_The Priest Takes a Hand_
How long this continued--this pressing forward, following the spitting
fire of his hot rifle--Wilson could not tell. From the first he could
make nothing out of the choking confusion of it all, finding his
satisfaction, his motive, his inspiration in the realization that he
was adding the might of his being to the force which was pounding the
men who had dared to touch this girl. He was drunk with this idea. He
fought blindly and with the spirit of his ancestors which ought long
since to have been trained out of him. So foot by foot he fought his
way on and knew it not when brought to a standstill. Only when he
found himself being pressed back with the mass did he realize that
something had happened; reenforcements had arrived to the enemy. But
this meant only that they must fight the harder. Turning, he urged the
men to stand fast. They obeyed for a moment, but the increased force
was too many for them; they were steadily beaten back. For a second it
looked as though they were doomed to annihilation, for once they were
scattered among those narrow streets they would be shot down like
dogs. At this point Wilson became conscious of the presence of a
gaunt figure, dressed in a long, black robe, bearing upon back and
chest in gold embroidery the figure of a blazing sun.
He stood in front of the men a second gazing up at the sky. Even the
enemy paused to watch him. Then turning to the hill men who had
wavered in the rear, he merely pointed his outstretched arm towards
the enemy. The effect was instantaneous; they swept past the
mercenaries, swept past Wilson, yelling and screaming like a horde of
maniacs. They waved queer knives and spears, brandished rifles, and
then, bending low, charged the frightened line of rifles before them.
Wilson paused to look at this strange figure. He recognized him
instantly as the priest of whom he had heard so much and who had
played in his own life of late so important a part. The man was
standing stock still, smiling slightly. Then with some dignity he
moved away never even looking back, as confident of the result as
though he were an instrument of Fate. If he had seen the man he had
struck down in the house of Sorez, he gave no evidence of it. And once
again Wilson found himself moving on steadily towards the old palace.
The men from the hills swept everything from before them; the
superstitious enemy being driven as much by their fear as by the force
of the attack. Behind them came the mercenaries to the very gates of
the palace. Here they were checked by a large oaken door. From the
windows either side of this puffs of smoke, fire-pierced, darted
viciously. The men behind Wilson answered, but their bullets only
flattened against the granite surface of the structure. He realized
that this was to be the centre of the struggle. They must carry this
at any cost. He heard oaths in the rear and turned to see Stubbs
whipping on three men who were dragging the small Gatling gun brought
from the ship. It looked like a toy. As Stubbs stooped to adjust it,
Wilson saw one of the men dart from the line and disappear into the
open doorway of a house to the right. Stubbs saw it, too, and now,
suddenly turning, put two shots at the fellow's heels. Then he turned
to the gun, with a warning to the others. But he never finished it. He
sank to the street. Danbury rushed up from somewhere and bent over
him, but Stubbs was already getting to his feet.
"Damned thing only glanced," he growled, putting his hand to his head,
"but--it came from behind!"
As he faced the men for a second, one man slunk back into the rear.
Wilson raised his revolver, but Stubbs pushed it to one side.
"Later," he said.
The gun was wheeled into place and it became the center for all the
firing from the palace. In a few seconds it was pouring a steady
stream of lead into the oaken door and splintering the lock into a
hundred pieces. With a howl the men saw the barrier fall and pressed
on. Danbury led them, but halfway he fell. Forty men swarmed over
him.
Once within the palace walls, Wilson and Stubbs found their hands
full. They realized as they charged through the outer guardroom and
down the dark, oak-furnished hall that this gang at their heels would
be difficult to control within the intricate mazes of this old
building. But their attention was soon taken from this by a volley
from the antechamber to the right which opened into the old throne
room. The men rallied well and followed at their heels as they pressed
through the door. They found here some twenty men. Wilson had emptied
his revolver and found no time in which to reload.
He hurled himself upon the first man he saw and the two fell to the
floor where they tumbled about like small boys in a street fight. They
kicked and squirmed and reached for each other's throats until they
rolled into the anteroom where they were left alone to fight it out.
Wilson made his feet and the other followed as nimbly as a cat. Then
the two faced each other. The humor of the situation steadied Wilson
for a moment. Shot after shot was ringing through the old building,
men fighting for their lives with modern rifles, and yet here he stood
driven back to a savage, elemental contest with bare fists in a room
built a century before. It was almost as though he had suddenly been
thrust out of the present into the past. But the struggle was none the
less serious.
