The Doomsman
by Van Tassel Sutphen · English · Gutenberg #27730 · 462,804 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Doomsman
Author: Van Tassel Sutphen
Release date: January 7, 2009 [eBook #27730]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27730
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Geetu Melwani, George P. Snoga and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOOMSMAN ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Geetu Melwani, George P. Snoga and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
A number of typographical errors found in the original text
have been corrected in this version. A list of these errors
is provided at the end of the book.
* * * * *
THE DOOMSMAN
BY
VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN
AUTHOR OF
"THE CARDINAL'S ROSE"
"THE GATES OF CHANCE"
ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
MCMVI
Copyright, 1905, 1906, by
The Metropolitan Magazine Company.
Copyright, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published June, 1906.
[Illustration: "CONSTANS AND NIGHT WERE DOWN." See p. 28]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE VERMILION FEATHER 1
II. THE NIGHT OF THE TERROR 14
III. THE NEW WORLD 19
IV. THE MAN ON HORSEBACK 25
V. THE RAT'S-HOLE 32
VI. TROY TOWN 41
VII. THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION 50
VIII. IN THE SHADOW OF DOOM 58
IX. THE KEYS OF POWER 67
X. THE MESSAGE 83
XI. THE SISTERS 93
XII. THE HEDGE OF ARROWS 106
XIII. GODS IN EXILE 120
XIV. ARCADIA HOUSE 136
XV. A MAN AND A MAID 150
XVI. AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS 162
XVII. THE AWAKENING 173
XVIII. A PROPHET OF EVIL 181
XIX. IN QUINTON EDGE'S GARDEN 188
XX. THE SILVER WHISTLE BLOWS 199
XXI. OXENFORD'S DAUGHTER 209
XXII. YET THREE DAYS 223
XXIII. THE RED LIGHT IN THE NORTH 231
XXIV. THE EVE OF THE THIRD DAY 238
XXV. ENTR'ACTE 242
XXVI. THE SONG OF THE SWORD 250
XXVII. DOOMSDAY 266
XXVIII. IN THE FULNESS OF TIME 274
XXIX. DEATH AND LIFE 281
XXX. THE STAR IN THE EAST 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
"CONSTANS AND NIGHT WERE DOWN" _Frontispiece_
"OUT LEAPED QUINTON EDGE'S SWORD" _Facing p._ 48
"CONSTANS LOOKED ABOUT HIM IN WONDERMENT" " 64
"THE BLOWS RAINED DOWN UPON HIS FACE" " 76
"THEY PARTED WITHOUT FURTHER SPEAKING" " 90
"AN INSTANT LATER THE BOWSTRING TWANGED" " 118
"SHE STOOD MUTE AND WIDE-EYED BEFORE HIM" " 156
"OF DOOM SHALL WE REQUIRE IT" " 220
* * * * *
THE DOOMSMAN
I
THE VERMILION FEATHER
A beach of yellow sand and a stranded log upon which sat a boy looking
steadfastly out upon the shining waters.
It was a delicious morning in early May, and the sun was at his back,
its warm rays falling upon him with affectionate caress. But the lad was
plainly oblivious of his immediate surroundings; in spirit he had
followed the leading of his eyes a league or more to the westward, where
a mass of indefinable shadow bulked hugely upon the horizon line.
Indefinable, in that it was neither forest nor mountain nor yet an
atmospheric illusion produced by the presence of watery vapor. It did
not change in density as does the true cloud; for all of its mistiness
of outline there was an impression of solidity about its deeper shadows,
something that the wind could not lift nor the light pierce. A mystery,
and the boy devoured it with his eyes, his head bent forward and his
shoulders held tensely.
The place was a rocky point of land jutting forth into a reef-strewn
tideway. The forest came down close to the strip of beach, but there was
comparatively little underwood, and the grass, growing up to the very
roots of the trees, gave to the glade an appearance almost parklike.
There was no house in sight, not even the thin, blue curl of a smoking
hearth to proclaim the neighborhood of man. Yet the sign of human
handicraft was not wholly wanting; through the tree trunks, at perhaps a
hundred yards away, appeared the line of a timber stockade--enormous
palisades, composed of twelve-foot ash and hickory poles, set in a
double row and bound together by lengths of copper wire. It was to be
further observed that the timbers had been stripped of their bark and
the knots smoothed down so as to afford no coigne of vantage to even a
naked foot. Add, again, that the poles had been charred and sharpened at
the top, and it will be understood that the barrier was a formidable one
against any assault short of artillery.
There was no beaten road or path near the line of palisades, but,
following the curving of the shore, a forest track, already green with
the young grass that was pushing its way through last year's stubble,
stretched away to the north and south. It was hardly more than a runway
for the deer and wild cattle, but it did not give one the impression of
having been originally plotted out by these creatures, after the
immemorial fashion of their kind. An animal does not lay out his road in
sections of perfectly straight lines connected by mathematical curves,
neither does he fill up gullies nor cut through hills, when it is so
easy to go around these obstructions.
The boy, who sat and dreamed at the water's edge, was in his eighteenth
year or thereabouts, slenderly proportioned, and with well-cut features.
The delicately moulded chin, the sensitive nostril--these are the signs
of the poet, the dreamer, rather than of the man of action. And yet the
face was not altogether deficient in indications of strength. That heavy
line of eyebrow should mean something, as also the free up-fling of the
head when he sat erect; the final impression was of immaturity of
character rather than of the lack of it. From the merely superficial
stand-point, it may be added that he had brown eyes and hair (the latter
being cut square across his forehead and falling to his shoulders), a
good mouth containing the whitest of teeth, and a naturally light
complexion that was already beginning to accumulate its summer's coat of
tan.
He was dressed in a tunic or smock of brown linen, gathered at the waist
by a belt of greenish leather, with a buckle that shone like gold. His
knees were bare, but around his legs were wound spiral bands of
soft-dressed deer-hide. Buskins, secured by thongs of red leather and
soled with moose-hide, to prevent slipping, covered his feet, while his
head-dress consisted of a simple band of thin gold, worn fillet-wise.
This last, being purely ornamental, was doubtless a token of gentle
birth or of an assured social station. A short fur coat, made from the
pelt of the much-prized forest cat, lay in a careless heap at the boy's
feet. It had felt comfortable enough in the still keenness of the early
morning hour, but now that the sun was well up in the sky it had been
discarded.
In his belt was stuck a long, double-edged hunting-knife, having its
wooden handle neatly bound with black waxed thread. A five-foot bow of
second-growth hickory leaned against the log beside him, but it was
unstrung, and the quiver of arrows, suspended by a strap from his
shoulders, had been allowed to shift from its proper position so that it
hung down the middle of his back and was, consequently, out of easy
hand-reach. But the youth was in no apparent fear of being surprised by
the advent of an enemy; certainly he had made no provision against such
a contingency, and the carelessness of his attitude was entirely
unaffected. It may be remarked that the arrows aforesaid were
iron-tipped instead of being simply fire-hardened, and in the feathering
of each a single plume of the scarlet tanager had been carefully
inserted. Presumably, the vermilion feather was the owner's private sign
of his work as a marksman. So far the lad's dress and accoutrements were
in entire conformity to the primeval rusticity of his surroundings.
Judge, then, of the reasonable surprise which the observer might feel at
discovering that the object in the boy's hand was nothing less
incongruous than a pair of binocular glasses, an exquisitely finished
example of the highest art of the optician. One of the eye-piece lenses
had been lost or broken, for, as the youth raised the glasses to sweep
again the distant sea-line, he covered the left-hand cylinder with a
flat, oblong object--a printed book. Its title, indeed, could be clearly
read as, a moment after, it lay partly open upon his knee--_A Child's
History of the United States_--and across the top of the page had been
neatly written in charcoal ink, "Constans, Son of Gavan at the Greenwood
Keep."
Mechanically, the boy began turning the leaves, stopping finally at a
page upon which was a picture of the lower part of New York City as seen
from the bay. Long and earnestly he studied it, looking up occasionally
as though he would find its visible presentment in that dark blur on the
horizon line. "It must be," he muttered, with a quick intake of his
breath. "The Forgotten City and Doom the Forbidden--one and the same.
Well, and what then?" and again he fell upon his dreaming.
For the best part of an hour the boy had sat almost motionless, looking
out across the water. Then, suddenly, he turned his head; his ear had
caught a suspicious sound, perhaps the dip of an oar-blade. Thrusting
the field-glass and book into his bosom, he drew the bow towards him and
listened. All was still, except for the chatter of a blue-jay, and after
a moment or so his attention again relaxed. But his eyes, instead of
losing themselves in the distance as before, remained fixed upon the
sand at his feet. Fortunately so, or he must have failed to notice the
long shadow that hung poised for an instant above his right shoulder and
then darted downward, menacing, deadly.
An infinitesimal fraction of a second, yet within that brief space
Constans had contrived to fling himself, bodily, forward and sideways
from his seat. The spear-shaft grazed his shoulder and the blade buried
itself in the sand. The treacherous assailant, overbalanced by the force
of his thrust, toppled over the log and fell heavily, ignominiously, at
the boy's side. In the indefinite background some one laughed
melodiously.
Constans was up and out upon the forest track before his clumsy opponent
had begun to recover his breath. It was almost too easy, and then he all
but cannoned plump into a horseman who sat carelessly in his saddle,
half hidden by the bole of a thousand-year oak. The cavalier, gathering
up his reins, called upon the fugitive to stop, but Constans, without
once looking behind, ran on, actuated by the ultimate instinct of a
hunted animal, zigzagging as much as he dared, and glancing from side to
side for a way of escape.
But none offered. On the right ran the wall of the stockade,
impenetrable and unscalable, and it was a long two miles to the north
gate. On the left was the water and behind him the enemy. A few hundred
yards and he must inevitably be brought to a standstill, breathless and
defenceless. Yet he kept on; there was nothing else to do.
The horseman followed, putting his big blood-bay into a leisurely
hand-gallop. A sword-thrust would settle the business quite as
effectually as a shot from his cross-bow, and he would not be obliged to
risk the loss of a bolt, a consideration of importance in this latter
age when good artisan work is scarce and correspondingly precious.
Constans could run, and he was sound of wind and limb. Yet, as the
thunder of hoofs grew louder, he realized that his chance was of a
desperate smallness. If only he could gain a dozen seconds in which to
string his bow and fit an arrow.
But he could not make or save those longed-for moments; already he had
lost a good part of his original advantage, and the horseman was barely
sixty yards behind. His head felt as though it were about to split in
two; a cloud, shot with crimson stars, swam before his eyes.
The track swung suddenly to the right, in a sharp curve, and Constans's
heart bounded wildly; he had forgotten how close he must be to the
crossing of the Swiftwater. Now the rotting and worm-eaten timbers of
the open trestle-work were under his feet; mechanically, he avoided the
numerous gaps, where a misstep meant destruction, and so at last gained
the farther bank and sank down panting on the short, crisp sward.
The cavalier reined in at the beginning of the trestle; he looked
doubtfully at the ford above the bridge; but the Swiftwater was in
spring flood, and, was the chase worth a wetting?
Evidently not, for, with a shrug of his shoulders, the horseman threw
one leg across the saddle-pommel and sat there, very much at his ease,
while he proceeded to roll himself a cigarette from coarse, black
tobacco and a leaf of dampened corn-husk.
Constans felt his face flush hotly as he noted the contempt implied in
his enemy's well-played indifference. Already he had put his bow in
order; now he stood up and, with some ostentation, proceeded to fit an
arrow to the string. The cavalier looked at these preparations with
entire calmness and busied himself again with his flint and steel.
"It would be murder," muttered Constans, irritably, and lowered his
hand. Then, moved by sudden impulse, he took aim anew and with more than
ordinary care. The arrow sung through the air and transfixed the fleshy
part of the cavalier's bridle-arm. The horse, whose withers had been
grazed by the shaft, started to rear, but his rider neither moved nor
changed color. Quieting the frightened animal with a reassuring word,
he deftly caught the tinder spark at the tip of his cigarette and drew
in a deep inhalation of the smoke. Then, with the utmost coolness, he
proceeded to snap the arrow-shaft in twain and draw out the barb,
Constans yielding him grudging admiration, for it was all very perfectly
done.
"Here is a man," thought Constans, and looked him over carefully.
And truly the cavalier made a gallant figure, dressed as he was in the
bravest raiment that the eyes of Constans had ever yet beheld. For his
close-fitting suit was of claret-colored velvet with gilt buttons, while
his throat-gear was a wonderfully fine lace jabot, with a great red
jewel fastened in the knot. A soft hat, trimmed with gold lace and an
ostrich-feather, covered his dark curls, while yellow gauntlets and high
riding-boots of polished leather completed his outward attire. Not an
unpleasing picture as he sat there in the sunshine astride the big
blood-bay, but Constans, looking upon him, knew that neither now nor
hereafter could there be any verity of peace between them. There is such
a thing as hate at first sight even as there is love.
The horseman had retained the feathered end of the arrow-shaft, and he
proceeded to examine it with an appearance of polite interest.
"Your private token, young sir?" he inquired, indicating the single
feather of scarlet. His voice was pitched in an affectedly high key, his
manner languidly ceremonious. Constans could only bow stiffly in the
affirmative.
"Ah, yes; it is one not to be easily forgotten. I, too, have my
sign-manual, and I should have been glad to have exchanged with you."
Again Constans bowed. He wanted to say something, but the words would
not come. The cavalier smiled.
"But there may be another opportunity later on," he continued. "At
least, we may hope so." He bowed, lifting his plumed hat. "To our future
acquaintance." He turned his horse's head to the southward, and rode
away at a slow canter without once looking back.
Constans watched the ostrich-crest as it rose and fell, until it was
lost to sight among the tree-trunks. Then, drawing his belt tight, he
started on a dog-trot in the contrary direction; the barrier, admitting
him to the protection of the stockade, was still some distance away, and
he must reach it without delay and give the warning. But, even as he
ran, he heard the tolling of a bell; it was the alarm that the Doomsmen
were abroad. Now, indeed, he must make haste or he would find the
barrier closed against himself.
