THE DEATH WATCH
A strange and mysterious thing is the working of terror on the human
mind. Some it renders incapable of thought or action, paralyzing their
limbs and stagnating the blood in their veins; such creatures die in
anticipating death. Others, under the stress of that grim emotion have
their wits preternaturally sharpened. The instinct of self-preservation
assumes command and urges them to swift and feverish action.
After a moment of terrible suspense Tristan's hands fell limply beside
him. At the next he was himself again. His cheeks were livid, his lips
bloodless. But his hands were steady and his wits under control.
Concealment--concealment for Hellayne and himself--was the thing that
now imported, and no sooner was the thought conceived than the means
were devised. Slender means they were, yet since they were the best
the place afforded, he must trust to them without demurring, and pray
to God that the intruders might lack the wit to search. And with that
fresh hope it came to him that he must find a way as to make them
believe that to search would be a waste of effort.
The odds against him lay in the little time at his disposal. Yet a
little time there was. The door was stout, and those outside might not
resort to violent means to break it open lest the noise arouse the
street.
With what tools the sbirri were at work he could not guess, but surely
they must be such as to leave him but a few moments. Already they had
begun. He could distinguish a crunching sound as of steel biting into
wood.
Swiftly and silently Tristan set to work. Like a ghost he glided round
the coffin's side, where the lid was lying. He raised it and, after he
had deposited Hellayne on the ground, mounted the bench and replaced
it. Next he gathered up the cumbrous pall and, mounting the bench once
more, spread it over the coffin. This way and that he pulled it, until
it appeared undisturbed as when he had entered.
What time he toiled, the half of his mind intent upon his task, the
other half was as intent upon the progress of the workers at the door.
At last it was done. Tristan replaced the bench at the foot of the
catafalque and, gathering up the woman in his arms, as though her
weight had been that of a feather, he bore her swiftly out of the
radius of the four tapers into the black, impenetrable gloom beyond. On
he sped towards the high altar, flying now as men fly in evil dreams,
with the sensation of an enemy upon them, and their progress a mere
stand still.
Thus he gained the chancel, stumbling against the railing as he passed,
and pausing for an instant, wondering whether those outside had heard.
But the grinding sound continued and he breathed more freely. He
mounted the altar stairs, the distant light behind him feebly guiding
him on, then he ran round to the right and heaved a great sigh of
relief upon finding his hopes realized. The altar stood a pace or so
from the wall, and behind it there was just such a concealment as he
had hoped to find.
Tristan paused at the mouth of that black well, and even as he paused
something that gave out a metallic sound, dropped at the far end of
the church. Intuition informed him that it was the lock which the
miscreants had cut from the door. He waited no longer, but like a deer
scudding to cover, plunged into the dark abyss.
Hellayne, wrapped in his cloak, as she was, he placed on the ground,
then crept forward on hands and knees and thrust out his head, trusting
to the darkness to conceal him.
He waited thus for a time, his heart beating almost audibly in the
intermittent silence, his head and face on fire with the fever of
sudden reaction.
From his point of vantage it was impossible for Tristan to see the door
that was hidden in the black gloom. Away in the centre of the church,
an island of light in that vast well of blackness, stood the catafalque
with its four waxen tapers. Something creaked, and almost immediately
he saw the flames of those tapers bend toward him, beaten over by the
gust that smote them from the door. Thus he surmised that Tebaldo and
his men had entered. Their soft foot-fall, for they were treading
lightly now, succeeded, and at last they took shape, shadowy at first,
then clearly defined, as they emerged within the circle of the light.
For a moment they stood in half whispered conversation, their voices
a mere boom of sound in which no words were to be distinguished. Then
Tristan saw Tebaldo step forward, and by his side another he knew by
his great height--Gamba, the deposed captain. Tebaldo dragged away,
even as Tristan had done, the pall that hid the coffin. Next he seized
the bench and gave a brisk order to his men.
"Spread a cloth!"
In obedience to his command, the four who were with him spread a cloak
among them, each holding one of its corners. Apparently they intended
to carry away the dead body in this manner.