His opponent rushed and Wilson met him with a blow which landed
between the eyes. It staggered him. Wilson closed with him, but he
felt a pair of strong arms tightening about the small of his back. In
spite of all he could do, he felt himself break. He fell. The fellow
had his throat in a second. He twisted and squirmed but to no purpose.
He tried a dozen old wrestling tricks, but the fingers only tightened
the firmer. Cheek against cheek the two lay and the fingers with
fierce zeal sank deeper and deeper into Wilson's throat. He strained
his breast in the attempt to catch a single breath. He saw the
stuccoed ceiling above him slowly blur and fade. The man's weight
pressed with cruel insistence until it seemed as though he were
supporting the whole building. He heard his deep gulping breathing,
felt his hot breath against his neck.
The situation grew maddening because of his helplessness, then
terrifying. Was he going to die here in an anteroom at the hands of
this common soldier? Was he going to be strangled like a clerk at the
hands of a footpad? Was the end coming here, within perhaps a hundred
yards of Jo? He threw every ounce in him into a final effort to throw
off this demon. The fellow, with legs wide apart, remained immovable
save spasmodically to take a tighter grip.
The sounds were growing far away. Then he heard his name called and
knew that Stubbs was looking for him. This gave him a new lease of
life. It was almost as good as a long breath. But he couldn't
answer--could make no sound to indicate where he was. The call came
again from almost beside the door. Then he saw Stubbs glance in among
the shadows and move off again. He kicked weakly at the floor. Then he
heaved his shoulders with a strength new-born in him, and the fellow's
tired fingers weakened,--weakened for so long as he could take one
full breath. But before he could utter the shout the merciless fingers
had found their grip once more. The man on top of him, now half
crazed, snapped at his ear like a dog. Then he pressed one knee into
the pit of Wilson's stomach with gruelling pain. He was becoming
desperate with the resistance of this thing beneath him.
Once again Stubbs appeared at the door. Wilson raised his leg and
brought it down sharply. Stubbs jumped at the sound and looked in more
closely. He saw the two forms. Then he bent swiftly and brought the
butt of his revolver down sharply on the fellow's temple. What had
been a man suddenly became nothing but a limp bundle of bones. Wilson
threw him off without the slightest effort. Then he rolled over and
devoted himself to the business of drinking in air--great gulps of it,
choking over it as a famished man will food.
"Are you hurt anywhere?"
"No."
"Can ye stand up?"
"In a minute."
"Pretty nigh the rocks that time."
"He--had a grip like iron."
"Better keep out in the open sea where ye can be seen."
Wilson struggled up and, except for a biting pain in his throat, soon
felt himself again.
"Where's Danbury?" he asked.
"Dunno. But we can't stop to look for him. That gang has gone wild.
Guess we've pretty nigh cleaned out the place an' now they are runnin'
free."
"Won't Otaballo reach here soon?"
"Can't tell. If he doesn't he won't find much left but the walls. I'm
goin' arter them an' see what I can do."
"Better keep your eyes open. They'll shoot you in a minute."
"Mebbe so, mebbe not."
He led the way along an intricate series of corridors to a broad
flight of stairs. Above there was a noise like a riot.
"If I can git 'em inter one room--a room with a lock on 't," he
growled.
As they hurried along, Wilson caught glimpses of massive furniture,
gilded mirrors, costly damask hangings brought over three hundred
years before when this was the most extravagant country on the face of
the earth. They took the broad stairs two at a time, and had almost
reached the top when Wilson stopped as though he had been seized by
the shoulder. For, as distinctly as he had heard Stubbs a moment ago,
he heard Jo call his name. He listened intently for a repetition. From
the rooms beyond he heard the scurrying of heavy feet, hoarse
shouting, and the tumble of overturned furniture. That was all. And
yet that other call still rang in his ears and echoed through his
brain. Furthermore, it had been distinct enough to give him a sense of
direction; it came from below. He hesitated only a second at thought
of leaving Stubbs, but this other summons was too imperative to be
neglected even for him. He turned and leaped down the stairs to the
lower floor.
In some way he must find the prison and in some other way get the keys
and go through those cells. If he could find some member of the palace
force, this would be simple. He wandered from one room to another but
stumbled only over dead men. The wounded had crawled out of sight and
the others had fled. A medley of rooms opened from the long halls and
Wilson ran from one of these to another. Finally, in one he caught a
glimpse of a skulking figure, some underling, who had evidently
returned to steal. In a second he was after him. The chase led through
a half dozen chambers, but he kept at the fellow's heels like a hound
after a fox. He cornered him at the end of a passageway and pinned him
against the wall.
