from the fuse with a feathery fall: down in the town a cock crowed.
“Strange,” he said. “There is a cock crowing. I cannot hear a cock
without knowing that I have an immortal soul.”
“It is a live cry,” she said.
“It is like a trumpeter trumpeting the graves open. It’s the cry the
dead will rise with.
“Ah!” he cried, bitterly. “And the living are rising with it, and going
out to their work, while we are lashed here like staysails. Oh, if I
could only heave this pillar down!” He swayed from side to side, but was
too tightly lashed: there was no stirring that tree bole tamped in four
feet below the floor.
“It’s no good,” he said. “I am caught. And if I had not been a hasty
fool, I could have come here with guardias and set you free.”
“Don’t think that for an instant,” she said. “They were going to cut my
throat if there were any rescue. ‘We shall all die together,’ he told
me. It’s death to him to be caught here, but he was determined that I
should die first. Guardias would not have saved me.”
“I haven’t done much,” he said.
“You have done everything,” she said.
The red glow on the fuse suddenly changed to yellowish; a little flame
sprang up out of the glow: it wavered like a candle-flame.
“The thing is going to explode,” she said.
“I think so, it is bad fuse: it is burning.”
“How long have we?”
“Perhaps less than a minute.”
“Could you sing something?”
The flame in the fuse suddenly brightened and lit up the room. He turned
to Margarita and saw her great eyes fixed upon his.
“Here comes the burst,” he said. “Stand by.”
The flame steadied, then began to shoot higher with a steady sputtering
hiss till it was a foot high and scattering sparks.
“Keep your eyes tight shut,” he said. “And remember it may just as
easily cut our chains as us. Here she comes.”
The flame changed its colour to a dull red, which smoked; it sputtered
more loudly, then lessened, sank down and went out.
“Wait,” Sard said, “wait: it may be a delayed fuse.” He counted up to
seventy-three, slowly. “No,” he said. “The fuse has failed: it is not
going to explode.”
The light appeared at the door at the apex of the room: Sagrado came in
and looked at them.
“First the pleasures, then the miseries of hope,” he said, “to make the
victims despair.”
“We do not despair,” Sard said.
“Do you not?” Sagrado answered. “No; perhaps not yet. But you will.”
“A butcher’s sponge, like you, won’t make me.”
“We shall see.”
“A man would be unclean,” Sard said, “even for spitting at you.”
“Unclean?” Sagrado answered. “There are various conceptions of
cleanliness, but all have to do with consecrations and devotions. I am
called unclean by you, who serve men, who are a servant in a ship. Other
flunkeys serve the state. I am myself, unspotted from these flunkeydoms
and slaveries. If I serve, I serve evil, the master of this world.”
“It is something,” Sard said, “to have a master as dirty as the
servant.”
“It is much,” Sagrado answered, “to have a power commensurate with your
philosophy.”
“I have not seen any power in you yet,” Sard said.
“No?” Sagrado said. “Yet I stand free, while you are bound, you and your
romantic one. Which of us has the power, Margarita?”
“He has,” she answered. “And you know it.”
“I do not know it,” he said, “nor do events show it. I wanted you in my
hands by a certain day: there was nothing that you wanted less. Yet you
came to my hands, to the very moment planned. This sailor, or second
mate, if I understand him, has wanted you for fifteen years: there was
nothing that you wanted more, if I overheard correctly. Are you in his
hands, or arms, or in mine? Which of us has the power over you?”
“He has,” she said. “And you know it.”
“If you will not see truth, you must learn truth; and you too, my
sailor. . . .
“You, as I understand it,” he said, turning to Sard, “were for saving
her from danger in Las Palomas. Did you save her? . . .
“Did you save your ship from danger? Why, do you suppose, did I go in
your ship amid all that I most despise? _Your_ ship, I say, but I mean
your owner’s ship, which you were bought to keep afloat: you, a man,
being slave to a thing.”
“The thing obeyed its slaves,” Sard said.
“For a while,” the Holy One said. “For a while it gave satisfaction; the
slaves earned a dividend for their employers. But then I came, I, the
Holy One, who am appointed by my Master to bring down all this order
which he most loathes. I came to that ship to lay her low, as an
offence, and to smite her brains with numbness. They were slave-brains,
thinking of nothing but of keeping their prisons clean. Their one joy
was the pothouse, their sole art the music-hall; their religion, what
was that, you, who reckon yourself their leader?”
“Their religion is to risk their lives and mortify their flesh in order
to bring bread to their fellows,” Sard said. “In doing that, they make
iron swim and dead-weight skim and the dead thing to be beautiful. Show
me a finer religion, you who are already carrion for the want of one.”