The sbirro now mounted the bench and started to remove the coffin lid,
when a blasphemous cry of rage broke from his lips that defied utterly
the sanctity of the place.
"By the body of Christ! The coffin is empty!"--
It was the roar of an enraged beast and was succeeded by a heavy crash,
as he let fall the coffin lid. A second later a second crash waked the
midnight echoes of that silent place.
In a burst of maniacal fury he had hurled the coffin from its trestles.
Then he leaped down from the bench and flung all caution to the winds
in the rage that possessed him.
"It is a trick of the devil," he shouted. "They have laid a trap for
us, and you have never even informed yourselves."
There was foam about the corners of his mouth, the veins had swollen
on his forehead, and from the mad bulging of his eyes spoke fury and
abject terror. Bully as Tebaldo was, he could, on occasion, become a
coward.
"Away!" he shouted to his men. "Look to your weapons! Away!"
Gamba muttered something under his breath, words the listener's ear
could not catch. If it were a suggestion that the church should be
searched, ere they abandoned it! But Tebaldo's answer speedily relieved
his fears.
"I'll take no chances," he barked. "Let us go separately. Myself first
and do you follow and get clear of this quarter as best you may."
Scarcely had the echoes of his footsteps died away, ere the others
followed in a rush, fearful of being caught in some trap that was here
laid for them, and restrained from flying on the instant but by their
still greater fear of their master.
Thanking Heaven for this miraculous deliverance, and for his own
foresight in so arranging matters as to utterly mislead the ravishers,
Tristan now devoted his whole attention to Hellayne. Her breathing had
become deeper and more regular, so that in all respects she resembled
one sunk into healthful slumber. He hoped she would waken before the
elapse of many moments, for to try to bear her away in his arms would
have been sheer madness. And now it occurred to him that he should
have restoratives ready for the time of her regaining consciousness.
Inspiration suggested to him the wine that should be stored in the
sacristy for altar purposes. It was unconsecrated, and there could be
no sacrilege in using it.
He crept round to the front of the altar. At the angle a candle branch
protruded at the height of his head. It held some three or four tapers
and was so placed as to enable the priest to read his missal at early
Mass on dark winter mornings. Tristan plucked one of the candles from
its socket and, hastening down the church, lighted it from one of the
burning tapers of the bier. Screening it with his hand he retraced his
steps and regained the chancel. Then, turning to the left, he made for
a door which gave access to the sacristy. It yielded and he passed down
a short, stone flagged passage and entered a spacious chamber beyond.
An oak settle was placed against one wall, and above it hung an
enormous, rudely carved crucifix. On a bench in a corner stood a basin
and ewer of metal, while a few vestments, suspended beside these,
completed the appointments of the austere and white-washed chamber.
Placing his candle on a cupboard, he opened one of the drawers. It was
full of garments of different kinds, among which he noticed several
monks' habits. Tristan rummaged to the bottom, only to find therein
some odd pairs of sandals.
Disappointed, Tristan closed the drawer and tried another, with no
better fortune. Here were undervests of fine linen, newly washed and
fragrant with rosemary. He abandoned the chest and gave his attention
to the cupboard. It was locked, but the key was there. Tristan's candle
reflected a blaze of gold and silver vessels, consecrated chalices, and
several richly carved ciboria of solid gold, set with precious stones.
But in a corner he discovered a dark brown, gourd-shaped object. It was
a skin of wine and, with a half-suppressed cry of joy, he seized upon
it.
At that moment a piercing scream rang through the stillness of the
church and startled him so that for some moments he stood frozen with
terror, a hundred wild conjectures leaping into his brain.
Had the ruffians remained hidden in the church? Had they returned? Did
the screams imply that Hellayne had been awakened by their hands?
A second time it came, and now it seemed to break the hideous spell
that its first utterance had cast over him. Dropping the leathern
bottle he sped back, down the stone passage to the door that abutted on
the church.
There, by the high altar, Tristan saw a form that seemed at first but a
phantom, in which he presently recognized Hellayne, the dim rays of the
distant tapers searching out the white robe with which her limbs were
draped. She was alone, and he knew at once that it was but the natural
fear consequent upon awakening in such a place, that had evoked the cry
he had heard.
