THE IRON COUNT
When King, in the kindness of his heart, grasped the old woman to keep
her from falling to the floor, he played directly into the hands of very
material agencies under her control. There was nothing ghostly or even
spiritual in the incidents that followed close upon the simulated
fainting spell of the fortune-teller. It has been said before that her
bony fingers closed upon his arms in a far from feeble manner. He had no
time for surprise at this sudden recovery; there was only time to see a
fiendish grin flash into her face. The next instant something struck him
in the face; then with a fierce jerk this same object tightened about
his neck. His attempt to yell out was checked before a sound could issue
from his lips.
It all came to him in a flash. A noose had been dropped over his head;
as he was pulled backward, his startled, bulging eyes swept the ceiling.
The mystery was explained, but in a manner that left him small room for
satisfaction. Above him a square opening had appeared in the ceiling;
two ugly, bearded faces were leaning over the edge and strong hands were
grasping a thick rope. In a frenzy of fear and desperation he cast the
old woman from him and tore violently at the rope.
They were drawing hard from above; his toes were barely touching the
floor; he was strangling. Frantically he grasped the rope, lifting
himself from the floor in the effort to loosen the noose with his free
hand. A hoarse laugh broke upon his dinning ears, the leering faces drew
nearer; and then, as everything went black, a heavy, yet merciful blow
fell upon his head. As consciousness left him, he felt himself rushing
dizzily upward, grasped by powerful hands and whisked through the
opening into air so hot and stiffling that his last thought was of the
fires of Hell.
Not many minutes passed before consciousness, which had been but
partially lost, returned to him. The ringing sensation remained in his
head, but he was no longer choking. The noose had been removed from his
neck; the rope itself was now serving as a bond for his hands and feet,
a fact that impressed itself upon him when he tried to rise. For some
time he lay perfectly still, urging his senses into play: wondering
where he was and what had happened to him.
It was pitch dark and the air was hot and close. Not a sound came to his
throbbing cars. With characteristic irrepressibility he began to swear
softly, but articulately. Proof that his profanity was mild--one might
say genteel--came in an instant. A gruff voice, startlingly near at
hand, interrupted him.
"Spit it out, young feller! Swear like a man, not like a damn canary
bird."
Truxton tried hard to pierce the darkness, a strange thrill passing
through his veins. The hidden speaker was unquestionably an American.
"What the devil does all this mean?" demanded the captive. "Where am I?"
"It means business, and you're here, that's where you are," was the
sarcastic answer.
"Are you an American?"
"No. I'm a Chinaman."
"Oh, come off! Answer square."
"Well, I was born in Newport." As an afterthought: "Kentucky."
"You're in a damned nice business, I'll say that for you," growled
Truxton. "Who is responsible for this outrage?"
He heard the man yawn prodigiously. "Depends on what you call an
outrage."
"This is the damnedest high-handed outrage I've ever--"
"Better save your breath, young feller. You won't have it very long, so
save what you can of it."
Truxton was silent for a moment, analysing this unique remark. "You mean
I am to stop breathing altogether?"
"Something like that."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Well, who does?"
"You'll find out when the boss gets good and ready."
"You are a fine American!"
"Look here, young feller, I've been polite to you, so don't get gay.
I'll come over there and kick your jaw in."
"Come ahead. Anything to break the monotony."
"Didn't you get enough of the hangman's knot and the sandbag? Want more,
eh? Well, if I wasn't so darned comfortable I'd come over there and give
it to you. Now don't rile me!"
"I deserve to be kicked for being such a blithering fool as to get into
this mess. Come on and kick me."
"You wanted to get a poke at the old man's eye, did ye? By thunder,
that's like an American. Never satisfied to let things alone. See what
it got you into?"
"The old man's eye? What old man?"
"That's for you to find out, if you can. You've made a hell of a poor
start at it."
"You're a good-natured scoundrel"
"Thanks for them kind words."
"Well, what are you going to do with me? I don't like the air in here.
It's awful. How long do I stay here?"
"Say, you're a gritty little man. I like your nerve. Too bad we ain't on
the same side. I'll tell you this: you won't be here long. How would the
old girl down there put it? You're going on a long voyage. That's it.
But first we'll get out of this rat hole, just as soon as them other
guys come back from the cave. You'll get fresh air purty soon. Now,
don't talk any more. I'm through gossipin'!"
"How do you, an American, happen to be mixed up in a deal like this?"