Ten minutes later he stood before the northern entrance of the Greenwood
Keep. Already the warders were fitting into place the gates of
iron-studded oak, but they recognized the voice of their lord's son and
allowed him to squeeze his way through. Guyder Touchett, the burly
captain of the watch, clapped him familiarly on the back.
"Your legs have saved your skin, master. God's life! but you flashed
through the cover like a cock-grouse going down the wind. Yet I trembled
lest a cross-bow bolt might be following even faster."
"They have come--the Doomsmen?" panted Constans.
"Garth, the swineherd, reported their landing at the Golden Cove an
hour before sunup. Three war-galleys, which means twice that score of
men."
"Some mischance of wind or tide," said Constans, thoughtfully. "I
noticed that the water in the Gut was rougher than is usual at dawn."
"Like enough," assented Touchett. "These night-birds are not often seen
in a blue sky, and luckily so, for the safety of your father's ricks and
byres. After all, there is no certainty in the matter; Garth is stupid
enough betimes for one of his own boars, and there was a
christening-party at the barracks last night. You know what that
means--the can clinking until the tap runs dry."
"Yet you say he saw----"
Guyder Touchett shrugged his shoulders. "Anything you like. When the ale
is in the eye there are stranger things than gray cats to be discovered
at the half-dawn. In my opinion, Garth is a fool and a liar."
"And, as usual, your opinion is wrong," retorted Constans, "for the Gray
Men are really here. But I cannot wait; I must speak with Sir Gavan
himself."
"You will find him at the water gate," bawled Touchett, as the boy ran
past him.
Constans sped rapidly up the green slope leading to the house a quarter
of a mile away. As he ran, he mentally rehearsed the story of his late
adventure. Surely, now, Sir Gavan would permit him to bear a man's part
in the impending crisis. Had he not already drawn hostile blood--the
first?
Sir Gavan awaited his son at the water gate, his ruddy countenance
streaked with an unwonted pallor and his gray eyes dark with trouble.
"Where is your sister?" he asked, abruptly, as Constans ran up.
The boy stared. "She did not go out with me, sir. Do you mean that
Issa----"
"Hush! or your mother will overhear. Come this way." And Sir Gavan
preceded his son into the guard-room on the left of the vaulted
entrance, walking heavily, as one who bears an unaccustomed burden upon
his shoulders. Yet when he spoke again his voice had its accustomed
steadiness.
"No one has seen her since ten of the sundial. It is now noon, and the
alarm-bell has been ringing this half-hour."
Constans felt something tighten at his own throat. "You have searched
the enclosure?" he faltered.
"Every nook and corner," returned Sir Gavan. "Tennant, with a dozen men,
is now beating the upper plantations."
Constans thought guiltily of that cleverly concealed gap in the
palisades just beyond the intake of the Ochre brook. He and Issa had
shared it between them as a precious secret, and he had used it this
very morning as a short cut to the water-side. Tennant, their elder
brother, was not aware of its existence, but then Tennant was a prig,
and not to be trusted in truly momentous affairs.
There was his father's wrath. Constans turned sick at the thought of
arousing it. No; he could not tell him.
"I don't know," he said, vaguely.
Sir Gavan looked at him searchingly, then turned and strode out of the
room.
Constans felt his cheeks grow hot. Why had he not told all the truth?
He was a coward, a liar, in all but the actual word. He sat down on a
bench and buried his face in his hands; then the recurring thought of
Issa and of her peril stung him to his feet. Where had Sir Gavan gone?
Constans made his way, hesitatingly, into the court-yard of the keep. He
found it thronged with men, his father's retainers and servants. The
archers were busy putting new strings to their bows; the spearmen were
testing, with grave eagerness, the stout ash of their weapons, or
perchance whetting an edge on the broad blades. Half a dozen of the
younger men were engaged in covering the roof of the main and out
buildings with horse-hides soaked in water, as a protection against
burning arrows; others were driving the protesting cattle into the byres
and sacking up a quantity of newly threshed grain that lay upon the
flailing floor; everywhere the noise of shouting men and of hurrying
feet.
Sir Gavan was not to be seen, and Constans, after inquiring for him
through a fruitless quarter of an hour, entered the main house and
sought the fighting platform on its roof. Why had no lookout been
stationed here? Surely an oversight. He gazed eagerly about him.
Directly to the right of the house lay the home paddock, stretching away
some two hundred yards to the edge of a white-birch plantation. The
Ochre brook bounded it on one side, and the current had scoured out for
itself an ever-deepening channel in the soft, alluvial soil. A clump of
alders, just bursting into leaf, masked the bed of the stream at one
particular point, where the bank rose into a miniature bluff. Constans,
from his elevated position, was enabled to overlook this point, and so
to make out the figure of a mounted man behind the alder screen, his
horse standing belly deep in the water. It was the cavalier of the
ostrich-feathers; and then, through the white trunks of the birches, he
caught the flutter of a woman's gown. Constans tried to shout, to call
out, but the vocal chords refused to relax, the sounds rattled in his
throat.
II
THE NIGHT OF THE TERROR
The reader, desiring to inform himself _in extenso_ regarding the
physical and social changes that followed the catastrophe by which the
ancient civilization was so suddenly subverted, would do well to consult
the final authority upon the subject, the learned Vigilas, author of
_The Later Cosmos_ (elephant folio edition). But for our present purpose
a brief epitome should suffice. To borrow then, with all due
acknowledgments, from our admirable historian:
* * * * *
"It was in the later years of the twentieth century that the Great
Change came; at least, so the traditions agree, and how is a man to know
certainly of such things except as he learns them from his father's
lips? True, the accounts differ, and widely so at times, but that much
is to be expected--where were there ever two men who heard or saw the
same things in the same way? It is human nature that we should color
even transparent fact with the reflected glow of our passions and
fancies, and so the distortion becomes inevitable; we should be
satisfied if, to-day, we succeed in making out even the broad outlines
of the picture.
"It appears tolerably certain that the wreck of the ancient civilization
took place about three generations ago, the catastrophe being both
sudden and overwhelming; moreover, all the authorities agree that only
an infinitesimal portion of the race escaped, with whole skins, from
what were, in very sooth, cities of destruction. These fortunate ones
were naturally the politically powerful and the immensely rich, and they
owed their safety to the fact that they were able to seize upon the
shipping in the harbors for their exclusive use. The fugitives sailed
away, presumably to the southward, and so disappeared from the pages of
authentic history. We know nothing for certain; only that they departed,
and that we saw their faces no more.
"Let us reconstruct, as best we may, the panorama of those few but awful
days. The first rush was naturally to the country, but the crowds,
choking the ferry and railway stations, were quickly confronted with the
terror-stricken thousands of the suburbs, who were flocking to the city
for refuge. And all through the dragging hours the same despairing
reports flowed in from the remoter rural districts; everywhere the
Terror walked, and men were dying like flies. From ocean to ocean, from
the lakes to the gulf, the shadow rushed, and now the whole land lay in
darkness.
"Such was the situation in what was then the United States of America,
and similar conditions prevailed throughout the habitable world. London
and Hong-Kong, Vienna and Pekin, Buenos Ayres and Archangel--from every
direction came the same inquiry, to every questioner was returned the
same answer. It was the end of all things.
"Coincidently with this great recession of the human tide, occurred the
eclipse of industry, science, and, indeed, every form of thought and
progress. The plough rusted in the furrow, the half-formed web dropped
to pieces in the loom, the very crops stood unharvested in the fields,
to be finally devoured by the birds and by a horde of rats and mice. Up
to the last moment there had been confusion and dismay certainly, but
the wheels of trade and of the civil administration had continued to
turn; men had stood at their posts in answer to the call of duty or
impressed by the blind instinct of habit. And then, suddenly, the sun
went down, only to rise again upon a silent land.
"The relapse into barbarism was swift. The few who had escaped were
segregated from one another in small family groups, each man content
with the bare necessities of animal existence and fearing the face of
the stranger. Under such circumstances, there could be but little
neighborly intercourse, and the ancient highways speedily became
overgrown with grass and weeds, or else they were undermined and washed
out by the winter storms. It was not until the second generation after
the Terror that men once more began to draw together, in obedience to
inherited instincts, and even then the new movement must have been
largely brought about through the increasing aggressions of the
Doomsmen. But of this in another place.
"It has been asserted that fire played a principal part in the
destruction of the ancient cities, and it was at one time supposed that
these extensive conflagrations were partly accidental and partly
attributable to the wide-spread lawlessness that marked the closing
hours of the greatest drama in all history. But later researches have
evolved a new theory, and it now seems probable that the torch was
employed by the authorities themselves as a final and truly a desperate
measure. An heroic cautery, but, alas, a useless one.
"The comparative exemption of New York from the universal fate goes to
support rather than to discredit this hypothesis. It escaped the
dynamite cartridge and the torch simply because in that city no
recognized authority remained in power; there was no one to carry out
the imperative orders of the federal government. There were, of course,
many isolated cases of incendiarism, but the city did not suffer from
any general and organized conflagration, as was the fate of Philadelphia
and St. Louis and New Orleans. The destiny of the metropolis was decided
in a different way; already it had passed into the keeping of the
Doomsmen.
"In effect, then, the highly civilized North American continent had
relapsed, within the brief period of ninety years, into its primeval
estate. In every direction stretched an inhospitable wilderness of
morass and forest, with a few feeble settlements of the Stockade people
fringing the principal waterways, and here and there the smoke of an
encampment of the Painted Men rising in a thin spiral from out of the
vast ocean of green leaves. To-day the wild boar ranges where once the
tide of human passion most turbulently flowed, and the poor herdsman,
eating his noonday curds from a wooden bowl, crushes with indifferent
heel the priceless bit of faience lying half hidden in the rotting
leaves. Everywhere, the old order changing and disappearing, only to
recreate itself in form ever more fantastic and enfeebled, a dead being,
and yet inextricably bound up with the life of the new age. And over
all, the shadow of Doom, gigantic, threatening, omnipotent."
III
THE NEW WORLD
Again we make acknowledgment to the "Laudable" Vigilas and quote at
large from the luminous pages of _The Later Cosmos_. Now the reader,
scenting more learned discourse, may meditate upon skipping this
chapter; nay, will probably do so. Yet, to my thinking, he will act more
wisely in buckling down to it, seeing that it contains matter of moment
for the perfect understanding of the narrative proper. The studying of
guide-posts is not an amusing occupation, but it is infinitely less
tedious than to wander around all day in a fog and perhaps miss one's
destination altogether.
* * * * *
"It is, indeed, a small world as we know it to-day. Our philosophers,
reconstructing, as best they may, the science of the ancients from the
treatises, few and sadly incomplete, that have come down to us, affirm
that the earth is an orb and that another continent (perhaps more than
one) lies beyond the rim of the eastern horizon. It may be so, but the
issue is not of practical importance, seeing that there are none who
care to make adventure of the great salty gulf that lies between. And so
the sea keeps its mysteries.
"On the other hand, we count it inadvisable to wander far afield. To
the north, to the west, and to the south stretches the unbroken forest,
and in a few hours a man's legs may easily carry him out of hailing of
the voice of his kind. The waterways form the only regular channels for
social and commercial intercourse, and the busybody and gad-about are
not regarded with favor by honest people.
"It appears highly probable that the human race was virtually
annihilated over the general area of the ancient United States of
America; it persisted only in a few particularly favored localities and
through accidental circumstances of which we know nothing definite. In
our own day, the northern, central, and southern group of colonies
maintain a system of infrequent intercommunication, and beyond that
certain knowledge does not extend. It is possible that mankind may exist
in a degraded state, in many inaccessible corners of this vast continent
of ours, but this is only a possibility, concerning which the theories
of the learned are no more susceptible of proof than are the idle
speculations of the vulgar.
"For convenience, we will accept the popular classification of the human
race as it exists to-day--the Painted Men, the House People, and the
Doomsmen. To take them up in that order.
"The Painted Men, otherwise the Wood Folk, are the descendants of the
Indians of old, but the strain is largely mingled with that of the negro
race, and, with hardly an exception, it is the weaker qualities both of
body and of mind that have been emphasized in the hybrid. From their
Indian forebears they have preserved the custom of painting their face
with crude and hideous pigments upon all occasions of ceremony; hence
their popular designation--the 'Painted Men.'
"The House People are conveniently subdivided into two classes--the
townsmen, or House People proper, and the stockade dwellers,
colloquially, the Stockaders.
"The House People of the walled towns represent as nearly as may be the
middle classes of the ancient civilization. Originally, the family was
the political and social unit, just as with the patriarchs of Holy Writ,
but within the last generation the community idea has been growing
rapidly, and there are perhaps a score of towns and villages scattered
along the banks of the Greater and Lesser rivers.
"The Stockaders, reversing the procedure of their kinsmen of the towns,
live apart from one another, each proprietor depending wholly upon his
own resources for sustenance and defence. Some of the larger estates
contain several hundred acres enclosed by a strong timber stockade and
otherwise defended against the assaults of enemies. The head of the
family, or clan, as it might more properly be termed, is lord paramount
within his own borders, even possessing the rights of life and death.
But this last authority is rarely called in exercise, since these folk
of the free country-side are naturally wholesome, honest,
generous-hearted men, content to lead a simple life and coveting no
man's honor or goods. On the other hand, it must be admitted that the
stockade dweller is both provincial of habit and prejudiced of mind. He
looks down upon the townsman as a huckster in private and a shuffler in
public life, and this feeling of contemptuous enmity is fully returned
by the cit, who regards the free proprietor in the light of a boor and a
bully. Moreover, it rankles in the Houseman's breast that no Stockader
pays a farthing of head-money to the treasure-chest of the Doomsmen. Now
and then some well-to-do proprietor may suffer loss from cattle thieving
and rick burning, but as often as not the marauders pay full price for
all they get. And this leads us to a consideration of the Doomsman
himself, that foul excrescence upon our modern body politic.
Fortunately, history here speaks clearly, and we have only to listen to
her voice.
"It was a natural procedure, upon the coming of the Terror, to throw
open the doors of the jails and other punitive institutions, thereby
giving the wretched inmates an equal chance for life. The great mass of
these degraded beings gravitated inevitably towards the cities, seeking
plunder and opportunities for bestial dissipation that even the dread
presence of the Terror could not restrain. Without hope and without
fear, they rushed to the vulture's feast; here was wine and gold and
soft raiment; let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.