In the little Spanish he had picked up Wilson managed to make the
fellow understand that he wished to find his way to the prison. But
the effect of this was disastrous, for the man crumbled in his hands,
sinking weak-kneed to the floor where he began to beg for mercy.
"It's not for you. I have friends there I wish to free."
"For the love of God, go not near them. It is death down there."
"Up," cried Wilson, snatching him to his feet. "Lead the way or I
shoot."
He placed the cold muzzle of his revolver against the nape of the
fellow's neck and drew a shriek from him.
"No! No! Do not shoot! But do not go there!"
"Not another word. On, quickly!"
"I do not know where,--I swear I do not know, signor!"
But hearing the sharp click of the weapon as Wilson cocked it, he led
the way. They passed the length of several corridors which brought
them to an open courtyard on the further side of which lay a low,
granite building connected with the palace proper by a series of other
small buildings. The fellow pointed to an open door.
"In there, signor. In there."
"Go on, then."
"But the signor is not going to take me in there? I pray,--see, I pray
on my knees not."
He slumped again like a whipped dog and Wilson in disgust and not then
understanding his fear, kicked him to his feet. The fellow trembled
like one with the ague; his cheeks were ashen, his eyes wide and
startled. One would have thought he was on his way to his execution.
Half pushed by Wilson, he entered the door to what was evidently an
outer guardroom, for it contained only a few rough benches, an
overturned table which in falling had scattered about a pack of greasy
cards and a package of tobacco. Out of this opened another door set
in solid masonry, and this, too, stood ajar as though all the guards
had suddenly deserted their posts, as doubtless they had at the first
sound of firing. Still forcing his guide ahead, they went through this
door into a smaller room and here Wilson made a thorough search for
keys, but without result. It was, of course, possible that below he
might still find a sentry or turnkey; but even if he did not, he ought
at least to be able to determine definitely whether or not she were
here. Then he would return with men enough to tear the walls down if
necessary.
They passed through an oak and iron door out of this room and down a
flight of stone steps which took them into the first of the damp
under-passageways leading directly to the dungeons themselves. The air
was heavy with moisture and foul odors. It seemed more like a vault
for the dead than a house of the living. Wilson had found and lighted
a lantern and this threw the feeblest of rays ahead. Before him his
prisoner fumbled along close to the wall, glancing back at every step
to make sure his captor was at his heels.
So they came to a second corridor running in both directions at right
angles from that in which they stood. He remained very still for a
moment in the hope that he might once more hear the voice which would
give him some hint of which way to turn. But the only sound that
greeted him was the scratch of tiny feet as a big rat scurried by. He
closed his eyes and concentrated his thought upon her. He had heard
that so people had communicated with one another and he himself had
had proof enough, if it were true that she was here. But he found it
impossible to concentrate his thoughts in this place,--even to keep
his eyes closed.
Then the silence was pierced by a shriek, the sweat-starting,
nerve-racked cry of a man in awful pain. It was not an appeal for
mercy, or a cry for assistance, but just a naked yell wrung from a
throat grown big-veined in the agony of torture. Wilson could think
of only one thing, the rats. He had a vision of them springing at
some poor devil's throat after he had become too weak to fight
them off. The horrible damp air muffled the cry instantly. He heard an
oath from his guide and the next second the fellow flew past him
like a madman and vanished from sight toward the outer door. For a
second Wilson was tempted to follow. The thought of Jo turned him
instantly. He leaped to the left from where the cry had come,
holding the lantern above his head. His feet slipped on the slimy ooze
covering the clay floors, but by following close to the wall he
managed to keep his feet. So he came to an open door. Within, he saw
dimly two figures, one apparently bending over the other which lay
prostrate. Pushing in, he thrust the lantern closer to them. He had
one awful glimpse of a passion-distorted face; it was the Priest! It
sent a chill the length of him. He dropped the lantern and shot
blindly at the form which hurled itself upon him with the flash of
a knife.
Wilson felt a slight sting upon his shoulder; the Priest's knife had
missed him by the thickness of his shirt. He closed upon the skinny
form and reached for his throat. The struggle was brief; the other was
as a child before his own young strength. The two fell to the floor,
but Wilson got to his feet in an instant and picking up the other
bodily hurled him against the wall. For a second he tasted revenge,
tingled with the satisfaction of returning that blow in the dark. The
priest dropped back like a stunned rat.