“They had no religion,” Sagrado answered. “They were slaves who made
pennies for pot-houses while their work made pounds for peers. I, the
Holy One, came among them, and scattered among them the seeds of terror.
Would that you had been there, my second mate, to watch that terror
growing; the geraniums, the birds, then one by one the brains; I, with a
little drug, putting my hand on the heart of your so boasted machine. It
was a work of art, my second mate, a symphony of horror. I drew out what
notes I wished, I struck what chords I loved, and the instruments which
I disliked, I destroyed. Your Cary, I destroyed. I numbed him and killed
him. With my own dose, in his own stronghold, I gave him Death.”
“You weren’t allowed to bury him,” Sard said.
It was a shot which went home. Plainly, the burial of Captain Cary by
the murderer in the priest’s clothes would have given a relish to the
crime.
“No matter,” the Holy One answered, controlling his face, “I shall bury
you, when I have done with you.”
“You haven’t done with me yet,” Sard said. “And I owe you for Captain
Cary.”
“Your owners owe me for the ship.”
“Perhaps I may pay that too.”
Sagrado walked to the throne in the apex of the room; he seated himself
and appeared to consider. Sard knew that he had touched the beast to the
quick by his remark about the burial. He followed it up with:
“Mr. Dorney read the service very well, I understand. You did not numb
his brains, I gather.”
“He has few to numb,” Sagrado answered. “But I am thinking of what you
said about payment, and of you paying me. You think yourself capable, do
you, of standing in a contest with me?”
“I would do my best, the city scavenger being absent.”
Sagrado laughed, yet seemed still to be considering: he swayed a little
to and fro.
“Yet it is absurd,” he said. “It would be no fair match.”
“You are older,” Sard said, “that is true, but you are fresh. I have
already fought twice this night.”
“I had not heard that,” Sagrado answered. “I heard that you had been
beaten: did you refer to that?”
“Yes,” Sard said.
“That was not in my mind,” Sagrado said, “when I wondered at the fitness
of the match. The issue is not between Master and servant, but between
the civilised world and its Destroyer. You are disgusting to me, but not
important enough. You are not master of your destiny. You are a part of
the scum of life, which is active for another (though without religion)
and worried for another, though without purpose. And your talk is such
as one would expect: it is prejudice based on ignorance, just like your
press. Your sports, your muscle, your fair play, all these catchwords
which you repeat when people ask you for intelligence, degrade men.
Shall we say that they are the barrel-organs played loudly that men may
not know of the degradations done to manhood?”
“You may say what you like,” Sard said, “the sewer of your mind is
probably better fluent than stagnant.”
“I see what you are,” Sagrado answered, “the prop of it all, the
sergeant, the second mate, the curé, the school-master, the petty
officer.” He strode up to Sard and boxed his ears. “Pah!” he said, “you
have no foundations, you paltry thing. You talk about manhood, probably,
and reckon yourself a man; not a gentleman, of course, for that not even
you would pretend, even at sea, but a man, no doubt. You, a preacher and
a slave; who cannot know what manhood is. I will tell you what it is: it
is the attainment of power and the use of power. Old as I am, I will
show you. You shall stand in the wrestle with me. Esclavos!”
At his call the group of seven Indians entered. Sard saw them in the
light now; seven wild animals, with a light in their eyes from the
desire of blood: they had faces without mark of mirth or pity. At a sign
from Sagrado they cast loose Sard’s chains. Sagrado cast off his scarlet
robe and stretched his arms.
“You are free,” Sagrado said. “Come, then, to the test. Why do you not
come?”
Sard hesitated for a second, thinking that one of the Indians would
surely knife him when he moved. He felt that he had reached his end, and
that this was how he was to die, shut up here with wild beasts in the
presence of his love. He glanced at Margarita, and stood with dropped
hands, letting the blood run into his numbed arms again. He meant to hit
Sagrado before he died.
“The preacher hesitates,” Sagrado said.
Sard glanced again at Margarita; her look made it all worth while.
“I don’t hesitate,” Sard said. “But keep your slaves from me.”
“You are meat for the sacrifice,” Sagrado answered, “they will not touch
you.”
“Time, then,” Sard said.