"Hellayne!" he called, advancing swiftly to reassure her. "Hellayne!"
There was a gasp, a moment's silence.
"Tristan?" she cried questioningly. "What has happened? Why am I here?"
He was beside her now and found her trembling like an aspen.
"Something horrible has happened, my Hellayne," he replied. "But it is
over now, and the evil is averted."
"What is it?" she insisted, pale as death. "Why am I here?"
"You shall learn presently."
He stooped, to gather up the cloak, which had slipped from her
shoulders.
"Do you wrap this about you," he urged, assisting her with his own
hands. "Are you faint, Hellayne?"
"I scarce know," she answered, in a frightened voice. "There is a black
horror upon me. Tell me," she implored again, "Why am I here? What does
it all mean?"
He drew her away now, promising to tell her everything once she were
out of these forbidding surroundings. He assisted her to the sacristy
and, seating her upon a settle, produced the wine skin. At first she
babbled like a child, of not being thirsty, but he insisted.
"It is not a matter of quenching your thirst, dearest Hellayne. The
wine will warm and revive you! Come, dearest--drink!"
She obeyed him now, and having got the first gulp down her throat, she
took a long draught, which soon produced a healthier color, driving the
ashen pallor from her cheeks.
"I am cold, Tristan," she shuddered.
He turned to the drawer in which he had espied the monks' habits and
pulling one out, held it for her to put on. She sat there now in that
garment of coarse black cloth, the cowl flung back upon her shoulder,
the fairest postulant that ever entered upon a novitiate.
"You are good to me, Tristan," she murmured plaintively, "and I have
used you very ill! You do not love that other woman?" She paused,
passing her hand across her brow.
"Only you, dearest--only you!"
"What is the hour?" she turned to him suddenly.
It was a matter he left unheeded. He bade her brace herself, and take
courage to listen to what he was about to tell. He assured her that the
horror of it all was passed and that she had naught to fear.
"But--how came I here?" she cried. "I must have lain in a swoon, for I
remember nothing."
And then her quick mind, leaping to a reasonable conclusion, and
assisted perhaps by the memory of the shattered catafalque which she
had seen, her eyes dilating with a curious affright as they were turned
upon his own, she asked of a sudden:
"Did you believe that I was dead?"
"Yes," he replied with an unnatural calm in his voice. "Every one
believed you were dead, Hellayne."
And with this he told her the entire story of what had befallen, saving
only his own part therein, nor did he try to explain his own opportune
presence in the church. When he spoke of the coming of Tebaldo and his
men she shuddered and closed her eyes. Only after he had concluded
his tale did she turn them full upon him. Their brightness seemed to
increase, and now he saw that she was weeping.
"And you were there to save me, Tristan?" she murmured brokenly. "Oh,
Tristan, it seems that you are ever at hand when I have need of you!
You are, indeed, my one true friend--the one true friend that never
fails me!"
"Are you feeling stronger, Hellayne?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes--I am stronger!"
She rose as if to test her strength.
"Indeed little ails me save the horror of this thing. The thought of it
seems to turn me sick and dizzy."
"Sit then and rest!" he enjoined. "Presently, when you feel equal to
it, we shall start out!"
"Whither shall we go?" she asked.
"Why--to the abode of your liege lord."
"Why--yes--" she answered at length, as though it had been the last
suggestion she had expected. "And when he returns," she added, after
a pause, "he will owe you no small thanks for your solicitude on my
behalf."
There was a pause. A hundred thoughts thronged Tristan's mind.
Presently she spoke again.
"Tristan," she inquired very gently, "what was it that brought you to
the church?"
"I came with the others, Hellayne," he replied, and, fearing such
questions as might follow--questions he had been dreading ever since he
brought her to the sacristy, he said:
"If you are recovered, we had better set out."
"I am not yet sufficiently recovered," she replied. "And, before we go,
there are a few points in this strange adventure that I would have you
make clear to me! Meanwhile we are very well here! If the good fathers
do come upon us, what shall it signify?"--
Tristan groaned inwardly and grew more afraid than when Basil's men had
broken into the church an hour ago.