The light in the overturned lantern was still flickering. Snatching it
up he thrust it before the eyes of the man who now lay groaning in the
aftermath of the agony to which he had been subjected. The lantern
almost dropped from his trembling fingers as he recognized in the face
distorted with pain, Don Sorez. In a flash he realized that the Priest
had another and stronger reason for joining this expedition than mere
revenge for his people; doubtless by a wile of some sort he had caused
the arrest of these two, and then had led the attack upon the prison
for the sake of getting this man as completely within his power as he
had thought him now to be. The torture was for the purpose of forcing
the secret of the hiding place of the image. For a second Wilson felt
almost pity for the man who lay stretched out before him; he must have
suffered terribly. But he wasted little thought upon this; the girl
was still to be located. Wilson saw his eyes open. He stooped:
"Can you hear?" he asked. "Is the girl in this place?"
The thin lips moved, but there was no distinct response.
"Make an effort. Tell me, and I will get you out of here too."
The lips fluttered as though Sorez was spurred by this promise to a
supreme effort.
"The key--he has it."
"Who?"
Wilson followed the eyes and saw the brass thing lying near the
Priest.
He turned again to Sorez--
"Can you tell me anything about where she is? Is she near you?"
"I--don't know."
There was nothing for it but to open each door in order. It was of
course likely that the two had been thrust into nearby cells, but had
these been filled she might have been carried to the very end of the
passageway. He fitted the ponderous brass thing into the first lock.
It took a man's strength to turn the rusty and clumsy bolt, but it
finally yielded. Again it took a man's strength to throw open the door
upon its rusted hinges. A half savage thing staggered to the threshold
and faced him with strange jabbering. Its face and hands were cruelly
lacerated, its eyes bulging, its tattered remnants of clothes foul.
Wilson faced it a second and then stepped back to let it wander
aimlessly on down the corridors.
The cold sweat started from his brow. Supposing Jo had gone mad? If
the dark, the slime, the rats, could do this to a man, what would
they not do to a woman? He knew her; she would fight bravely and long.
There would be no whimpering, no hysterics, but even so there would be
a point where her woman's strength would fail. And all the while she
might be calling for him and wondering why he did not come. But he
_was_ coming,--he _was_! He forced the key into the next door and
turned another creaking lock. And once again as the door opened he saw
that a thing not more than half human lay within. Only this time it
crouched in a far corner laughing horribly to itself. It glared at him
like some animal. He couldn't let such a thing as that out; it would
haunt him the rest of his life. It was better that it should laugh on
so until it died. He closed the door, throwing against it all his
strength with sudden horror. God, he might go mad himself before he
found her!
At the end of a dozen cells and a dozen such sights, he worked in a
frenzy. The prison now rang to the shrieking and the laughter of those
who wandered free, and those who, still half sane, but savage, fought
with their fellows, too weak to do harm. The farther he went the more
hopeless seemed the task and the more fiercely he worked. He began to
sicken from the odors and the dampness. Finally the bit of metal stuck
in one of the locks so fast that he could not remove it. He twisted it
to the right and to the left until his numbed fingers were upon the
point of breaking. In a panic of fear he twisted his handkerchief in
the handle and throwing all his weight upon it tried to force it out.
Then he inserted the muzzle of his revolver in the key handle and
using this for a lever tried to turn it either way. It was in vain; it
held as firmly as though it had been welded into the lock. In a rage
he pounded and kicked at the door. Then he checked himself.
If ever he hoped to finish his task, he must work slowly and calmly.
With his back to the door, he rested for so long a time as a man might
count five hundred. He breathed slowly and deeply with his eyes
closed. Then he turned and began slowly to work the key back and
forth, in and out. It fell from the lock. He reinserted it and after a
few light manipulations, turned it carefully to the right. The bolt
snapped back. He opened the door.
Within, all was dark. The cell seemed empty. In fact, he was about to
close the door and pass on to the next cell, when he detected a slight
movement in the corner. He entered cautiously and threw his light in
that direction. Something--a woman--sat bolt upright watching him as
one might watch a vision. He moved straight forward and when within
two feet paused, his heart leaping to his throat, his hand grown so
weak that he dropped the lantern.
"Jo!" he gasped tremblingly, still doubting his own senses.
"David. You--you came!"
He moved forward, arms outstretched, half fearing she would vanish.