"It was the ancient city of New York that received the vast bulk of this
army of human rats; naturally so, since it was the supreme
treasure-house of the western world. In such overwhelming numbers did
these vermin come that the civil and military administrations were
literally swarmed over. Between two days the outlaws were in complete
possession, and the small remnant of the decent residents retired
precipitately, preferring to meet death under the open sky rather than
in company with their new masters.
"The years went on, but the changes that they brought were few. The
descendants of the ancient criminals remained in the ruined city, at
first of necessity, afterwards by choice, finding there fuel and shelter
in abundance besides large stores of non-perishable food supplies. When,
in the next generation, these provisions became exhausted it was
inevitable that the refugees should fix covetous eyes upon the
threshing-floors and herd-stalls of their rural neighbors. But although
the outlaws had continued to gain in numbers, their natural increase was
not proportionate to the growing power of their adversaries. Little by
little the Doomsmen began to lose ground; already they had been defeated
several times in pitched battle, and it looked as though the
hornet's-nest would soon be smoked out.
"It was at this critical juncture that the infamous personality of Dom
Gillian made itself of commanding account, and thenceforth the balance
began to incline the other way. It was but the weight of one man's hand
in the scale-pan, yet there are still many of us who remember how heavy
that hand could be.
"Infamous is the adjective deliberately applied, and with reason.
Dominus Gillian, to give him his full name, was a renegade, the unworthy
son of a distinguished Stockader family. Admittedly a man of fine
intellect and force, it is equally unquestionable that he was entirely
devoid of moral sense. He possessed a genius for organization, and he
succeeded in consolidating the unruly Doomsmen into a compact and
disciplined body of outlaws. Murder and rapine were quickly reduced to
exact sciences, and, unfortunately, the House People could not be made
to see the necessity of united action; the townsman and the stockade
dweller preferred to contend with each other rather than against the
common enemy. As a consequence, the freebooters had a clear road before
them, and so was established that intolerable tyranny under which the
land still groans. All this occurred upward of sixty years ago.
"It only remains to add that Dominus, or, more colloquially, Dom
Gillian, still lives, albeit he must be verging upon ninety years of
age. For many years he has not been seen in the field, and it is even
asserted that he no longer takes active part in the councils of the
Doomsmen. Be that as it may, his will still remains dominant to animate
and direct the malign powers created by his wicked genius. And the evil
that men do, doth it not live after them?
"Such is the world, or, rather, one infinitesimal portion of the cosmos,
in the year 2015, according to the ancient calendar, or 90 since the
Terror."
IV
THE MAN ON HORSEBACK
Gavan of the Greenwood Keep was a prosperous man according to the
standard of these latter days, and his estate was reckoned to be the
largest and finest holding in all the western country-side. A man might
walk from break of day until darkness and yet not complete the periphery
of its boundary-lines, but the palisaded portion included only the
arable land and home paddocks and was of comparatively limited extent.
Viewed from a bird's-eye elevation, this stockaded enclosure appeared to
be laid out in the shape of a pear, the house being situated near the
small end. The greatest length of the area thus enclosed was a mile and
a half, and it was three-quarters of a mile wide at the big or southern
side, tapering down to a couple of hundred yards at the northern
entrance or barrier.
A quarter of a mile back from the north gate stood the keep, not one
distinct building, but rather several, built in the form of a hollow
square and consolidated for mutual protection. The principal entrance,
the one at the northern end, was called the water gate, for it should be
explained that the keep stood on the bank of the Ochre brook and access
was only possible by means of a drawbridge. Some day Sir Gavan intended
to turn the course of the stream so as to carry it around the keep and
thereby secure the protection of a continuous moat. But hitherto other
duties had seemed more pressing, and the plan was still in abeyance.
Entering through the covered way of the water gate, with guard-room and
bailiff's office to the right and left, one found himself in the
court-yard, some fifty yards in the square. On the right were the
cow-barns, horse-stalls, granaries, tool-houses, and store-buildings,
while the dwelling proper, known as the Great House, occupied the entire
left of the square, the kitchens and other offices adjoining the
retainers' quarters on the south. An enormous hall, running clear to the
roof, took up the central portion of the house, staircases and galleries
affording access to the store and sleeping-rooms on the second and attic
stories. The roof proper was surmounted by a para-petted and loop-holed
structure called the fighting platform, and it was thither that Constans
had repaired upon receiving the startling intelligence of his sister's
disappearance. Let us rejoin him there.
In the leisurely moving figure glimpsed through the birches, Constans
had instantly recognized Issa. Plainly she had been out flower-hunting;
with the aid of his binoculars he could determine that she carried a
bunch of the delicate pink-and-white blossoms that we call May-bloom.
She was directing her steps straight for the house, but either she was
unaccountably deaf to the continuous clanging of the alarm-bell or,
still more strangely, unaware of its significance; she walked as though
in a reverie, slowly and with her head bent forward. Thunder of God! it
was a trap, and the foolish girl would not see. Unquestionably, the
Doomsmen had forced the stockade at some distant point and were even now
in ambush about the keep. But Constans, for all his keenness of vision
and the assistance of his glass, could discover nothing to indicate the
presence of any considerable body of men. There was no one in actual
sight save he who sat upon his blood-bay steed, girth deep in the Ochre
brook under shadow of the alders. Only one, but that one!
Constans found himself in the court-yard; how he scarcely knew. The
water gate still stood open with the drawbridge lowered, but both could
be easily secured within a few seconds should the enemy venture upon any
open demonstration. Sir Gavan stood in the covered way talking anxiously
with his eldest son Tennant, who had just returned from an unsuccessful
search of the upper orchard.
Constans, in his confusion of mind, did not notice his father and
brother; he ran across the court-yard to the horse-boxes. His black mare
Night whickered upon recognizing her master, and tried to rub her muzzle
against his cheek as he fumbled with the throat-latch of the bridle. An
instant longer, to lead out the mare and vault upon her back, and he was
clattering through the court-yard and covered way.
Upon reaching the open Constans saw that the situation had developed
into a crisis. The cavalier of the ostrich-feather had forced his horse
up the steep bank of the Ochre brook and was riding slowly towards the
girl, who stood motionless, realizing her perilous position, but unable
for the moment to cope with it. She half turned, as though to seek again
the shelter of the birchen copse; then, clutching at her impeding
skirts, she ran in the direction of the keep. He of the ostrich-plume
spurred to the gallop; inevitably their paths must intersect a few yards
farther on.
From behind came the noise of men shouting and the thud of quarrels
impinging upon stout oak; the Doomsmen, hitherto in hiding, were making
a diversion, in answer, doubtless, to a signal from their leader. A
hundred gray-garbed men showed themselves in the open, coming from the
shelter of the fir plantation back of the rickyards; they ran towards
the open water gate, exposing themselves recklessly in their eagerness
to reach it.
But the defenders were not to be surprised so easily, and Constans,
glancing backward, saw that the drawbridge was already in the air and
the gate closed. The outlaws, realizing that the surprise was a failure,
and unwilling to brave the arrows sent whistling about their ears from
the fighting platforms of the keep, fell back in some disorder. At the
same moment a solitary figure appeared, emerging as though by magic from
the solid wall of the keep--Sir Gavan himself, a father forgetful of all
else but the peril of his children. He must have used the "Rat's-Hole"
for egress; he hurried down the green slope, calling his daughter by
name. All this Constans saw in that swift backward glance. Well, there
was but one thing that he could do.
And Night knew it, too; brave little Night, how cleverly you forced
yourself under the towering bulk of that brute of a blood-bay! A thunder
of hoofs and they were in touch; Constans felt himself hurled into
space; the bridle-reins of tough plaited leather were torn from his
hands; Night and he were down.
The dust cloud cleared and the boy struggled up, although his head was
still spinning from the shock of the encounter. Ten yards away lay the
black mare with a broken foreleg. She was trying to rise, her eyes
glazed with pain and her flanks heaving horribly.
The blood-bay had kept his feet and his master his saddle--a hardy pair,
these two. But the desperate expedient had proved successful in that
Issa was safe. Already Sir Gavan had her in his arms, and before the
horseman had fully found himself the fugitives were under the shadow of
the keep's walls.
The question of his own danger did not immediately concern Constans; he
had no eyes for anything but Night lying there in her agony. His father
had given him the horse when she was a foal of a week old, and Constans
had broken and trained her himself. Well, she had served him faithfully,
and in return he would show her the last mercy. His knife-sheath hung
from his girdle; he drew out the blade and drove it home just behind the
glossy black shoulder. Night shuddered and lay still. The knife had
sunken deep, and Constans had to exert all his strength to withdraw it.
The bare point of a rapier touched him meaningly on the arm; he stood up
and faced his enemy.
The man on horseback laughed softly. "Oho, my young cockerel, it was but
a touch of the gaff, and now that you are ready is reason sufficient why
I should prefer to wait. But that neither of us may forget--" He bent
down and caught Constans by the shoulders, turning him around and
forcing him backward until his head rested against the blood-bay's
withers. Two slashes of his hunting-knife and a tiny, triangular nick
appeared on the upper part of the lad's right ear.
"That is my sign-manual of which I spoke to you an hour or more ago. It
is Quinton Edge's mark, as all men know, and it brands whatever bears it
as Quinton Edge's property. Some day I may deem it worth while to claim
my own; until then you can be my caretaker, my tenant. What! no answer?
And yet it is a generous offer, I think, considering how sore my arm has
grown and how impertinently you behaved just now in interfering between
me and a lady. Light of God! but she is a bewitching bundle of
femineity. But twice, boy, have I seen her; hardly a dozen words have
passed----"
He stopped abruptly and gazed hard at Constans. Then slowly:
"Your sister, I take it; there is the same straight line of eyebrow. No
answer again? Well, we will pass it over for the nonce; you have still
many things to learn, and, chiefly, to becomingly order body and soul in
the presence of your lord. After all, it pleases me better to have the
last word from the lady's own lips; she had been most discourteously
treated, and I would fain be shriven. Until we meet again, then."
The cavalier put spur to the blood-bay's flank and rode straight for the
Great House. The boy stood staring after him; he did not notice the
trickle of blood from the cut in his ear; he was not even conscious that
he was still in life. He remembered only the unforgivable affront which
this man had put upon him, the mark which was the infamous badge of the
bondman, the slave. Quinton Edge! Ah, yes; he would remember that face
and name.
The Doomsman had ridden in cool defiance up to the very walls of the
keep. It would have been an easy matter for one of the garrison to have
bored his gay jacket through with a feathered shaft, and for a moment
Constans trembled, fearing lest some overzealous partisan should thus
rob him of his future vengeance. But the very audacity of the man proved
the saving of his skin. They were brave men who manned the fighting
platforms of the Greenwood Keep, and they could not bring themselves to
set upon naked courage.
Constans fancied that the man spoke to some one who stood hidden in the
deep embrasure of a window, but it was too far to either see or hear.
Then it seemed that a small object fell lightly from the window-sill.
The Doomsman caught it dexterously and fastened it on his breast.
Another low bow and, wheeling his horse, he dashed down the slope.
Constans ran blindly to meet him; why, he did not know. He who named
himself Quinton Edge swerved slightly in his course so as to pass within
arm's-length, calling out as he did so:
"Gage of battle and gage of love; a fortunate day for me. Believe me
that at some future time I shall answer for them both."
It was a sprig of the May-bloom that the cavalier wore in his
button-hole; Constans had only time to recognize it when the blood-bay
broke into full gallop. The lad flung himself at full length upon the
turf, face downward, and lay there motionless.
V
THE RAT'S-HOLE
It was a warm, cloudy night some two weeks later, and Constans sat in
the great hall of the keep, listlessly regarding the preparations that
were being made for the evening meal. Six or seven of the house-servants
were bustling to and from the buttery laden with flagons and dishes,
which they deposited with a vast amount of noise and confusion upon the
tables. These latter were of the most primitive construction, nothing
more than puncheons smoothed down with the adze and supported by wooden
trestles.
The main table ran nearly the full length of the hall, and was intended
to accommodate the men-at-arms and the superior servants, together with
such strangers of low degree as might chance to be present. The
furniture was of the rudest pattern--platters of bass and white wood,
which were daily scoured with sand to keep them clean and sweet,
earthenware pitchers of a bricklike hue, drinking-cups of pewter and
leather, and clumsy iron forks. There was no provision of cutlery;
evidently the guests were expected to use their hunting-knives and
daggers for the dismemberment of the viands.
At the upper or dais end of the hall there was a second table, placed at
right angles to the long one and elevated above it by the height of the
superior flooring upon which it stood. This principal board was, of
course, for the exclusive use of the family and distinguished guests,
and from the circumstance of its being raised above the main level the
master could command an unobstructed view of the entire household in the
event of any overt disorder or indecorum.
The viands were quite in keeping with the simplicity of the table-gear.
Huge chines of beef and mutton, with spare-rib and fowl in apparently
unlimited quantity, formed the staple of the repast, and were reinforced
by vast bowls of the commoner garden vegetables and by bread made of
unbolted flour. Sweetmeats were scarce, for the products of the
sugarcane are difficult to procure in these northern latitudes. Maple
sugar and honey serve as the ordinary substitutes, and even these are
regarded as luxuries, since maple-trees are few in number and
bee-keeping is but little practised. Finally, there were the drinkables,
these including hard cider and a thin, acid wine made from the wild
grape.
Annoyed by the clatter of the dishes and the half-whispered conversation
of the domestics, Constans rose and walked to the dais end of the hall,
where his mother and sister were seated, engaged in the agreeable
occupation of inspecting the contents of a peddler's pack. It was an
imposing array to the eye, and the chapman, kneeling on the floor close
by Issa's stool, kept handing up one article after another for closer
examination. The stuff seemed worthless enough to Constans--trumpery
pieces of quartz crystal set in copper and debased silver, rings and
bangles of a hue unmistakably brassy, hair ribbons, parti-colored dress
goods, pins, needles, and a miscellaneous assortment of useless
trinkets. Constans was genuinely astonished that Issa, who had been
hitherto something of a good-fellow, should seem interested in such
rubbish; but then women were all alike when it was a question of pretty
things to buy. He looked sharply at the peddler, but the latter appeared
commonplace enough, a man of forty or thereabouts, and dressed in the
looped-up gray gaberdine peculiar to the guild of itinerant chapmen.