He rushed at Sagrado and landed with both hands upon a guard which he
could not break. Stepping back, he trod into an Indian, while another
Indian lurched into his side. There were Indians all round him; a sort
of net of Indians. Sagrado came at him and gripped him; he clinched and
drove in short-arm blows at Sagrado’s ribs; an Indian tripped him, and
Sagrado got a better hold as he staggered. Sagrado was as strong as an
ox and quick as a wild beast. Sard was a strong man, but this was a
bull-bison of a man. He wrenched an arm free and struck with it; an
Indian parried the blow; Sagrado changed his hold and pinned the arm: it
was like fighting with an octopus. Indians, stooping down, snatched at
Sard’s ankles. Presently Sard tripped and fell: Sagrado brought his
shoulders to the mat.
“You see,” he said, “you are down. Give in.”
“I won’t,” Sard said. He struck Sagrado’s mouth and flung him aside. He
rose to his feet, as Sagrado rose swearing and savage. He had cut
Sagrado’s lip on a tooth, and Sagrado’s mouth bled.
“You shall pay for that,” Sagrado said.
Sard struck him again on the mouth and saw the blood quicken in the cut;
he struck again; the Indians caught his arm, Sagrado pinned it and
closed with him. They swayed to and fro, while the Indians struck him in
the lower ribs, trying for the death-touch. Sard felt Sagrado’s fingers
squirming free for a death-touch, which he did not know and could not
guard. The death-touch came. A deadly weakness turned all Sard’s
strength to water. He went down and felt his life die away, and then ebb
partly back. He knew that he must rise, and tried hard to rise, but he
was down, he could not rise.
In a few seconds he tried again, but now Sagrado had him by the throat.
“Not so,” Sagrado said. “You are beaten. Try that again and I will break
something.”
“I’m not finished yet,” Sard said.
“Yes, you are,” Sagrado answered. “But since you doubt it, there goes
your arm.”
With a swift jerk he snapped Sard’s arm against a fulcrum, and then
twisted the broken bone so that Sard cried and swooned. Sagrado waited
till he had recovered and then bound him to his pillar.
“You see,” he said; “you thought yourself a man. You make a poor show in
the hands of a man. Do you admit that you are beaten?”
“No.”
“You are beaten, by one twenty years older than yourself, and in the
presence of your lady-love, who is now my lady-love. Those friends of
yours, who were coming, are somewhat overdue. I’ve beaten you and
chained you to your pillar with my own hands. Do you admit that I am
your master? Answer, dog; reply, my second mate. For I am your master.
The lion has caught his meat; the bull has won his heifer. And now the
rites shall begin.”
He said something in Indian to the slaves, who brought forth properties
from an inner room. They brought robes, rings, a crown, a sword. Then
the negro appeared bearing an altar of an evil design, which he set to
Sagrado’s hand. The Indians brought forward the throne.
The negro held the robe for Sagrado.
“I put on the garments of a king,” Sagrado said. “It is the colour of
power. It was woven by a woman who killed her son and lived in infamy
till she was hanged.”
“Your sister, I presume,” Sard said.
The negro held the rings to Sagrado, who put them on his fingers and on
his thumbs.
“These rings,” he said, “are beaten from your Christian chalices, and
reconsecrated to your Master’s master.”
The negro held the sword to Sagrado, who took it, kissed it and held it
to his heart.
“This sword,” he said, “is the steel of the guillotine of revolution
which slays, unjustly, the shrieking innocent.”
The negro laid hands upon the crown.
“See the crown,” Sagrado said. “The gold that men betrayed for, the
diamond that women whored for, the ruby that men murdered for, the lead
that took life, and the poisonous metals which destroy life.”
The negro, advancing, crowned Sagrado.
Sagrado sat still for a moment upon this throne. Once again Sard had the
impression that something evil flowed into the man to make him bigger:
he seemed to dilate and glow with an increase of personality.
“Take now the oil and the wine of evil,” Sagrado said, “and anoint me to
the worship of evil.”
The negro anointed and asperged Sagrado, with some intoned words of
ritual which were in no tongue known to Sard. The Indians had heaped
carib leaf upon the brazier, which poured forth stupefying smoke. The
negro began to chant a hymn with a rhythm which seemed to go between the
marrow and the bone. Whatever it was, it stirred the Indians. They were
standing three and three on each side of the throne: the seventh fed the
brazier. They sometimes marked a rhythm with a stamp and a catching of
the breath: their eyes became brighter and brighter, and turned upwards
till they were absorbed within themselves. Their tongues licked to and
fro as though they were lapping blood. Sagrado rose to his feet and drew
his sword.
“Now,” he said, “I draw the sword of evil for the deed that crowns
evil.” He advanced to Sard and pressed the point of the sword upon his
throat.
“Do obeisance to evil,” he said, “and you shall live.”