"What detained you after all had gone?"
"I remained to pray," he answered, with a sense of irritation at her
persistence. "What else was there to do in a church?"
"To pray for me?"
"Assuredly."
"Dear, faithful heart," she murmured. "And I have used you so cruelly.
But you merited my cruelty--Tristan! Say that you did, else must I
perish of remorse."
"Perchance I deserved it," he replied. "But perchance not so much as
you bestowed, had you understood my motives," he said unguardedly.
"If I had understood your motives?" she mused. "Ay--there is much I do
not understand! Even in this night's business there are not wanting
things that remain mysterious, despite the elucidations you have
supplied. Tell me, Tristan--what was it that caused you to believe,
that I still lived?"
"I did not believe it," he blundered like a fool, never seeing whither
her question led.
"You did not?" she cried, with deep surprise, and now, when it was too
late, he understood. "What was it then that induced you, to lift the
coffin lid?"--
"You ask me more than I can tell you," he answered almost roughly, for
fear lest the monks would come at any moment.
She looked at him with eyes that were singularly luminous.
"But I must know," she insisted. "Have I not the right? Tell me now!
Was it that you wished to see my face once more before they gave me
over to the grave?"
"Perchance it was, Hellayne," he answered. Then he suggested their
going, but she never heeded his anxiety.
"Do you love me then so much, dearest Tristan?"
He swung round to her now, and he knew that his face was white, whiter
than the woman's had been when he had seen her in the coffin. His
eyes seemed to burn in their sockets. A madness seized upon him and
completely mastered him. He had undergone so much that day of grief,
and that night the victim of a hundred emotions, that he no longer
controlled himself. As it was, her words robbed him of the last
lingering restraint.
"Love you?" he replied, in a voice that was unlike his own. "You are
dearer to me than all I have, all I am, all I ever hope to be! You are
the guardian angel of my existence, the saint to whom I have turned
mornings and evenings in my prayers! I love you more than life!"
He paused, staggered by his own climax. The thought of what he had
said and what the consequences must be, rushed suddenly upon him. He
shivered as a man may shiver in waking from a trance. He dropped upon
his knees before her.
"Forgive," he entreated. "Forgive--and forget!"
"Neither forgive nor forget will I," came her voice, charged with an
ineffable sweetness, such as he had never before heard from her lips,
and her hands lay softly on his bowed head as if she would bless and
soothe him. "I am conscious of no offence that craves forgiveness, and
what you have said to me I would not forget if I could. Whence springs
this fear of yours, dear Tristan? Has not he to whom I once bound
myself in a thoughtless moment, he who never understood, or cared to
understand my nature, he whose cruelty and neglect have made me what I
am to-day, lost every right, human or divine? Am I more than a woman
and are you less than a man that you should tremble for the confession
which, in a wild moment, I have dragged from you? For that wild moment
I shall be thankful to my life's end, for your words have been the
sweetest that my poor ears have ever listened to. I count you the
truest friend and the noblest lover the world has ever known. Need it
surprise you then, that I love you, and that mine would be a happy life
if I might spend it in growing worthy of this noble love of yours?"
There was a choking sensation in his throat and tears in his eyes.
Transport the blackest soul from among the damned in Hell, wash it
white of its sins and seat it upon one of the glorious thrones of
Heaven,--such were the emotions that surged through his soul. At last
he found his tongue.
"Dearest," he said, "bethink yourself of what you say! You are still
his wife--and the Church grants no severance of the bonds that have
united two for better or worse."
"Then shall we see the Holy Father. He is just and he will be merciful.
Will you take me, Tristan, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel Fortune
may drive us? Will you take me?"
She held his face between her palms and forced his eyes to meet her
eyes.
"Will you take me, Tristan?" she said again.
"Hellayne--"
It was all he could say.
Then a great sadness overwhelmed him, a tide that swept the frail bark
of happiness high and dry upon the shores of black despair.
"To-morrow, Hellayne, you will be what you were yesterday."
"I have thought of that," she said, a slight flutter in her tone.
"But--Hellayne is dead.--We must so dispose that they will let her rest
in peace."--