Possibly he was bald, for he wore a close-fitting skull-cap; his beard,
however, was luxuriant and effectually hid the contour of the lower half
of his face. Constans stood by frowning lightly, but he had no
reasonable pretext for interfering with his sister's amusement, and in
the feminine catalogue of diversions the peddler's infrequent visit held
a prominent place.
The major-domo, wearing a silver chain about his neck by virtue of his
office, advanced to his mistress's chair and announced that the meal was
ready for serving. The Lady Rayne nodded, a brazen gong sounded, the big
folding-doors at the south end were thrown open, and the hall was
quickly filled with the customary throng of retainers and hangers-on.
But all remained standing in silence until the master and mistress had
taken their places. Sir Gavan entered from his workshop, and, offering
his hand to his wife, led her ceremoniously to her seat, Issa and
Constans following.
To Constans's indignant amazement the peddler stepped forward, as though
to take the vacant seat alongside of Issa. But before Constans could
move or speak the chapman appeared to recognize the impropriety of
which he had been so nearly guilty; with a profound genuflection, he
withdrew from the dais and found a place at the lower table. The
incident had been so momentary that it had passed entirely unnoticed by
his father and the Lady Rayne; Constans could not even be sure that Issa
had understood, and certainly she gave no sign of discomposure.
"What presumption!" muttered Constans, under his breath. "These fellows
are becoming more insufferable every day, and my father sees nothing."
Constans resolved that the man should be packed off immediately upon the
conclusion of the meal. He could easily persuade Sir Gavan that the
fellow had none too honest a look, while his wares were assuredly the
cheapest trash. He must be got rid of before the women had been beguiled
into spending all their pin-money.
The repast dragged out to its end, and the women withdrew to the upper
end of the hall, comparative privacy being secured by large leather
screens set up along the edge of the dais. The men remained at the table
for deeper potations and the smoking of rank black kinnectikut tobacco in
huge wooden pipes.
A heavy thunderstorm, the first of the season, had come up, and Constans
recognized, to his vexation, that he would have no decent excuse for
turning the peddler out-of-doors. So he kept his seat at the table in
sulky silence, watching the man closely, and ready to note anything of
further suspicion in his actions and bearing. But he had his trouble for
his pains, for the fellow was the itinerant chapman to the life, even to
the stock of gross stories with which he kept his bucolic audience in an
uninterrupted guffaw. Pah! would Sir Gavan never finish his second pipe
and give the signal to rise?
The storm had turned into a heavy downpour, and the peddler was
consequently sure of his night's lodging. He had been summoned again to
the presence of the ladies, and, as before, Constans stood aloof and
wondered irritably how his fastidious sister could find aught in common
with this wayside huckster. She was talking to him now with an animation
rare with her, her checks flushed and her eyes glowing.
"And you have been in Doom--in the city itself?" she asked,
incredulously.
"Yes, gracious lady; and not once, but a score of times. The brocades
that I promised to show you after supper will be my witness. And there
are some superlative satin and silk lengths which my Lady Rayne wished
particularly to see. Will you allow me, then?"
The peddler, opening an inner compartment of his pack, drew out several
pieces of stuff wrapped up in brown linen. Removing the covering, he
spread the goods upon the rug before the ladies, holding up each
separate piece to the light and expatiating upon its merits in the
approved fashion of the shopman. The two women gave a little gasp of
astonishment; never had they seen such wondrous beauty of color and
finish; their little market-town of Croye held nothing to compare to
this.
"I must send for Meta to advise me," said the Lady Rayne, glancing
fondly from one rich fabric to another. "She ought to know good silk
when she sees it, after living so long in Croye; and you, Issa, seem
strangely indifferent to-night. You hardly looked at this piece of
brocade."
Meta, the Lady Rayne's bedwoman, speedily appeared, and mistress and
maid fell into earnest converse. Issa, as in duty bound, listened; then
her attention seemed to flag again. She bent over the open pack and
picked up a chain of filigree work. It was beautifully fashioned and
looked like gold.
"It is gold," said the chapman, answering the question in her eyes. "The
pure gold of the ancients; you never see that pale yellow nowadays. Ah,
yes, a pretty trinket to have brought from the heart of Doom for the
delight of a fair woman's eyes, and well worth its price of a man's
life. But, then, fortune was kind, and I did not have to pay."
"Tell me about it," said the girl, beseechingly, and her breath came
short and hot.
Whereupon the chapman drew a little nearer and began a wondrous tale of
a secret visit that he had lately made to Doom, the Forbidden; of how he
had crossed the river on a raft, the moon being in its dark quarter; of
his landing upon a shaking wharf, where each foot-fall left a print of
phosphorescent fire on the rotting planks; then of the marvels that he
had seen there--vast warehouses covering whole acres of ground and
filled with incalculable store of goods; lofty buildings, whose
chimney-pots were in the clouds; palaces of sculptured stone, now empty
and despoiled, the habitation of foxes and unclean nocturnal creatures.
Then again of hidden treasure, heaps and heaps of yellow gold; of the
fierce Doomsmen who guarded it so well; of pitfalls and gins and siren
voices that lured the soul astray; of ghastly shapes that crept along
the crumbling walls; of mystery in every sound and shadow; of
treacheries and alarms and the ever present terror of death--a tale of
amazing wonder, at which the blood ran alternately warm and cold and the
heart fluttered with a certain fearful joy.
How the maid hung upon the word, her little breasts heaving and her lips
parted! "You have seen all these things?" she panted. "How wonderful!
And you were not afraid? That was like a man--to be brave----" She
blushed deeply, stammered, and turned to the neglected brocades.
Constans, standing close at hand, was moved to new anger. The
impertinent, how dared he! Yet he had listened himself, and in spite of
himself, for assuredly the fellow talked well.
The evening was now well advanced and the customary hour of retirement
was at hand. It was still raining, but Guyder Touchett, who came in
dripping from his nightly task of posting the watch, remarked that the
wind was changing and that it was likely to clear when the moon rose. Of
course the peddler would now spend the night at the keep, and at his own
request he was allowed to remain in the hall, a straw pallet being
brought in for his accommodation.
* * * * *
"The Rat's-Hole!"
Constans repeated the words half aloud, holding the paper close to the
guttering candle. It was but a tiny scrap, scarce large enough for the
writing that it held. But paper of any kind is rare in these days, and
so the gleam of white had caught his eye as he went up-stairs to his
sleeping apartment. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and besides it was
in back-hand, and it may be disguised as well; he was hardly an expert
in such fine distinctions. But it was plainly a message, and its
possible import startled him. For the Rat's-Hole was the secret exit
that existed behind the jamb of the fireplace at the upper end of the
hall. So cunningly had the panelled door been joinered into the
wainscoting that a man might search for hours and yet not discover the
spring that threw it open. Furthermore, the wainscoting was but a screen
for the real door of iron-bound oak giving passage directly through the
outer wall of the keep to the open country. A jealously guarded secret,
this matter of the Rat's-Hole, and supposed to be known only to the
master of the household and his immediate family. Even among them its
existence was never referred to in ordinary conversation, while its
actual use was restricted to the gravest of emergencies.
"The Rat's-Hole!" A message, an agreement, an appointment? By whose hand
had these words been written? For whose eye had they been intended?
It would have been the wiser course to have communicated at once with
Sir Gavan, but the latter, feeling somewhat indisposed, had retired
early, and Constans hesitated to disturb him. Moreover, the boy stood in
awe of his father, and of late a feeling of estrangement had been
growing up between them. To Sir Gavan, Constans, with his dreamy,
inactive nature, was a keen disappointment--so different from his
brother Tennant. And Constans felt that his father did not understand
him nor, indeed, cared to do so. Latterly, they had gone their own ways,
and now at this perplexing juncture Constans could not bring himself to
take his father into his confidence.
When, a few moments later, the lights had been formally extinguished for
the night, Constans made his way back to the hall; he had to pass close
by the pallet occupied by the peddler, and he paused an instant to
listen to his deep and measured breathing. Surely the man slept.
Even in the dark Constans knew how to put his hand on the spring in the
wainscoting, and it yielded to his touch. It was discomposing to find
the key of the real door standing, ready for turning, in the lock. In
theory, the key was never out of the master's immediate possession. An
oversight, then? Constans's mind reverted to the one occasion in his
remembrance on which the Rat's-Hole had been used, that day a fortnight
back, when his sister Issa came out of the birch-copse, with her hands
full of May-bloom and Quinton Edge had waited under cover of the alders.
It was possible; his father might have forgotten. And yet----
Constans took the key and slipped it into the bosom of his doublet. Then
closing the secret door in the wainscoting, he drew one of the big
leather screens into convenient position and crouched down behind it.
The dying fire gave out a flickering and uncertain light; he watched the
grotesque procession of the shadows on the opposite wall until his eyes
grew heavy. The odor of a smouldering bough of balsam-fir hung in the
air--warm, spicy, soporific. He slept.
VI
TROY TOWN
Constans awoke just as the footsteps died away; he listened, but again
the stillness was profound. He felt his way to the secret door; the
wainscot screen stood ajar. It was plain that some one had come to the
Rat's-Hole only to discover that the key of the outside door was
missing. Constans realized that he, too, had missed something--his
chance to get to the bottom of the mystery. Shame on such a sentinel!
Without any definite plan of action, Constans made his way to the lower
hall. The moonbeams were pouring a flood of light through the east
windows and he could see plainly. The peddler's couch was empty, save
for his gabardine of gray and the false hair that had served him for a
beard. There were two figures dimly visible in the obscurity of the
vaulted entrance to the water gate. They were working at the clumsy
fastenings of the doors. As Constans ran up he recognized his sister
Issa and the man who called himself Quinton Edge.
Without a word Constans seized the girl by the arm and swung her behind
him. He struck at the Doomsman with his hunting-knife, but the latter
caught his wrist with the grip of a wolf-trap. Yet even at that moment
of stress Quinton Edge's voice preserved its soft, mincing inflections;
the man wore his irritating affectations of speech as jauntily as he did
the ostrich plumes in his cap.
"A brave ruffling of feathers--but gently, gently boy, you are
frightening the lady. She goes with me of her full consent. Is it not
so, sweetheart?"
"You lie!" said the boy, thickly.
The man laughed. "I tell you," he went on, "that the girl is mine by her
own choice, and you have only to stand aside quietly to save the house
and your own skin. But softly now; you are tearing the lace of my
sleeve. A plague on your clumsy fingers!"
With a wrench Constans twisted himself free and turned to face his
sister. "Issa!" he implored.
But she, with eyes like rain-washed stars, only looked beyond him to
where Quinton Edge stood, softly smiling and holding out his womanish
white hands. She would have rejoined him, but once again Constans forced
her back. The dangling rope of the alarm-bell grazed his hand; he
clutched at it, and a clang re-echoed through the court-yard, rousing
the recreant warders from their slumbers. In that same instant Quinton
Edge blew his whistle.
The Doomsmen must have already crossed the moat and been close up to the
water gate, for the response to their leader's call was immediate.
Quinton Edge had just time to remove the last of the bars securing the
barrier when the night-watch streamed out tumultuously from their
quarters under the arch, and he was obliged to retreat into the
court-yard. But already the outlaws had forced apart the wooden leaves
of the water gate; now they filled the vaulted passageway, and by sheer
impact of superior weight began to drive back the bewildered and
disorganized defenders. Friend and foe together, the mass surged into
the quadrangle, a blind, indefinite cluster of struggling men, like to a
swarm of hiving bees.
The storm had blown over, but the moon was every now and then obscured
by masses of scurrying cloud-wrack, and in these periods of
semi-darkness Doomsman and Stockader were hardly to be told apart. So
closely packed was the scrimmage that the use of any missile weapon was
impossible. The dagger and the night-stick (the latter a stout truncheon
weighted with lead) were doing the work, and effectively, too. And in
that press a man might be struck and die upon his feet, the corpse being
stayed from falling through its juxtaposition to the bodies of the
living.
The men of the keep, now that they had recovered from their first
discomfiture, rallied manfully. So stubborn and bitter raged the
struggle that there was not a sound to be heard outside the noise of
scuffling feet and the thud of blows. A man when hard beset for his life
has no breath to spare for either oath of despair or shout of triumph.
But not for long were the scales to swing so evenly; presently the ranks
of the Stockaders yielded again to the pressure and broke into separate
groups. Then were to be heard the groans of the wounded and dying; then
for the first time the yell of the Doomsmen broke forth, ear-piercing in
its exultancy.
Constans had managed to reach the shelter of the Great House, half
dragging, half carrying the fainting form of his sister. Already Sir
Gavan, with Tennant and the house-servants, were under arms and making
what preparations they could for the final stand. A hopeless task it
seemed, for the outlaws were now in full possession of the rest of the
keep. The retainers occupying the general quarters in the south barracks
had fallen easy victims. Surprised, out-numbered, and poorly armed, they
had been quickly cut down as they reached the court-yard, and active
resistance to the invaders was at an end.
Now the attack was turned directly upon the entrance to the Great House,
and Sir Gavan, with his handful of followers, waited on the threshold
for the inevitable issue. Already the ponderous door of iron-banded oak
was groaning and splintering under the hail of blows. And in the
forefront, with a laugh upon his lips, hewed Quinton Edge.
The barrier was down at last and the wolves were free to fall upon their
quarry. A score of men, all told, against a hundred; the outcome was
hardly doubtful. Yet it was not Gavan of the Greenwood Keep who held up
his hand in sign of parley, but the Doomsman, Quinton Edge.
"The maiden Issa," he said, speaking with a smooth insolence that made
Constans set his teeth. "Give her safely to my hand and your goods and
your lives shall go free of further damage. A cheap bargain; but speak
quickly, old man, these hounds of mine are not to be held in leash for
long."
The partisans on either side had fallen back, leaving the two leaders
face to face. Sir Gavan plucked twice at his throat, where the veins
stood out like cords, constricting the vocal passages so that he
stuttered thickly as he spoke.