“Apply to the marines,” Sard answered, “not to the deck department.”
“Do obeisance to evil,” Sagrado said, “and your lady-love shall be
spared.”
“I will not be spared,” Margarita cried; “I defy you!”
“You dirty lunatic,” Sard said, “do your damnedest.”
“You have not said one thing yet,” Sagrado said; “that you would rather
die a thousand deaths, etc. . . . Do you say that?”
“Yes,” Sard said.
“You shall, then, die a thousand deaths. And you shall beg life from me
before you die the third.” He turned to the negro.
“Anoint this beast for the sacrifice,” he said.
A tremor of excitement passed through the Indians. The negro cut away
Sard’s shirt so as to bare the throat and heart. Then he poured the
stolen wine over Sard’s head. Sard shook the drops from him and glanced
at Margarita, who was thinking of him, not of herself. She gave him her
love in a look. An Indian came to each side of Sard: each held a pointed
knife to his cheek, so that he could no longer see Margarita, only know
that she was there, and gazing at him.
“Crown the beast for sacrifice,” Sagrado said.
The Indian came forward with a wreath of white flowers which had been
drenched in patchouli; he crowned Sard with it and the Indians laughed
and clapped their hands. The negro thrust it down upon Sard’s brow, so
that the thorns in it drew blood, which slowly trickled into his eyes
and dripped on to his chest. Sagrado laughed. He paused for an instant
as though gathering evil: again he seemed to swell. He held the sword in
both hands, with his thumbs uppermost, pointing straight at Sard. For a
moment he stared at Sard along the line of the blade; then his head went
back and his eyes turned upward in invocation.
He cried aloud upon the evil of the ages and of the day and of the hour
to descend upon him. It seemed to Sard that the house filled with a
murmur as though the evil obeyed his call. He heard, as it were, wings,
and, as it were, voices, and knew that death came with them.
“I feel you,” Sagrado cried, “I know you, I obey you. I offer you this
beast in . . .”
The murmur of wings and voices grew louder. In their greed for blood the
devils beat upon the door: their teeth snapped like shaking chains. The
Indians laughed, clapped their hands and moaned: “Ahi! ahi! ahi-a-hé!”
Then from the hall somewhere behind Sard came a woman’s scream of
“Danger! Look out!” which was stifled in the throat as by a blow or a
gag. Someone seemed to be heaving on the sliding panels and banging on
the door behind the throne.
Sagrado laughed with a high, clear, inhuman cry:
“With all my strength and will and spirit,” he cried, “I offer you the
life of this beast in . . .”
There came a crash both behind and in front of Sard: there was a
deafening bang: someone fell over the brazier, which upset. All the
stinking and smouldering carib leaf rolled from its metal pot. The room
at the instant filled with men: they were all in green and silver.
Sagrado whirled about to face them: one of them with a rifle beat the
sword out of his hand: it broke below the hilt and fell in two pieces.
After the crash, there came a silence so great that the double tinkle
and clatter of the broken sword was memorable. The ball of carib leaf
broke open, smoking violently: wisps of gunpowder-smoke drifted past.
Sard could not imagine what had happened: all that he saw was so tight
and red: but one of the Indians was lying on the floor, hardly moving.
The men in green and silver were covering the rest with rifles. Behind
the riflemen Sard saw the white but interested faces of Paggy and
Crockums.
There was deep silence for nearly half a minute. Then somebody flung
open a door which brought a gush of pure air into the foulness. An
officer who had Sagrado covered with a revolver trod out the carib leaf
under his feet. Two guards advanced, struck Sagrado suddenly on the
wrists, knocking them together, then instantly twisted the twitch or
cuero about them and wrenched it taut. Sard thought, “I have often heard
that they put the twitch on criminals. They can break a man’s wrists
with it, so they say. Now there it is, actually done, before my eyes.
They have him at their mercy.”
Sagrado neither spoke nor struggled. He was like one drugged and unable
to speak through the drug. He thought no more of Sard, but plainly did
not yet know what had happened. The negro had turned whitish under his
colour: the Indians moved no muscle.
The Dictator strode through the guards and spoke.
“So,” he said, “a nice, pretty Christian scene of play! And Harker mio,
my benefactor. One turn deserves another.”