"It's healthier work than makin' barrels at--I was goin' to say Sing
Sing, but I hear they've changed the name. I prefer outdoor work."
"Fugitive, eh?"
"You might call it that. I'm wanted in seven States. The demand for me
is great."
Truxton saw that he could get nothing out of the satirical rascal, so
fell to speculating for himself. That he was still in the loft above the
hovel was more or less clear to him. His mind, now active, ran back to
the final scene in the kitchen. The trap-door in the ceiling, evidently
a sliding arrangement, explained the mysterious disappearance of the
owner of the eye; he had been whisked up through the aperture by
confederates and the trap-door closed before it could be discovered. The
smoking kettle no longer puzzled him, now that he knew of the secret
room above the kitchen; a skilfully concealed blow-pipe could have
produced the phenomenon. The space in which he was now lying, half
suffocated, was doubtless a part of the cleverly designed excavation at
the back of the hovel, the lower half being the kitchen, the upper an
actual gateway to the open air somewhere in the mountainside.
That he had fallen into the hands of a band of conspirators was also
quite clear to him. Whether they were brigands or more important
operators against the Crown, he was, of course, in no position to
decide. Time would tell.
It was enough that they expected to kill him, sooner or later. This, in
itself, was sufficient to convince him that he was not to be held for
ransom, but to be disposed of for reasons best known to his captors.
Like a shot the warning of Olga Platanova flashed into his brain. Here,
then, was the proof that she actually knew of the peril he was in. But
why should he be an object of concern to these men, whoever they were?
His guard had mentioned "the old man." Good heavens, could he mean
Spantz? The cold perspiration was standing on King's brow. Spantz! He
recalled the wickedness in the armourer's face. But why should Spantz
wish him evil? Again intuition, encouraged by memory, supplied him with
a possible, even plausible explanation.
The Anarchists! The Reds! Olga was an avowed Anarchist; she was almost a
prisoner in the house of her uncle. Truxton's guard sat up suddenly and
felt for his weapon when the captive let out a bitter oath of
understanding and rage.
"By gad, they think I am a detective!" he added, light coming to him
with a rush.
"What's that?" snapped the other. Truxton could almost feel the other's
body grow tense despite the space between them. "Are you a detective?
Are you? By God, if you are, I'll finish you up right here. You--"
"No! They're on the wrong scent. By Jove, the laugh's on old man
Spantz."
"Oho! So you _do_ know what's up, then? Spantz, eh? Well, what you've
guessed at or found out won't make much difference, my fine young
fellow. They've got you, and you'll be worse off than Danny Deever in
the mornin'! Hello! Here they come. Now we'll get out of this infernal
bake-oven. Say, do you know, you've been cuddlin' up against a j'int of
warm stove pipe for nearly an hour? Sh!"
The glimmer of a light came bobbing up from somewhere behind Truxton; he
could see the flickering shadows on the wall. Two men crept into the
room a moment later. One of them carried a lantern; the other turned
King's body over with his foot.
"You damned brute," grated the captive.
"Call him what you like, young feller," said his first acquaintance. "He
can't understand a word you say. Well, do we pull out?" This to the man
with the lantern.
The roof was so low that they were compelled to stoop in moving about.
Truxton saw that the three ruffians were great, brutal-faced fellows,
with bared arms that denoted toil as well as spoils.
"Immediate!" said the lantern bearer. "Come; we drag him to the cave."
"Drag? Nix; we c'n carry him, pard. I'm not for draggin' him down that
passage. Grab hold there,--you! Hey, get his feet, damn you!" The third
man was reluctant to understand, but at last grasped the prisoner by the
feet, swearing in a language of his own. The Yankee desperado took his
shoulders, and together, with earnest grunts, they followed the man
with the lantern, Truxton knew not whither except that it was away from
the wretched sweat-hole.
He could see that they were crowding through a low, narrow passage, the
earthen sides of which reeked with moisture. Twice they paused to rest,
resuming the journey after a season of cursing, finally depositing him
with scant courtesy upon the rocky floor of what proved to be a rather
commodious cave. The breath was almost jarred from his body. He had the
satisfaction of driving his two heels viciously against the person of
the man who had held them the last ten minutes, receiving a savage kick
in return.
Daylight streamed into this convenient "hole in the wall;" lying upon
his side, Truxton faced the opening that looked out upon the world. He
saw nothing but blue sky. Near the opening, looking down as if into the
valley below, stood the tall, gaunt figure of a man, thin-shouldered and
stooped. His back was to the captive, but King observed that the three
men, with two companions, who sat at the back of the cave, never removed
their gaze from the striking figure outlined against the sky.