"This--this gallows-scape!" he stammered. "This burner of peasants'
hayricks, this pitiful plunderer of hen-roosts and cattle byres! If it
were a man, now--to nail the insult to his lips----"
"We lose time," interrupted the Doomsman. "I have named my price."
"The price--ah, yes, the price. Tennant, Constans, you heard what he
said. But where is my child? Let the girl stand forth; she is her
father's daughter, and she shall answer for herself."
"I will abide by it," said Quinton Edge, with cool confidence.
The half-circle opened and Issa stood before them; a mere child she
looked in her simple slip of white and with her fair hair all unbound. A
vague terror seized upon Sir Gavan. What was this question that he was
about to ask of his daughter? Could there be other than the one answer?
How quietly she stood there and waited. Yes, and they were all waiting
upon him; he must speak.
"Issa!"
It seemed to him that he had shouted aloud; then he realized that he had
not spoken at all. "Issa!" he said, again, and she turned towards him.
"This man; he is not known to you. How could it be?"
"Yet it is the truth, my father," answered the girl, steadily. "It is
just a month ago that chance set us face to face--one day when I rode
alone in the green drive."
"And thereafter?"
"Once he came to the walled garden, adventuring the thousand chances of
discovery. Yet how he managed to cross the stockade-line I know not,
for I was frightened, and begged him to leave me. And this he did most
courteously, only swearing that he would again return."
"The third time?"
"That was the day--the day of the first May-bloom--the Ochre brook and
the Doomsmen----" The girl's voice faltered.
"Yet never a word to me or to your mother?"
"It was not my secret," she answered, bravely; and upon that Quinton
Edge himself took up the word.
"The blame is mine, since I used the peril in which I stood to set a
seal upon her lips. A true and loyal maid is your daughter, and it was
only after she had twice said me nay that I resolved to take without the
asking. So I came that day which we both remember, and waited under the
alder bushes, and once again I missed my cast. Yet was the quest not
altogether fruitless, for I carried away this token from my lady's
hostile garden."
He drew a faded spray of the May-bloom from his doublet and touched it
lightly to his lips.
"What gentleman could refuse to redeem so dear a pledge? You have seen
how I took head in hand and sat me down under your own roof-tree, my
good Gavan of the keep. Faith, it was an even chance on which side the
platter would fall, but this time the luck was mine. We should have been
leagues away in the sun's eye by now, only that a peevish boy would have
his way."
"And this--this is also true?" said Sir Gavan, and it seemed that the
preceding silence had been very long.
"It is true." She had answered quietly, almost mechanically, but the
heart of the Lady Rayne thrilled to the new note in her child's voice.
"Issa!" she cried, softly, and fell to weeping, not as a mother for her
daughter but as one woman who sorrows for another.
"Issa!" she said, again, but neither then nor thereafter did the girl
vouchsafe her mother look or word, all her soul seeming to hang upon the
will of the man who had brought this woe upon her house. There was no
need for word to pass; reading the command in her lover's eyes, she
slipped from her mother's detaining clasp and placed her hand in his.
Now, Issa was exceeding fair to look upon, and Quinton Edge's blood
stirred hotly within him. And so for once he lost his head and did a
foolish thing (only that no woman would agree that it was foolish), for
there, in the presence of all, he quickly drew her face to his and
kissed her on the lips. Then turning to his men, he made as though to
send them from the house.
But it was not to be. A keen-pointed, heavy throwing-knife hung at Sir
Gavan's side. Without a word he snatched it from the sheath, poised and
flung it with all his force at his enemy's heart, a master throw and
executed like a flash of light. Issa felt rather than saw the coming of
the missile, and with an instinctive movement contrived to interpose her
own delicate body. The steel bit deep into the white flesh, and with a
little, shuddering cry the girl sank to the floor; out leaped Quinton
Edge's sword. Constans, supporting his mother, felt her hand grow cold
in his. He laid her gently down upon a convenient settle and thanked God
that she, too, was safe.
It seemed to Constans that he was wandering in a bristling thicket of
steel points; thunderous crashes re-echoed in his ears; the red light
from the burning building eddied about his feet, a sea of blood and
flame. His father and Tennant were down, never to rise again; a few
paces in front of him Guyder Touchett headed a little knot of the
defenders, swearing furiously as he hewed and hacked. A half-dozen
against ten times their number; the issue could not be doubtful. Even as
he gazed, two of the six sunk to their knees and then fell face
downward, a dreadful sign that even a child might understand.
Now, Guyder Touchett stood alone, and about him a snarling pack of Dom
Gillian's wolves, waiting cautiously upon one another, for the Stockader
had a long sword-arm. Thereupon a man broke out of the press, signing
the prudent ones to fall back. It was Quinton Edge, and, as ever, he was
laughing, only that now his laughter sounded like to a bell that has
cracked in the ringing. The swords clashed together; then the Doomsman
dropped his point.
"You are too good a man for crows' meat," he said, shortly. "Stand clear
and save your ears; my business is with the white-faced boy behind you."
But Guyder Touchett, ruddy, full-bodied, and loving his life as well as
any man, only girded at him, saying:
"Is there, then, a deeper hell than this? I follow where my master has
gone, and you, my lord, shall show me the way."
"The more fool you," quoth Quinton Edge, and drove at him.
[Illustration: "OUT LEAPED QUINTON EDGE'S SWORD"]
Again the blades engaged, and a great fear suddenly tightened at the
boy's heart. His champion had been exhausted by his previous efforts,
and now his strength was going fast. Constans saw Touchett stagger and
Quinton Edge preparing for a final stroke; he turned and ran for the
upper end of the hall--the Rat's-Hole.
The key was still in his bosom, and in a few seconds he had passed the
postern, closing and locking it behind him. Five minutes' hard running
and he was free of the stockade and at the summit of a hill that
commanded the scene which he had just left. The conflagration was
progressing with astonishing rapidity; already the Great House itself
was in flames, and dark figures could be seen issuing from the water
gate. There! the red cock was crowing from the top of the bell-tower,
and now the whole court-yard was a furnace of fire. A spark carried by
the wind fell on his naked shoulder, where it bit like a fiery serpent.
Yet he scarcely felt the smart; he stood motionless, looking upon the
wreck of his little world, the only one that he had ever known.
"So in the end he made me a coward as well," said the boy, speaking
softly to himself. "Is it that a slave must be a slave--always?"
He drew a long breath. "No, not always. But in the mean time I am to go
on living and bearing everywhere his mark--Quinton Edge's mark. Well, I
will begin by learning how to wait."
He stood irresolute for a moment longer, gazing at the scene of the
night's tragedy as though to impress it indelibly upon his memory. Then
turning his back to the east, where the faint saffron of early dawn was
now showing, he started off on a long, swinging trot that speedily
carried him down the slope and into the deeper shadow of the wood
beyond.
VII
THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION
Two miles from the keep was a cave that Constans had discovered on one
of his hunting-trips, and which, boylike, he had proceeded to fit up
with some rude furniture for lodging and cooking, little dreaming that
he should ever stand in actual need of these necessities.
Thither he betook himself, impelled primarily by the mere instinct for
refuge and shelter. Fortunately, the larder had been replenished within
the past week, there was an abundance of dry fuel stacked up in the
interior of the cavern, and the woods were full of game. But during
those first two or three days it is doubtful if Constans would have
remarked either the presence or the absence of these creature comforts;
he ate when he was hungry and went to sleep when it grew dark. The rest
of the time he sat motionless, thinking, thinking--living for the most
part in that past that now seemed so infinitely far away.
Of course, the cavern had been the storehouse of his treasures. Here he
kept a spare hunting-bow and a full stock of arrows, together with his
fishing lines and nets and a miscellaneous assortment of traps and
tools. Here, too, was the secret depository of his cherished
spying-glasses and of another equally marvellous but unfortunately
valueless piece of mechanism--a revolver of large caliber. This latter
had belonged to his grandfather (for whom he had been named), and upon
his death Constans had claimed and taken possession of it. The weapon
was in perfect order, for its former owner had been careful to keep it
well cleaned and oiled; an absurd whim, of course, since without its
ammunition it was useless. The boy used to puzzle mightily over it,
setting the hammer and watching the cylinder as it revolved, then
pulling the trigger and listening to its fascinating click. But he never
got any nearer to the secret.
Even more precious than the pistol and binoculars were his books, an
oddly assorted library that included the child's pictorial history
already mentioned, Dryden's translation of the _Iliad_, an imperfect
copy of _The Three Musketeers_, and _The Descent of Man_. These, indeed,
made up the full list of books belonging to the keep, and Constans had
been permitted to appropriate them, nobody else caring to waste time
over their stained and worm-eaten pages.
With Constans, however, it had been different. In company with the other
children he had been set at the task of learning his letters, and at
first he, too, had rebelled at the uncongenial labor. What possible use
could these ugly, crooked characters ever be to him? And then, suddenly,
he found in them a magic key unlocking a door that opened upon an
undiscovered country--that of the mighty past.
Naturally he experienced some difficulty in viewing this new old world
in anything like its proper proportions, and it was the literal baldness
of the child's school-book that first gave him anything like a true
perspective. Here was both the written story and the visible picture of
the world as it once was, as it might be again. Studying these records
and achievements of the ancient civilization, Constans found himself
possessed of the knowledge of many things and consumed by the desire to
lay hold of many more.
But all this lay in the past--ages ago, when as yet no Doomsman had
landed at the Golden Cove, and the pine-tree banner still flew from the
fighting platform of the Greenwood Keep. Now nothing mattered to the boy
sitting dull-eyed and inert in the darkest corner of his miserable
refuge, while outside it was raining in torrents. But on the third day
it cleared, and the rays of the morning sun, striking level with the
mouth of the cave, fell full upon the lad's face, rousing him in a
double sense. He sprang to his feet and drew in a deep breath of the
morning air. How blue the sky! How golden the sun! As he sat eating his
frugal breakfast of oat-cake and honey he rapidly reviewed his present
condition and future prospects, coming at last to the decision that he
would go to Croye and see what his uncle Hugolin might be inclined to do
for him.
It was inspiriting, the mere fact that he had determined upon a course
of action, and Constans immediately began his preparations for
departure. It did not take long to put together his worldly wealth--the
four books, the binoculars, the pistol, and the chief of his other
possessions; now he had everything compactly stowed away in a shoulder
pack and was ready for the journey.
The town of Croye was situated on the Greater river (formerly the
Hudson) and some ten miles north of the ancient city of New York. It
boasted a population of quite fifteen hundred souls, and this, with its
importance as a trading centre, made it a notable municipality for these
latter days. Its appearance, however, does not call for any extended
description; assuredly, it was not imposing. A heterogeneous jumble of
low, half-timbered houses and mud-plastered hovels; dirty, unpaved
streets, a mean-looking market-place, where the shrill clamor of
huckstering never seemed to cease; some pretentious-looking public
buildings, with stuccoed fronts; outside of all, the inevitable earth
rampart, topped by a palisade and pierced by sally-ports at the cardinal
points--such was Croye, the principal city of this western hemisphere in
the year 2015, or ninety since the Great Change.
Constans frowned as he gazed upon this unlovely picture. Yet he
determined that he would find something of good in it, and as though
answering his thought, the sun reappeared at that very moment from
behind a passing cloud, its rays lighting up the red tiling used as
roofing in the houses of the better class--the one note of cheerful
color among these dingy browns and grays. It was an omen, and he
accepted it as such.
It was to one of these red-topped mansions that Constans finally found
his way, after experiencing several rebuffs from churlish citizens of
whom he had ventured to inquire for the whereabouts of his uncle. Now,
as he laid his hand upon the knocker, he was conscious that the feeling
of despondency had again fallen upon him; he recalled the old story of
Messer Hugolin's bitter opposition to the marriage of his sister Rayne
and Gavan of the keep, of how he had refused to attend the wedding and
had sent no gift. Since then there had been no real intimacy between the
families, although the breach had been outwardly healed and formal
civilities infrequently passed. A poor prospect, it would seem, for the
success of Constans's appeal. But blood is blood, and there was
literally no one else to whom he could turn in this his extremity. He
let the knocker fall.
Messer Hugolin, a stout man, with crafty lines creased in his broad
face, received his nephew with nominal cordiality and listened
attentively to his story. But he was not over-prompt with either advice
or offer of assistance, and Constans, with a sore heart, finally rose to
go.
"Don't be in a hurry," said his uncle, coolly. "Let me think this over
again. After all, we are of the same stock, although your father always
flouted me for a mean-spirited churl. Poor Gavan, we may forgive him
now."
After another period of cogitation and incidental homilies upon the
sinfulness of pride and free living, Messer Hugolin came to the point;
he offered to take Constans into his employ as an apprentice in the
tannery. Of course, Constans would have no wages until his indenture was
out, but he would, at least, be assured of lodging, food, and clothes,
the bare necessities of existence. Not an especially attractive
proposition, but Constans, after a short consideration, concluded to
accept it. He had a purpose in remaining here in Croye, almost within
sight of Doom the Forbidden; he had not forgotten that therein dwelt one
Quinton Edge.
And now a new life began for the boy, and a hard one. Lodged in a corner
of the garret, clad in the meanest garments, fed on the coarsest fare,
his lot was little better than that of the actual serf, and in some
respects inferior to it, for it was good policy to treat the slave with
some decency and so secure a full life's work from the human machine.
Constans, on the other hand, was bound for four years only, and it was
policy to drive him at full speed.
Messer Hugolin's business was of a general nature. He bought and sold
everything in the way of raw product and finished goods, but cloth and
leather formed the staple of his trade. The latter he manufactured
himself, and his tannery was the largest in Croye. It occupied extensive
yards along the river-front, and Constans entered upon the agreeable
occupation of unloading stinking hides from the barges which came down
from the upper river twice in the week, a routine varied only by long
hours of pounding at interminable lengths of white-oak bark, preparing
it for use in the tan-pits. Hard, dirty, malodorous work it was, but he
kept at it steadily, his purpose always in view.
Little by little his plans had been taking shape, and now at last he had
arrived at something definite. A secret, of course, and fortunately
opportunity had been given him in which to develop his idea. To explain
more particularly:
On ordinary days the working-hours were from dawn to dark, but Sunday
was his own, save for the hour immediately following sunrise and that
preceding sunset, when everybody was required to attend upon public
worship.