Guardias kept flooding into the room. They sorted themselves into
couples, who advanced, each couple, to an Indian, put the cuero on him
and dragged him aside. The Dictator with his own hands beat and tore at
Margarita’s chains. A chief of guardias, who had keys about him,
unlocked the padlocks; the chains clanked to the floor, Sard and
Margarita were free. The two reefers were white and subdued, but both
were kind and helpful. They brought chairs for the two victims, and
then, after a little search, brought water in some bronze bowls and
mopped their brows. “You’re among friends, Miss,” they said. “No one
shall hurt you.” “You’re all right, sir,” they said to Sard; “you’ll
soon feel better. It’s all right now, sir; those devils are all cueroed
up.”
When the Dictator had helped to restore the two victims, he turned to
the guards. “Take those Indios and this negro out into the Plaza for the
present,” he said. “Leave this leader of theirs. I wish a little to
examine him.”
When the last of the eight had been removed, the Dictator turned to
Margarita.
“Miss Kingsborough,” he said, “I’m glad to be able to say that your
brother is safe. He will do well enough; but I have thought it better to
have him to my palace for my doctor to overhaul. Presently, when my
carriages come, you shall join him.
“And now I will a little question this atavist, this throwback, who has
so nearly destroyed my Harker. Bring this creature to the light.”
The man who held the twitch brought Sagrado forward. Sagrado seemed
dazed still, but in his dream he was unwilling to be seen; he shrank
from the Dictator and bowed his head into his robes.
“Let me see him,” the Dictator said. “Hold up his head to the light. So,
tear away that crown.”
A man flung the crown to the ground: Sagrado was displayed: he turned
whiter, but became more himself. The Dictator looked hard at him.
“We have met before,” he said.
“We have had dealings,” Sagrado said.
“So, it is Rafael Hirsch returned; one more who has not yet paid me for
Carlotta. Are you not Rafael Hirsch?”
“If I were fifty Rafael Hirsches,” Sagrado answered, “you would not be
paid for Carlotta. You will carry that wound to your death, and no son
of yours will carry on your work here. Killing her has kept you sterile
at least.”
“Good work is fruitful of itself,” the Dictator answered. “My work is my
son and my daughter. My people will inherit from me. So, Rafael Hirsch,
we who once talked of magic together, see where our magics have led us.”
“The game is not yet over, Manuel.”
“The game is never over, Rafael Hirsch, never, never, never, whether in
its mercy or in its fire. Have you anything to say?”
“Not with words,” Sagrado said.
“Not with deeds,” the Dictator said. “And yet, one thing you can say,
one thing you know which you can tell me. Upon what spot of these
accursed stones was she of whom we spoke bestially murdered?”
“Shall I have life, if I say?”
“You are not judged to death yet.”
Sagrado seemed to consider this in all its bearings, while the others
watched him. A kind of hope kindled on his face for a moment; he even
smiled: then he studied the Dictator’s face and smiled again, more
bitterly.
“I think you would like to know that, Manuel,” he said, “‘pretty damned
bad,’ as they say. You will not know it from me. But I do know it. What
is more, Manuel; I heard what she said, before the knife-point touched
her throat. Shall I tell you what she said?”
The Dictator made a sign with one hand: Sagrado was removed. A guardia’s
hand upon his throat made his telling of what she said unintelligible,
furious as it was.
The Dictator crossed himself and remained in prayer until the noise of
feet and of raving were shut away by the door.
“So,” he said. “So passes the pride of power, into madness which brings
a judgment. I knew that man as a scholar of strange things . . .” He
paused and then continued in English:
“But you would like to know what brings me here, so like the Deus in the
play. You must thank these two reefers here: Mr. Paggy and Mr. Crockums.
“Your brother, Miss Kingsborough, was left for dead in this house. He
was not dead, however. He managed to crawl to the wall and there broke a
window. Mr. Paggy and Mr. Crockums happened to be in the Plaza when the
glass broke. They were in a state familiar to young men: a romantic
state, of pining for romance. They thought that some woman was
imprisoned here against her will. Hearing Mr. Kingsborough’s tale, they
ran for help.
“Now at that very time I was coming to the Plaza, on my way to Santa
Alba, where I wished to meditate before Mass; for often in meditation
light comes. These reefers ran into my party only a hundred yards from
here. I, hearing their story, sent at once for the guardias of the ward,
while I surrounded the house with my guard. At the back of the house I
found a man whose ways I did not like, one Sumecta, whom I detained.
“I thought at that time that I was dealing with things commonplace, but
directly I had made an entrance into the back of the house, I smelt the
carib leaf. When I smelt the carib leaf, I smelt devilry. For remember,
Harker mio, I am a son of this land, where the devils are strong, and
come much into human affairs. In my youth, for which God has punished
me, I sought their help, so I know who uses carib leaf and when and why.
So I come in, I and my guards.