crossed toward the fireplace. He picked up an old mallet and
chisel from the mantel, which was brighter now from the fire. He cried
out in surprise:
"Look yere, Marse Warren. Look yere!"
He handed the tools over to the astounded Jarvis. "I found 'em on dat
mantelpiece!"
Jarvis ran to the mantelpiece and clambered up on a chair, holding the
lantern close to the wall.
"Good boy, Rusty! These are the Ghost's tools, all right. Someone was
working in this room--but we've beaten him to it.... Mortar on the
floor ... mortar on the mantle!... Look here at these stones. That's
where he was working, Rusty, and we've beaten him to it."
He stopped, and both of them turned simultaneously to look at the big
picture of the historical Spaniard. Rusty had drawn his own revolver,
with Jarvis doing the same by a curious instinct.
"Did you feel dat, too, Marse Warren?" asked the frightened negro.
Jarvis said nothing. He went to the picture and, lighting a match,
passed it all around the frame, examining it, without the discovery of
a suspicious thing. He turned away, then faced it once more as he
backed toward the low balustrade of the steps over which stood one of
the suits of armor.
"By George, that's weird. You could feel that just as plain...."
Rusty was still looking with fascination at the picture.
"It sure is, Marse Warren, it sure is...." He turned slowly, facing
Warren Jarvis. He had just time for one piercing howl--a veritable
high-pitched scream:
"_My Gawd, look out!_"
XVII
CONCLUSION
Rusty had dived under the table.
The great sword of the armored figure was swinging swiftly up in air,
and Jarvis leaped with all the sinewy strength of his young manhood.
It was none too soon.
The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone balustrade where he
sat a second before.
Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the
born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error.
The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate.
Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again.
The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad
advanced.
He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers--but Rusty was
scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance
across the room.
In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the assailant!
It was a futile pebble toss.
The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the
weird assailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his
life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing
feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing.
His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a
forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but
the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination.
Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he
was out of reach. He might have grappled--but the thought came too
late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall--there was a great poleax.
This was the instrument made for the man-at-arms to withstand the noble
knight in the days of old. He whirled it on high as the other came
toward him. The double-edged sword rose high to parry the stroke, and
the sharp weapon clove through the rotten wood helve: Time had disarmed
the American again.
A deep-chested laugh came from the human "battleship."
Warren laughed back--in the face of death: the old Jarvis fighting
laugh was a tradition in Kentucky.
His next weapon was a chair. With this as a guard he managed to swing
the sword with a clever parry. He gave the metal breastplate a vigorous
high kick. From the helmet there came a muffled "Oooof!" Here was one
"point" for the modern!
[Illustration: _His next weapon was a chair_]
Thus they dodged and feinted, striking, whirling, while the Kentuckian
planned his campaign.
Little by little he drew his implacable opponent toward the charcoal
cross-mark on the floor. The great sword rose high--he feigned weakness
and dropped his chair. Then, as the toreador dodges the mad onslaught
of the maddened bull, he leaped aside and the sword struck the ground.
Before it could be raised, he swung from his side position, with the
heavy antique chair, against the vizor. The equilibrium of the armored
man was none too stable, as he missed his stroke--and his head went
back. Again the Kentuckian charged, this time with a barehanded clinch,
the chair dropped.
Around the metal waist his arms went and he forced the other back but
half a foot.
It was enough!
"_Santa Madre!_" came from the helmet, as the figure stumbled through
the opening trap-stone.
There was a scream, which suddenly ended at highest pitch--a splash ...
then _silence_.
Jarvis staggered back, with dilated eyes upon the fatal hole--he wiped
the cold beads off his clammy brow, and staggered toward the table for
support.
Rusty's head came out from the shelter of the stone coping--and he
smiled an ashen imitation of amusement.
"Whar's yoh friend, Marse Warren?"
Jarvis' head was low upon his breast, as he answered quietly:
"Water--and a long drop! There's a real ghost due to haunt castle now,
Rusty."
"I knowed them battleship boogies was spooks!"
Warren picked up the great sword which had fallen by the trap as the
man went through. He walked up the stairs.
"Oh, Marse Warren, don't!"
"What's the matter?" and he snarled it. "Do I scare you?"
"You can't scare me--I'm scared already!"
Jarvis made a fencing feint at the other figure. There was no response;
again he tried. Then he rushed it, and knocked the armor over.
"I guess he's genuine--and harmless."
"Oh, Marse Warren, you'se got gall, shore. I'll jest finish dis
battleship--so he won't jump no moh." He had grabbed the armor and
started toward the trapdoor. "I'm goin' to sink him in de harbor!"
"Don't do that--it takes a thief to catch a thief. I'll make a ghost
out of you, Rusty. Come here."
Objecting, timorous, and still overcome with his native superstition,
Rusty was nevertheless forced to don the armor--a sad misfit he was, at
that.