Every Sunday, then, Constans made his way through the town barriers
immediately upon their unclosing, and betook himself to a wooded
river-cove about a mile south of the town. For three months he had been
working on a canoe, shaping it with fire and adze from a poplar log, and
now, after infinite difficulty, the task approached completion. Could he
have had a confidant, a helper, the work might have been done in a third
of the time, for Constans was not much of a mechanic. But there was no
one among his fellow-workmen whom he dared trust, and so he toiled on
alone.
The canoe had been launched, and, to Constans's delight, she was but
slightly lopsided. A few stones brought her to trim, and she paddled
beautifully.
He had fixed upon the third Sunday in August for the great trial, for
the Monday following was a civic holiday, the anniversary of the
founding of the city. The double event would give him abundant time in
which to make a reconnoissance of his enemy's position and then return
to Croye to resume his position in Messer Hugolin's tanyard. For his
foothold there must not be endangered; if he returned at all, he would
find it more necessary than ever.
Permission to absent himself from Saturday night to Tuesday morning had
to be obtained from the city authorities. They objected at first, but
finally accorded their consent. With his uncle, the matter was quickly
settled. Messer Hugolin did not approve of holidays for apprentices, but
he dared not controvert the law, and Constans was already in possession
of the blue ticket which would enable him to pass the city barriers
after sunset on Saturday. So Messer Hugolin contented himself with
black looks and an acid jibe at the vanity of his civic associates, who
multiplied holidays that they might have opportunity to display
themselves in their gold chains and red robes of office.
"And harkee, boy!" he concluded, harshly. "Let me see you at roll-call
Tuesday morning or not at all. With flour at ten tokens the quarter,
there is no bread of idleness to be eaten in my house." And thereupon
they parted without further speaking.
It was a warm August evening when he finally pushed out from shore and
laid his course down-stream. He had not ventured upon the experiment of a
sail, but the tide was beginning to run out, and that, with the current,
should carry him to his destination without the dipping of an oar. But
he reflected that the moon would rise at nine o'clock, and as it was
barely past the full the light might betray him to watching eyes. He
could take no risks, and so must reach the city under cover of darkness.
Accordingly, he bent to his paddle, taking it easy at first, and then
lengthening out the stroke as he gained confidence in this hitherto
untried art.
VIII
IN THE SHADOW OF DOOM
An hour wore on, and Constans was approaching the suburbs of the ancient
municipality. But it did not suit his purpose to make a landing here.
His plan was to reach the lower end of the island upon which the city
was built, then to work his way northward on foot until he should
discover the innermost citadel of the Doomsmen. To get a fair idea of
his task, he proposed to ascend one of the immensely high buildings
which stood crowded together in the down-town district. From such a
vantage-point he could surely fix upon landmarks for his future guidance
in penetrating the labyrinth of streets. It would not be a pleasant
experience to lose one's way, and, perhaps, stumble by mistake on Master
Quinton Edge's front door.
Now, as Constans travelled onward, the ruined city began to grow upon
him in ever heavier and darker mass. Here and there a half-demolished
church-spire raised itself above the neighboring roof-line; plainly this
had been one of the old-time residential sections and of the better
class. Still farther down the stream and the water-front stood crowded
thickly with wharves and warehouses, the scene of the mighty commerce of
the past. The ships themselves were there, great monsters of iron and
steel, scaled and honeycombed with red rust. But the wharf-slips had
long since silted up, and the vessels, careening little by little with
the subsidence of the water, had finally broken away from the
restraining hawsers and lay on their beam-ends in the mud, a sorrowful
spectacle.
The moon was rising and it was time to go ashore. Accordingly, he
directed his course for a pier that extended somewhat farther than its
fellows into the stream. There was just water enough to float the canoe
within arm's-length of the girders--a fortunate circumstance, since
Constans had not liked the idea of trusting himself upon the
treacherous-looking mud-flat left uncovered by the ebbing tide. Securing
the boat under shadow of the structure, he took his hunting-knife and
basket of provisions and climbed easily to the floor of the pier, then
picking his way across its broken planking he reached solid ground. At
last he stood within Doom the Forbidden.
Now this street, which ran parallel with the river, was of unusual
width, and Constans crossed it quickly, seeking for cover in some
narrower and darker thoroughfare. A cross-street opened directly in
front of him. He plunged into it without hesitation, for the moonlight
was now in full flood and there might be sharp eyes about.
In the open spaces along the water-front grass grew thick and tall as in
a meadow, but in this narrow, crooked lane the wholesomer, sun-loving
plants found little encouragement to existence. In their stead,
pale-colored creepers mantled the house walls, and everywhere were moss
stains and the spore of the various fungoid growths. Constans's
footsteps fell hollowly upon the pavement slippery with weed and the
August damp, and as he walked along an unearthly radiance suddenly
illuminated his path; from every cornice and eaves-end hung balls of the
pale St. Elmo's fire; not a house but boasted its array of
corpse-candles that flickered with a greenish flame.
A terrifying sight, but harmless. Far more dangerous, could he have
known it, were the invisible but deadly gases from the century-old
corruption that rose to meet him and were unconsciously inhaled. Then,
as the fumes mounted to his brain, sober reason was ousted from her
throne and imagination rioted unchecked, peopling the void with horrors
and ineffectual phantoms. From the sashless windows grotesque faces
stared down upon him, scowling malignantly, while others, with still
more hideous smile, invited him to enter and become one of their
dreadful company. Insane laughter re-echoed in his ears, and the music
of lutes, irresistible in its languor-compelling potency. Already had
Constans stopped twice to listen, and upon each occasion he had been
obliged to exercise all his failing strength of body and mind to resume
his forward march. If he halted again it would be forever; of that he
felt perfectly assured, but neither the imminence nor the character of
the peril in which he stood seemed sufficient to arouse him from his
lethargy. Yet he kept on, walking with the shuffling stride of a
mechanical doll; now he wavered and hesitated, as though the propelling
spring had wellnigh run down. The night reek, hot and damp, hung like a
poisoned veil upon his mouth and lips; he could not breathe; he gasped
and threw up one arm as does a swimmer who looks his last upon a
pitiless sun and sky.
The wind had risen with the moon; it had been growing in strength, and
now a strong gust rattled among the chimney-pots. One fell with a crash,
and a tiny fragment of brick struck Constans on the check, cutting the
skin. The shock and the trickle of blood brought him to with a sharp
shock; he ran forward a few steps and found himself sinking. The roadway
immediately in front of him had doubtless been undermined by the action
of water; for the space of a dozen yards or more the pavement was but a
shell concealing an abyss.
Constans had already proceeded too far for retreat; he must go on or
founder where he stood. He flung himself forward, the oblong blocks of
granite, with which the street was paved, grinding together underneath
his feet as the mass yielded to the downward pressure. He was sucked in
to his knees, but instinctively he kept the upper part of his body
extended horizontally, his out-stretched hand seeking for some chance
holdfast. Then, as he was beginning to despair, he found it, a section
of small diameter lead piping that had been uncovered by the breaking
away of the surrounding earth. It bent under his clutch but did not give
way. With one last effort he pulled himself clear, gained the firm
ground beyond, and lay there trembling.
When afterwards he came to reason soberly over the adventure, the
conclusion seemed obvious that the pitfall had been a consequent upon
the breaking out of one of the ancient springs, so that the water, in
endeavoring to find an outlet, had finally undermined the whole
roadway. The chasm, as he looked back upon it, extended dear across the
street. Its depth was only conjectural, but the mass presented the
treacherous appearance of quaking sand, and Constans shuddered as he
gazed. Yet he had escaped; the peril was past; let him forget what was
behind and press forward.
Half a block farther on and he found himself in a cul-de-sac. The street
was filled from house-wall to house-wall with an immense mass of broken
stone, brick, and other debris. The cause was not far to seek.
Immediately upon the left rose one of the fabulously high buildings for
which the ancient city had been famous. It could not compare in
magnitude with the tremendous structures that he could discern still
farther ahead, but its dozen and a half of stories loomed up imposingly
when contrasted with the moderate sized houses adjoining it. Constans
looked up in wonder at its towering facade, then started back with an
exclamation of alarm.
It appeared that the foundations of the structure had in some way become
weakened, for the whole building had settled and was leaning over at a
terrifying divergence from the perpendicular. Being constructed of iron
truss-work similar to that of a bridge, the essential framework still
held together, but the outside walls, mere shells of stone and brick,
had cracked and given way under the strain, falling piece-meal into the
street below. Even as he looked, a stone dropped from a window pediment
and crashed into splinters on the pavement a few yards beyond where he
stood. The angle of inclination seemed to grow larger as he gazed at
it; the enormous mass poised itself above him, monstrous, informed,
threatening to strike.
With that uncomfortable contraction of the scalp-skin that attends upon
the sudden presence of peril, Constans backed hastily away; not for
worlds would he have ventured again under that overhang of artificial
cliff. Yet behind him was the stretch of sunken pavement; he could not
risk another passage of that. A single alternative remained--to enter
one of the small houses that lined the street, ascend to its roof, and
so escape to the nearest cross thoroughfare.
With a sigh of relief, Constans threw open the scuttle and climbed out
upon the leads. He had entered at random one of the mean-looking
edifices that hemmed him in at the right and left, and it was pleasant
to escape from the close atmosphere of its long-unused staircases and
corridors. Apparently the house had been occupied as a tenement in the
ancient time; the marks of its degradation had survived the universal
decay, and there was even a fetid suggestion in the air of old-time
squalor and disease. Glad he was to be free of it all, and he let the
scuttle fall to with a bang.
After surveying the different routes as best he could, Constans
determined to work his way to the southward. He took one forward step
and stood transfixed; from below then came a faint but unmistakable tap,
tap upon the closed scuttle. The bare suspicion that there could be some
living thing in that hideous interior, that it was appealing to him for
aid, made him physically sick. But better to meet any horror face to
face than to wrestle longer with the invisible presence of Fear; he
threw aside the hatch, and a big white owl flew out, its wing grazing
his face. He could have shouted aloud, so nakedly had his nerves been
laid bare in the last quarter of an hour; then setting his teeth hard he
took hold of himself and laughed at his own vaporing. The worst was over
now; he was sure of that, and so again took courage.
It was an easy matter to pass from one connecting roof to another, and
thereafter down a fire-escape to the side street. A few steps took him
round the corner and into a wide thoroughfare leading directly to the
more important business quarter.
Constans looked about him in wonderment. The high buildings stood
shoulder to shoulder, hemming him in on every side; the street itself
was but a fissure in a mountain-range. The moon had now risen high in
the heavens, and her beams performed odd tricks of shadow play as they
danced through these colossal halls of emptiness and silence. Nothing
seemed real or substantial; these enormous masses of masonry and iron
looked almost dreamlike, the ghosts of a forgotten past, shadows that
must surely vanish with the morning sun.
To sober his imagination, Constans began counting the number of stories
in a sky-scraper that reared its monstrous bulk directly in front of
him. Thirty-six in all, and so higher by half a dozen floors than any of
its neighbors. It should make an excellent observatory, and he
determined upon exploring it.
[Illustration: "CONSTANS LOOKED ABOUT HIM IN WONDERMENT"]
The street doors stood wide open, and the entrance-way was half blocked
up by piles of dust and other refuse blown in from the street by the
winter storms. On the left, as one entered, was the principal suite of
offices; it had been occupied by a banking firm, to judge from the
desk fittings and the long array of safes and vaults. These latter were
open and empty, the doors having been shattered by some powerful
explosive. In all probability the vaults had been closed and locked by
their owners, and had afterwards been looted by the criminals who
thronged the doomed city and who would naturally seek their richest
booty in the financial district. The floor was literally knee-deep in
papers of all description, and in the heap were a number of bundles of
the old-time bank-notes, neatly labelled and banded. These the
plunderers had evidently discarded as beneath their notice, for all that
they represented wealth so vast as to be wellnigh incalculable. With the
Great Change at hand these paper promises had become valueless; only the
precious metals themselves were worth the picking up, and the plunderers
had accordingly made a clean sweep of the specie drawers. It was by the
merest accident that Constans, in kicking aside a pile of elaborately
engraved stock certificates, uncovered two of the smaller gold coins, a
five and ten dollar piece. He put the treasure-trove carefully away, but
in spite of this promising beginning he was not tempted to proceed
further on this golden trail. He had another purpose in view, and so
found his way to the principal staircase and began the upward climb.
Interminable it seemed, and the sense of loneliness and oppression,
which lay heavy on Constans's spirits, increased steadily as he went
from one landing to another. Each succeeding story was so precisely like
the one he had just left; it was always the same long, marble-paved
corridor, with every door and window exactly duplicated. How could
living men and women have endured the appalling uniformity of this
human beehive? Everywhere, too, were the same recurring evidences of the
haste and panic that had characterized the final moments of that
terrible hegira. Hats and garments, cash-boxes and account-books,
littered the hallways, and were piled in little heaps at the entrances
to the elevators--impedimenta that must inevitably be abandoned at the
last if life itself were to be saved. And the final tragedy--an elevator
cage that had jammed in its ways and so hung fixed between two landings.
Its occupants had suddenly found themselves entrapped, with no one to
hear or to help. One can fancy the growing uneasiness, the wild amaze,
the terror that was afraid of the sound of its own voice. Constans
hurried by; he had looked but that once.
Onward and upward, and at last he had gained the topmost floor. It was
hardly worth his while to ascend to the roof itself, and so he walked
into a room that faced the north and consequently commanded a view of
the city along its longitudinal axis. He gazed long and earnestly into
the obscurity, and far in the distance he caught the faint twinkle of a
solitary light--a camp-fire, perhaps. He tried to fix its bearings in
his mind; if it were a fire it must indicate the neighborhood of the
Doomsman stronghold.
For a long time Constans stood at the window seeking to penetrate the
mystery of the darkness that surrounded him; then at last nature
asserted her rights, he yawned vigorously, and his eyelids fell. There
was a brown leather lounge in the room, still in tolerable condition,
and he threw himself down without even troubling to remove the thick
coating of dust that covered it. He slept.