Many minutes passed before the watcher turned slowly to take in the
altered conditions behind him. King saw that he was old; grey-haired and
cadaverous, with sharp, hawk-like features. This, then, was the "old
man," and he was not William Spantz. Unlike Spantz in every particular
was this man who eyed him so darkly, so coldly. Here was a highborn man,
a man whose very manners bespoke for him years at court, a life spent in
the upper world, not among the common people. Truxton found himself
returning the stare with an interest that brought results.
"Your name is King, I believe," came from the thin lips of the old man.
The tones were as metallic as the click of steel.
"Yes. May I inquire--"
"No, you may not inquire. Put a gag in his mouth. I don't care to hear
anything from him. Gag him and cut the rope from his feet. He may walk
from now on."
Three men sprang to do his bidding.
King felt in that instant that he was looking for the first time upon
the features of the Iron Count, Marlanx the dishonoured. He lay there
helpless, speechless for many minutes, glancing at this cruel tyrant.
Into his soul sank the conviction that no mercy would come from this
man, this hater of all men; justice would play no part in the final,
sickening tragedy. It was enough that Marlanx suspected him of being in
the way; to be suspected was to be condemned. The whole, hellish
conspiracy flashed through his brain. He closed his eyes with the horror
of it all.
Here was Marlanx on Graustark soil, conniving with cutthroats,
commanding them without opposition. What could it mean except a
swift-growing menace to the Crown--to the little Prince.
Marlanx was speaking. Truxton looked up, as at an executioner. The lean,
cruel face of that beautiful girl's husband was not far from his own;
the fiery eyes were burning into his. The Iron Count sat upon a boulder
near his feet.
"So you are the Quixote who would tilt at invisible windmills, eh? I
remember you quite well. We have met before. Perhaps you remember
meeting my eye in Dame Babba's cabin--twice, I think. You remember, I
see. Ha, ha! You were very slow not to have caught such an old man. You
were near to it the first time, but--you missed it, eh? I thought you
might have seen my heels as I disappeared. I dare say you are wondering
what I intend to do with you, now that I have you. Well, I am not the
man to mince words. Mr. King, you are quite young, but the good die
young. I am very old, you observe. I will not say that you are to die
to-night or to-morrow or any day, for I do not know. I am going to send
you to a court. Not an ordinary court, Mr. King, but one of extreme
perspicacity. I fancy you will die before long. We can spare you. I do
not approve of meddlers. It seems to be quite settled that you are a
police agent. Be that as it may, I imagine our little court of last
resort will take no chances, one way or the other. A man or two, more or
less, will not be counted a year from now."
The steady, cruel eyes fascinated King. He knew that he was in desperate
straits, that he had one chance in a million to escape, and yet he found
himself held by the spell of those eyes, drinking in certain metallic
monotones as if hypnotised.
"I am glad you called again at my temporary abode, Mr. King. Americans
are always welcome: the sooner they come, the sooner it's over. It may
interest you to know that I am very partial to Americans. Were I a
cannibal, I could eat them with relish. If I had my way, all Americans
should be in heaven. The earth surely is not good enough nor big enough
for them, and hell is already overcrowded. Yes," reflectively pressing
his nose with a bony forefinger, "I love the Americans dearly. I should
enjoy a similar visit from Mr. John Tullis. Although, I may say, he
seems to be choosing another way of testing my hospitality. I expect him
to visit me in my humble castle before many days. I should like to have
him remain there until his dying day." There was a deep significance in
his smile. King shuddered. His gaze followed the gaunt, spidery old man
as he returned to the opening for another long survey of the valley
below. Night was falling; the sky was growing darker, and the wind was
rising. Marlanx's sharp features were not so distinguishable when he
returned to the boulder. The men in the cave had not spoken except in
whispers. They appeared to be living in abject fear of this grim old
nobleman.