IX
THE KEYS OF POWER
The sun was high in the sky when Constans awoke. For a moment or two the
unfamiliar environment puzzled him; then the keen edge of remembrance
sheared through the mists of sleep and he sprang to his feet, alert and
ready for whatever might befall. He walked over to the window facing the
north and looked out.
For miles and miles the ruined city stretched away, a wilderness of
brick and mortar. Here and there were areas of blackness and vacancy,
where fire had worked its will, but these latter were confined for the
most part to the region along the water-front and to the poorer
residential portions. The business section, with its substantial shops
and warehouses, and the central district, made up of the clubs,
churches, theatres, and the handsomer private houses, remained intact,
in outward appearance at least. Viewed under the rays of a glorious
midsummer sun, the city seemed fair and proud as of yore, a stupendous
monument to the industry and genius of the race.
And yet, withal, the spectacle was a singularly mournful and depressing
one, for nowhere were there any signs of life. Not a plume of vapor
waved against the azure sky, not even a dog ranged the grass-grown
streets. The silence reigned infinite and profound, and Constans started
in alarm as it was suddenly broken by the scream of an eagle out of the
blue. Here was the picture of a desolation incomparably more complete
than that of the untrodden desert upon which the life-giving spirit has
never breathed. For in this place there had existed a very citadel of
being, and behold! a night had passed and it was not.
Suddenly Constans bethought himself of that indefinite twinkle of fire,
and he trained his broken binoculars on the spot where he had marked it
down the night before. The glass disclosed the existence of a
comparatively open space, doubtless one of the public squares of the
ancient city. It was bordered by a number of handsome edifices, and one
unusually large, cream-colored building, whose distinctive architectural
feature was a tower of remarkably graceful proportions, attracted
Constans's attention; it should serve him for a landmark, and he took
its bearings carefully.
Breakfast of brown bread and cold smoked beef was a simple and
expeditious meal, and, with his appetite appeased, Constans descended to
the street. He had his general direction in mind, and so was able to
proceed at once upon his journey of exploration, keeping as closely as
possible due north. He found the sidewalks and roadway encumbered by
rubbish, and here and there almost entirely blocked by fallen masonry;
but in spite of these obstructions he managed to maintain a fair average
pace. Indeed, it was the strangeness of his surroundings rather than the
material obstacles that caused his steps to loiter. The glimpses that he
got through the windows of the deserted shops amazed him; a hundred
times he would fain have halted to investigate some fresh marvel. But he
withstood the temptation, telling himself that these things were but
trifles, and that the real objects of his quest lay farther on.
An hour's walk brought Constans to within three blocks of the building
with the tower. He had purposely diverged from the direct line in
approaching it, being shrewdly of the opinion that the stronghold of the
Doomsmen was not far distant. He was convinced of the truth of this
conjecture when he reached the next cross-street, which debouched into
the public square already mentioned. He could see that the end of the
street was filled by a barricade of paving-blocks and flag-stones torn
up from the roadway; it looked as though the whole square were one vast
and formidable fortress.
It was still early in the morning, and up to this time Constans had not
seen sign of man. Now, as he continued his cautious examination of the
barrier, he noticed two or three spirals of smoke rising behind the
parapet and going straight up into the windless air. The hornets were
stirring then, and it behooved him to keep well away from their nest.
After some consideration Constans decided that he would continue on
towards the north, skirting this centre of danger at a safe distance
until he should be some distance above it. He would then work cautiously
back towards the citadel, finally seeking some elevated point, such as
the roof of a tall building, from which to complete his observations.
After proceeding about a mile in an up-town direction, Constans turned
and walked westward for a couple of blocks. It was a broad and handsome
avenue on which he now found himself, and from the character of the
buildings which lined it Constans concluded that here was where the
wealth and fashion of the ancient world had had its chosen habitation.
Once again he would gladly have lingered for a closer examination of the
many things that interested him, but the spur of his purpose as often
pricked him on. Yet finally he did stop, thrilling with the sense of a
great discovery.
It was a large and architecturally impressive building that had
attracted Constans's attention, and a flash of intuition enabled him to
pronounce upon its true character at first sight. He was now at the very
heart of the city's social and intellectual life; here, if anywhere, he
might expect to find one of the magnificent libraries upon which the
ancient municipality had prided itself. He must decide the question,
and, after some further searching, he discovered a side door that
yielded to his touch.
He was right, then; this was truly a library, and could he ever have
imagined that there were so many books in the world! A cloud of dust
rose under his feet as he went up to the cases and tried to read the
tarnished titles of the volumes on the shelves. Again Chance led him
aright, and his eye brightened as he discovered an unpretentious volume
that proclaimed itself: _The Official Visitors' Guide to the City of New
York for the Year 1905_. He pulled out the book and opened it. Of course
it contained what he wanted, a large folding map, and spreading the
latter out upon a table Constans set himself to studying it earnestly;
this was his enemy's territory, and he must acquaint himself as
thoroughly as possible with its points of weakness and its points of
strength.
The task of identification proved easier than he had thought possible.
Here was where he had landed the night before. Step by step he could
trace his walk up-town, and the identity of the building in which he now
stood was made certain by the ruins of the great white cathedral a few
blocks farther north. And there, a dozen or more blocks to the south,
there was the citadel, the living heart of the outlaw world, there was
the stronghold in which one Quinton Edge sat secure and at his ease. A
cold misgiving suddenly struck at Constans's heart. How could he hope to
make way alone against a host? How could he think to reach an enemy
protected by these impregnable walls? For such a task he would need to
wield the thunderbolts of the gods, and he had only his useless pistol
and his long bow. He sighed and let his head droop for a moment, then
felt ashamed of his weakness and straightened up again. The way was
there; he would find it.
Mechanically, his eyes roved along the serried shelves of books, and a
new light came into them. In these dusty tomes themselves were hidden
the keys of power; he had but to seize them and the secrets of the
mighty past would be revealed to him, to him alone. Armed with these
potencies he might dare and accomplish anything--everything.
Trembling with excitement, he went and stood before the cases, scanning
the various titles. Again his lucky star guided him; on the row level
with his eyes stood an encyclopaedia of the applied arts and sciences. He
carried the two bulky volumes to a convenient table and sat there
absorbed.
Constans looked up in the sudden consciousness that he was observed, and
met the half-defiant, half-terrified, and wholly curious gaze of a girl.
Hardly more than a child she seemed, not over fourteen at the outside,
and with a figure that was all flatness and unlovely angles. Certainly
an exceedingly ugly duckling, yet there was promise of future swanship
in the clean curves of her neck and in the firm poise of the small head.
Moreover, her coloring was good, a clear brown through which a scarlet
flush, born of the excitement of the moment, glowed intermittently, like
the flashing of distant signal-flags. And in her eyes there was a
curious red glint where the light fell slantingly upon the pupil.
Constans found his feet awkwardly and stood gazing at her. She in turn
scanned him with attention, and obviously grew at ease in noting his
increasing disconcertment.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, abruptly. "You are not of the
children of the Doomsmen."
"No," he answered, and compressed his lips obstinately.
"You are very foolish," she retorted, with a slow shake of her head. "If
Master Quinton Edge catches you he will nick your ear, and then you will
have to row in the galleys."
Constans winced. Could she possibly have discovered his secret? But no;
the hair fell in a thick wave upon his ears--it had been but a chance
shot.
"I am not afraid," he said, coldly. The tawny eyes, with their heart of
fire, rested upon him approvingly.
"I am Esmay," she answered. "What is your name?"
"What does it matter?--well, then, Constans." He spoke impatiently,
being anxious to get back to his book. He glanced at it longingly, and
she, who, as it afterwards appeared, had a part to play, took the cue.
"Such stupid-looking books!" She bent carelessly over the volume on the
table. "Nothing but wheels and dotted lines and wheels again. It is a
ridiculous book."
"It is not," said Constans, hotly.
The damsel smiled. "Oh, if you like that sort of thing, I know of a book
over there." She pointed airily to an alcove at the opposite end of the
hall. "It has many more pictures and many more wheels in colors, too,
red and yellow and blue."
Constans was all on fire in an instant. "Will you show it to me?" he
asked.
"In there," said the girl, and pointed to a recess between two tall
cases.
Ten feet above his head ran a metal gallery that gave access to the
upper tiers of shelves, but Constans did not look up, being intent upon
the treasure. Where was it? He could not see.
The noose of a rope had tightened upon his arms before he was aware that
it encircled them. He made one furious, ineffectual effort to free
himself, and then stood motionless, waiting for the next move of the
unseen enemy. Forthwith, a second noose dropped smoothly around his
neck; it was at once drawn taut, and Constans was obliged to stretch
himself to his full height to avoid being strangled. He heard Esmay clap
her hands, and steps descending from the gallery; then his captor stood
before him. He was a boy of Constans's own age, but of shorter,
sturdier build. A pleasant, ingenuous face it was, flushed now with the
joy of triumph.
"Got him," he announced, importantly, to the traitress Esmay, who had
retreated towards the door. "Don't be such a coward; he can't get away,"
he continued, examining his victim's bonds with critical attention.
"Look, Esmay; if he moves he hangs himself. A fix, isn't it?" and the
boy laughed contentedly. It had been rare sport, this trapping of a man,
worth half a dozen wolves or even a bear.
"Hollo! Esmay," he called again, and the girl came up slowly. "You did
it splendidly," said the boy. "Here's the bracelet I promised you," and
he held out a circlet of gold-filigree work studded with carbuncles.
"They match your eyes," he added, in awkward compliment, and then
blushed for the incredible weakness of mind that had prompted his words.
Was she going to laugh at him?
But the girl took, the bracelet without even a look at the donor. She
snapped it on her wrist and walked defiantly, straight up to the
prisoner, as though she would compel him to admire her treasure, to
congratulate her upon it.
Constans held himself serenely imperturbable, not even turning his head.
Her face burned. She threw the bauble on the floor; it lay there crushed
and shapeless. Then she turned upon her accomplice in the successful
treachery.
"I hate you! I hate you!" She walked away, imperially offended, and
stood looking out of a window that faced the street.
"Whew!" whistled the boy, in dismay, that was half comic and half real.
He addressed himself to Constans, naively confident of masculine
sympathy. "Well, if that isn't--" but the words failed him.
Constans, angry and humiliated as he was, could not help smiling.
"You know it wasn't exactly fair," he said.
The boy considered, then answered, honestly:
"It wasn't, then, but what are we going to do about it? You are a
Houseman, and you have come to spy out the secrets of Doom the
Forbidden. Any of the men who saw you would kill you like a snake."
"Perhaps so, but they would not wait until my back was turned or get a
girl to help them."
Constans suddenly realized that he stood free of his bonds. The boy had
severed them with his clasp-knife, that being the quickest means of
releasing his captive.
"We will fight for it, then," he said, simply.
Constans nodded.
It was not at all an even match, for Constans was at least thirty pounds
lighter than his adversary, and his slightly longer reach of arm was
more than counter-balanced by the latter's ability to take any amount of
punishment.
Half a dozen ineffectual passes and they clinched. Constans was forced
backward; he tripped and fell. The blows, short but savage, rained down
upon his face. He tried to strike back, but his throat was gripped hard;
he was suffocating. Consciousness was about to desert him, and he felt
vaguely angry at this betrayal of his senses; then the light returned,
and he sat up, his head swimming. A man stood between him and his late
opponent. It was Quinton Edge, and the recognition was a mutual one.
"Oh, you!" drawled Quinton Edge, with that well-remembered,
fine-gentleman inflection. "I am almost sorry that I interfered, but
this young lady would have it so, and a woman's will is always law. Eh,
Ulick?"
But the boy Ulick scowled. "It was no business of yours," he said,
angrily.
"That depends. Besides, it stands to reason that no man likes to see his
own property mishandled. You don't realize, my good fellow, that you
have a fist as rough as a shark-skin."
"Your property!" echoed the boy, in disdain. "Prove it."
"Easily," smiled Quinton Edge, and drew aside the lock of hair that
concealed the V-shaped nick in Constans's left ear.
"Oh!" said Ulick, shortly. He had been quick to see and interpret the
appeal in his prisoner's eyes. "It makes not a particle of difference,"
asserted Ulick, stubbornly. "He is my captive, taken in fair fight, and
he belongs to me for all of his nicked ear. I sha'n't give him up, and
that's my last word to you, Master Quinton Edge."
Half a dozen men entered the hall hurriedly; the girl Esmay must have
summoned them when she had disappeared a few minutes before. Sturdy
varlets they were, clad in green jerkins and armed with ashen lances
pointed with steel. As Constans came afterwards to know, they were of
the personal body-guard of the old Dom Gillian, to whom the boy Ulick
was both grandson and presumptive heir. Now Quinton Edge was not yet
ready to measure swords with Dom Gillian. So he veiled his irritation
and answered, equably:
[Illustration: "THE BLOWS RAINED DOWN UPON HIS FACE"]
"You know the law about harboring a House-dweller, and since you choose
to violate it"--here he shrugged his shoulders detestably--"let Dom
Gillian see to it. Yet, for the sake of peace, I will ask you once more
to surrender this serf, who bears my mark and is legally proved my
property. In the end it may save a mountain of trouble. What say you?"
"No!" thundered Ulick, roundly, for he was angered at the implied
threat, and would have held his ground now out of pure stubbornness.
Whereupon Quinton Edge smiled and sauntered out, adjusting the ruffles
at his wrist and carrying himself as gallantly as though he had been the
victor, not the vanquished, in this little contest of wills.
Constans went up to Ulick and held out his hand. "Thank you," he said,
awkwardly, and Ulick flushed in his turn.
The guardsmen were crowding about the two boys, looking curiously at
Constans. But Ulick ordered them out imperiously, and they obeyed, being
men of slow wit and not used to argue with their superiors. Ulick turned
to Constans. "Well, that was fair enough, to make up for--for the other
thing?"
Constans nodded a hearty assent; he hesitated, and then spoke, steadily:
"But you must understand that I would rather fight again than wear the
iron collar of a slave, or call any one master, even you. You will kill
me, for you are the better man with the naked fist. But I should prefer
it that way."