"Night is coming. I must say farewell, my bold young friend. My way lies
to the north. This is merely a land of promise to me. You go southward,
to the city of Edelweiss. But not through the gates; oh, no! There are
other ways, as you will find. If you should, by any chance, escape the
jurisdiction of the court I am sending you to, I sincerely trust you may
honour me with another visit here. I come often to the hovel in the
glen. It is the only friendly house I know of in all Graustark. Some day
I may be able to recompense its beauteous mistress. My good friends,
Dangloss, and Halfont, and Braze--and Tullis, whom I know only by
reputation--are, as yet, unaware of my glorious return to Graustark,
else they would honour me with their distinguished presence. Some day I
may invite them to dine with me. I shall enjoy seeing them eat of the
humble pie I can put before them. Good-bye, my brave Sir Galahad; I may
never see you again."
With a courtly bow he turned from the tense-muscled captive and directed
his final instructions to the men. "Take him at once to the city, but be
on your guard. A single false move now means utter ruin for all of us.
Our affairs go so well at present that we cannot afford to offend Dame
Fortune. She smiles on us, my men. Take this fool to the house on the
Monastery road. There you will turn him over to the others. It is for
them to drag the truth from his lips. I'd suggest, dear Mr. King, that
you tell them all you know before they begin the dragging process. It is
a very unpleasant way they have." With a curt nod to the men, he strode
out through the mouth of the cave and was gone. Dusk had settled down
upon mountain and valley; a thin fog swam high in the air above. One of
the men cut the rope that bound Truxton's feet.
"Get up," said the Newport man. "We've got to be movin'. How'd you like
the old man? Smart bug, ain't he? Say, he'll throw the hooks into them
guys down in Edelweiss so hard one of these days that they won't come
out till they rot out."
Still gagged and somewhat dizzy, King was hurried off into the narrow
mountain path, closely surrounded by the five men.
"They tell me your friend, the Cook guy, got plugged down in the Gap
when he tried to duck this afternoon," volunteered the Yankee
unconcernedly.
Hobbs shot? King's eyes suddenly filled with tears, a great wave of pity
and shame rushing to his heart. Poor Hobbs! He had led him into this; to
gratify a vain-glorious whim, he had done the little Englishman to
death.
The silent, cautious march down the valley, through the Gap and along
the ridge carried them far into the night. King knew that they were
skirting the main roads, keeping to the almost hidden trails of the
mountaineers. They carried no light, nor did they speak to each other,
except in hoarse whispers. In single file they made their way, the
prisoner between them, weary, footsore and now desperate in the full
realisation of his position. Being gagged, he could make no appeal to
the one man who might befriend him--his villainous countryman. It
occurred to him--grim thought--that the astute Marlanx had considered
that very probability, and had made it impossible for him to resort to
the cupidity of the hireling.
At last, when he could scarcely drag his feet after him, they came to a
halt. A consultation followed, but he could not understand a word. This
much he knew: they were in the hills directly above the northern gates.
Two of the men went forward, moving with extreme caution. In half an
hour they returned and the march was resumed.
Their next halt came sooner than he expected. The vague, black shadow of
a lightless house loomed up before them. In a twinkling he was hustled
across the road and into a door. Then down a flight of stairs, through
pitchy darkness, guided by two of the men, a whispered word of advice
now and then from the Yankee saving him from perilous stumbles. He was
jerked up sharply with a command to stand still. A light flashed
suddenly in his face, blinding him for the moment. Voices in eager,
quick conversation came to his ears long before his eyes could take in
the situation.
Soon he saw that they were in a broad, bare cellar; three men in heavy
black beards were in earnest conversation with several of his captors;
all were gesticulating fiercely.
His Newport companion enlightened him, between puffs of the pipe he was
struggling with. "Here's where we say good-bye, young fellow. We turn
you over to these gents, whoever they are. I'm sort of out of it when
they get to jabberin' among themselves. I can understand 'em when they
talk slow, but, say, did you ever hear a flock of Union Square sparrows
chirp faster than them fellers is talkin' now? Nix. You go into the
village gay with these Schwabs by the sewer line, I guess." Truxton
pricked up his ears. "The old man has had a hole chopped in the sewer
here, they tell me, and it's a snap to get into the city. Not very clean
or neat, but it gets you there. Well, so long! They're ready, I see.
They don't monkey long when they've got a thing to do. I'd advise you
not to be too stubborn when they get you to headquarters; it may go
easier with you. I'm not so damned bad, young feller. It's just the
business I'm in--and the company."
King felt a thrill of real regard for the rascal. He nodded his thanks
and tried to smile. The fellow grinned and slapped him on the shoulder,
unobserved by the others. In another moment his guardianship was
transferred; he was being hurried across the cellar toward an open
doorway. Down a few stone steps he was led by the bearded crew, and then
pushed through a hole in what appeared to be a heavy brick wall. He
realised at once where he was. The gurgle of running water, the odor of
foul airs came up to him. It was the great sewer that ran from the hills
through the heart of the city, flushed continuously by a diverted
mountain stream that swept down from above.
He was wading in cold water over a slippery bottom, tightly held by two
men, the third going ahead with the lantern. Always ahead loomed the
black, opaque circle which never came nearer, never grew smaller. It was
the ever receding wall of darkness.
He did not know how long they traversed the chill sewer in this fashion.
In time, however, the water got deeper; rats began to scurry along the
sides of the circle or to swim frantically on in front of the
disturbers. The smells were sickening, overpowering. Only excitement,
curiosity, youth--whatever you may care to term it-kept him up and
going. The everlasting glory of youth never ends until old age has
provided the surfeit of knowledge; the strife to see ahead, to find out
what is to be, to know,--that is youth. Youth dies when curiosity ends.
The emotion is even stronger than the dread of what may lie beyond in
the pallid sea of uncertainty.
His bones were chilled and creaking with fatigue. He was remorselessly
hungry. There was water, but he could not drink it.
At last the strange journey ended. They came to a niche in the slimy
wall. Up into this the men climbed, dragging him after them. The man
above was cautiously tapping on what appeared to be solid masonry. To
King's surprise a section of the wall suddenly opened before them. He
was seized from above by strong hands and literally jerked through the
hole, his companions following. Up narrow steps, through a sour-smelling
passage and--then, into a long, dimly lighted room, in the centre of
which stood a long table.
He was not permitted to linger here for long, but passed on into a small
room adjoining. Some one, speaking in English, told him to sit down. The
gag was removed from his stiff, inflamed mouth.
"Fetch him some water," said a voice that he was sure he recognised--a
high, querulous voice.
"Hello, Spantz," articulated Truxton, turning to the black-bearded, bent
figure.
There was an instance of silence. Then Spantz spoke, with a soft laugh:
"You will not know so much to-morrow, Herr King. Give him the water,
man. He has much to say to us, and he cannot talk with a dry throat."
"Nor an empty stomach," added King. He drank long of the pitcher that
was held to his lips.
"This is not the Regengetz," growled a surly voice.
"You mean, I don't eat?"
"Not at midnight, my friend."
"It seems to be an all-night joint."
"Enough," cried Spantz. "Bring him out here. The others have come."
King was pushed out into the larger room, where he was confronted by a
crowd of bewhiskered men and snaky-eyed women with most intellectual
nose-glasses. It required but a glance to convince him that the whiskers
were false.
For nearly an hour he was probed with questions concerning his business
in Edelweiss. Threats followed close upon his unsatisfactory answers,
though they were absolutely truthful. There was no attempt made to
disguise the fact that they were conspiring against the government; in
fact, they were rather more open than secretive. When he thought of it
afterward, a chill crept over him. They would not have spoken so openly
before him if they entertained the slightest fear that he would ever be
in a position to expose them.
"We'll find a way to make you talk to-morrow, my friend. Starving is not
pleasant."
"You would not starve me!" he cried.
"No. You will have the pleasure of starving yourself," said a thin-eyed
fellow whom he afterward knew as Peter Brutus.
He was thrown back into the little room. To his surprise and
gratification, the bonds on his wrists were removed. Afterward he was to
know that there was method in this action of his gaolers: his own utter
impotency was to be made more galling to him by the maddening knowledge
that he possessed hands and feet and lungs--and could not use them!
He found a match in his box and struck it. There was no article of
furniture. The floor was bare, the walls green with age. He had a
feeling that there would be rats; perhaps lizards. A search revealed the
fact that his purse, his watch and his pocket-knife were missing.
Another precious match showed him that there were no windows. A chimney
hole in the ceiling was, perhaps, the only means by which fresh air
could reach this dreary place.
"Well, I guess I'm here to stay," he said to himself. He sat down with
his back to the wall, despair in his soul. A pitiful, weak smile came to
him in the darkness, as he thought of the result of his endeavour to
"show off" for the benefit of the heartless girl in rajah silk. "What an
ass I am," he groaned. "Now she will never know."
Sleep was claiming his senses. He made a pillow of his coat, commended
himself to the charity of rats and other horrors, and stretched his
weary bones upon the relentless floor.
"No one will ever know," he murmured, his last waking thought being of a
dear one at home.