"Will you leave this with me?" asked Ulick, nodding his head wisely,
and Constans wondered and submitted.
They went out into the breathless noon of an August day. Two or three
men were loitering about, and Ulick frowned as he saw them.
"I shall have to take you to my grandsire," he whispered. "These are
Quinton Edge's men, and they are doubtless under orders to watch us.
This way," and Constans followed obediently.
Ulick stopped at a beautiful Gothic edifice, built about a small
court-yard, in which a score of the green-jerkined guardsmen were
lounging. In a corner stood a wooden cistern for the collection of
rain-water from the roof-spouts. Ulick drew a pannikin of water and
offered it to Constans that he might bathe his face, which was badly
puffed and marked. How reviving, the touch of the cool, clean liquid!
Constans arose, mightily refreshed; then, in response to his guide's
look, he followed him into the main hallway of the house and up the
broad stairs.
The building, judging from its size and appointments, must have been the
dwelling of one of the richest members of the ancient plutocracy, and
the traces of a splendid luxury were to be seen on all sides. The
colored marbles underfoot, the gilding overhead, the gorgeous, albeit
torn and weather-stained tapestries that covered the walls--these things
were eloquent of a pristine magnificence that could hardly have been
equalled, even in this city of palaces. Constans kept looking about him
with all his eyes, but Ulick strode along indifferently. Every son of
the Doomsmen might possess a dwelling measurably as fine as this if he
chose to look for it, but from a practical point of view the sole
qualification for a man's house was that it should be standing in plumb
and tolerably weather-proof. Gold-leaf and silken hangings would not
keep out the rain, and it was folly to spend time in making repairs.
When a house became uninhabitable it was a simple matter to move into
another.
The apartment into which they now entered was long and lofty. The thick
curtains remained drawn before the windows, excluding so much of the
light that Constans had great difficulty in finding his way about. Then,
his eyes adjusting themselves to the obscurity, he saw before him a
divan piled high with pillows. Propped up against them was the figure of
an old man.
And such a man! In his prime he must have been a very colossus of
strength and stature, and even now, in his senility, the muscles that
had made terrible those great limbs could be plainly traced. For this
was Dominus Gillian, whose name had been first a byword and then a
terror, and even now was a power to conjure with; Dom Gillian, renegade
and hero, gallows-bird and world-builder, but ever and in all things a
man, as all other men will bear witness.
He knew his favorite grandchild, and smiled as Ulick respectfully raised
and kissed his hand, that hand in whose hollow had lain the world, now
shrunken and nerveless, scarce able to crush an impertinent fly. Ulick
spoke slowly and distinctly, explaining his action and seeking boldly to
justify it.
This dog of the House People had dared, under veil of darkness, to creep
into the Gray Wolf's den. He, Ulick, had captured him alone and unaided;
surely such an exploit deserved recognition, and Ulick desired to keep
the prisoner as his own property. Could he do so, no matter what claim
might be urged against his right?
The old man listened, and looked at Constans indifferently. Then he
spoke in the inflectionless monotone of extreme old age:
"A House-dweller and a snake, my son--crush them when you can, for the
woods are full of shadows, and a man cannot always see where to plant
his foot. I have lived very long, and I know."
"But, my father, if you will only let me----"
"I am tired," interrupted the even, expressionless tones. "Go away and
leave me to sleep. To-morrow we will cut out this Houseman's eyes and
tongue, so that he may see nothing and tell nothing. Then you may have
him for your plaything--it will be better so."
The eyelids fell, and the old man slept placidly, his face serene as
that of a babe. The two boys stole quietly away.
Down a narrow passage and a flight of stairs into a dark, cool room,
underground, as Constans conjectured. Ulick left him there, counselling
quiet and repose for the next few hours.
It was night when Ulick finally appeared and conducted his departing
guest to the open air. The moon had not yet risen, and the danger of
detection was practically past.
"You are sure that you can find your boat," whispered Ulick, as they
stood facing each other, curiously loath to part.
"Yes," answered Constans, "for I shall follow the river straight down.
It will take a little longer, but that matters not. Good-bye; I sha'n't
forget."
A slender figure slipped out from the shadow of a doorway and confronted
them. It was Esmay, and she spoke with serene gravity.
"Since you and Ulick are friends you ought to make it up with me also.
But not unless you really want to," she added, hastily.
Constans smiled with youthful cynicism.
"Of course," he answered, magnificently condescending. "You are a woman,
and knew no better."
She snatched her hand away. "Yes, I am a woman, Master Constans, and
some day you will know what that means." She moved away, majestically as
does a goddess, conscious of her power but magnanimously refraining from
using it. Constans and Ulick laughed after the manner of men-kind who
find it easy to disbelieve in what they do not understand. Then, with a
long hand-grip, they parted.
The canoe was still in its hiding-place underneath the ruined pier, and
Constans's first care was to stow away in the stern-locker the two
volumes of the scientific cyclopaedia that he had been reading at the
time of his capture. Ulick of his own volition had stolen the books from
the library hall, and had put them into Constans's hands at the moment
of parting. They made a heavy load for him to carry, but what a precious
burden it was and how gladly he assumed it! For these were the keys of
power.
As Constans paddled out into the stream he heard the steady thumping of
oars in rowlock. He shoved back into the shadow of the pier just as a
great galley filled with men came foaming down the river. Constans could
see that it was a war-vessel of the largest size, for there were full
sixty oars on a side arranged in two banks. The figure-head was the
representation of a black swan, and on the poop-deck stood the slight,
graceful figure of a man wearing a plumed hat. Constans saw him remove
the cigar from his lips as he turned to give an order. Instantly the
port-oars held and backed, and the galley, swinging round on her heel,
headed up-stream again, passing within fifty yards of Constans's
hiding-place. The boy's bow was in his hand, but he had not attempted to
fit an arrow to the string. "It will come--the time," he said, under his
breath.
Constans stared gravely after the _Black Swan_ as she drove along. But
for the best of good-fortune he might now be tugging at a heavy ashen
oar, with the lash of the deck-master striping his back. Ulick,
Esmay--yes, he had much to remember.
Two hours later he had scaled the wall of Croye, without being
discovered by the sleepy sentinels, and was safe on his pallet of
corn-husks in Messer Hugolin's attic.
X
THE MESSAGE
Three years had passed since that first memorable visit to Doom the
Forbidden--years of work and of growth. The simple out-door life and the
physical toil had been good discipline for Constans, and he was now a
well-built young fellow of two-and-twenty, nearly six feet tall and with
muscles like steel wire.
The nights, too, had afforded compensation for the labors of the day,
for then he could read and study. The two big volumes of the scientific
cyclopaedia had been his school-masters, and he had striven faithfully to
learn of them. What a wonderful lesson it had been, for while there was
much in this teaching that he could not understand at all, there was
much again that, with the aid of the illustrations and diagrams, he
could make really his own. And so, little by little, he had been able to
reconstruct, in imagination, at least, the lost civilization of the
ancient world; how men had tamed the lightning and bade it speak their
will and work their pleasure; how the same vapor that issued from the
pot bubbling on Martina's fire could be harnessed and made to draw a
hundred wagons at once upon the old-time steel-railed highways; how a
child's hand on the crank of a machine-gun might hurl invisible death
among a regiment of men and put even an army to flight. Steam and
gunpowder and electricity, what wonderful ideas were connoted in the
words! The very names thrilled him with a sense of infinite power.
A wonderfully fascinating study, and yet at times it left him
unspeakably weary and depressed, for what did all this knowledge avail
without the practical means to apply it? The great machines that the
ancients had built, what were they now but masses of red rust, useless
alike to the fool who laughed at them and to the visionary who could
only dream of their magnificent potentialities.
A dream, for, in truth, a lion was in the way. So long as the Doomsmen
held sway in the land, so long must the wheels of progress stay locked.
Unable to use themselves the treasures of knowledge stored under their
hands, they were unwilling that another should even touch them. What
could he or any other one man do?
Once, indeed, during the three years, Constans had found brief
opportunity to revisit the scenes of his old home in the valley of the
Swiftwater. In this general district of the West Inch were to be found
nearly all of the larger estates, a fitting cradling-place, it would
seem, for the new liberty, the awakening era.
But time was not yet come, as Constans soon saw clearly. He had been
hospitably enough received, for the country-side had not forgotten the
story of the Greenwood Keep, and it was plain to see that this
clear-eyed, well-set-up lad was of the true Stockader breed. One of his
father's bond-friends, Piers Major, of the River Barony, had even
offered Constans a home under his roof-tree in exchange for
sword-service. But this he declined, with becoming gratitude indeed,
but none the less firmly. He had no fancy to spend the rest of his life
in a trooper's saddle riding down naked savages--an agreeable
occupation, whose only variation was an afternoon at pig-sticking or a
chance crack at some Doomsman's head. Better to endure the drudgery of
the tan-pits than to part with all purpose in life.
And so the crusade, which Constans had hoped to father, died at its
birth. The kinsmen and friends of his family were sincere enough in
their sympathy, but they could not be expected to risk their own skins
in the furtherance of his private quarrels, and, so far as it was a
question of political economy or of patriotism, these easy-going
gentlemen troubled themselves not one whit. For the most part the
Doomsmen kept their distance from a Stockader's threshold, and
_laissez-faire_ was a good motto for both sides to adopt.
Constans returned to Croye and to Messer Hugolin's attic neither
overmuch surprised nor discouraged by the results of his mission. After
all, his ultimate object was a personal one--his revenge--and only his
own hand could discharge that debt in full. Did the time seem over-long,
the way unendurably lonely and toilsome? He had only to close his eyes
to remember--to remember. And so the years had passed.
* * * * *
It was the noon spell on a day in late October, and Constans sat on the
river end of the long wooden pier at the tanyard eating his luncheon of
bread and bacon scraps. The tide was running up slowly, as could be
noted from the bubbles and drift-wood that circled past the piling of
the wharf, and Constans, happening to glance down into the swirl, saw
something that brought him to his feet. Nothing more remarkable than a
bottle of thick, greenish glass, but bottles of any kind had become
valuable now that the art of glass blowing was so little practised, and
such flotsam was not to be despised.
Having strung a length of noosed cord to a light pole, Constans threw
himself flat along the string-piece of the pier and began angling for
the prize. A failure or two and then he had it snared securely; now it
was in his hand.
The bottle was foul with slime and fungous growth, showing that it had
been in the water for a long period. Possibly it had been out to sea and
back many times before this particular flood-tide had brought it to
Messer Hugolin's tannery and under the eyes of one who would have the
wit to distinguish it from a rotten stick. At all events it had found a
port at last.
The bottle had been corked and then sealed with pitch, and Constans had
to use some care in getting at its contents, a slender cylinder of
tightly rolled paper. Finally he succeeded in drawing it out uninjured,
and saw that it was superscribed to his uncle Hugolin.
The old man looked up with a frown as Constans presented himself at the
door of the counting-room. The rest hour was over and Constans's place
was at the tan-pit. How was the work to get done if everybody shirked
their part of the common task? A message in a bottle. What foolery was
this? Nevertheless, Messer Hugolin extended his hand to receive the
roll, and, removing the waxed string that bound it, knit his brows over
the enclosure--half a dozen sheets of writing. Constans was about to
retire discreetly, but Messer Hugolin raised his hand.
"The writing is too fine for my eyes," he grumbled. "Read it for me,
nephew; but, harkee! you will keep your mouth shut whatever its import."
Then, in a sudden gust of passion: "A thousand plagues on that fool of
an up-river factor who broke for me my reading-glass! Not another one to
be had in Croye for good-will or gold, and I compelled to borrow
another's eyes, to live at the mercy of my meanest clerk. Come, boy, you
must have the sense of it by this time!"
"Shall I read it aloud?" asked Constans, and then, in compliance with
his uncle's nod, he began:
"'Dated at Doom, in the year 90 after the Great Change.
"'It is a score of years my brother, since that moonless August
night when the Doomsmen came to Croye and I went back with them,
tied to Mad Scarlett's saddle-bow. Twenty years of silence in the
City of Silence, and I but a slim, brown-faced maid who might be
found one day playing at polo and lamenting her lack of mustachios,
and on the very next, mooning over a love charm. It was only
through the look in my cousin Philip's eyes, as he died under the
weight of the Doomsmen battle-axes, that I knew myself a woman,
that I finally entered upon my sex's heritage of sorrow.
"'Does this seem an old and hardly remembered tale to you, Anthony
Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, and a rich man, if one may
judge from the yearly tax rate that stands opposite your name in
Dom Gillian's head list? Withal, you are still my brother, and you
must listen to what I have now to say, the first and the last word
from me to you.
"'I must be just and acknowledge that he truly loved me, the man
who plucked me like an apple from the bough; later on he made what
amends he could by proclaiming me his wife under the Doomsman law.
Yet it was a tiger-cat rather than a woman whom he had taken to his
bosom, and I wonder now that I did not a thousand times overpass
the limits of his forbearance. Assuredly, in that first agony, I
tried my hardest to stretch his patience to the breaking-point, in
the hope that a knife-thrust might open for me the doors of the
prison-house. You see, I was very young, and I could not forget my
cousin Philip's eyes.
"'A woman's heart is like a cup; it holds but one fixed quantity of
life's essential liquor, be the latter sweet or bitter. An infinity
of little sips or one deep draught, what does it matter? The vessel
is empty in either case. Yet, as time went on, I grew to endure
existence; afterwards, when my Esmay was born, I valued it again
for her sake. Moreover, she was his daughter as well as mine, and
so I came finally to endure and even to welcome the touch of my
master's hand. In all these years it had never been aught but
gentle, for all that they called him Mad Scarlett, and the children
were taught to believe that he always wore gloves, because he had a
bloody palm whose stain no water would wash away. Yes, and I wept,
as any wife and mother might do, on that gray November day when I
knelt beside his bier.
"'But this concerns only myself, and it is of Esmay, my daughter,
that I would speak. In a year she will be seventeen, and before
that time, if at all, the way must be opened for her to go to her
mother's people. I am helpless, except for this one opportunity of
committing a message to the hands of Chance, one slender line
dropped into the ocean of uncertainty. Yet nothing remains to me
but to make the cast, for in six months' time I shall be dead; I
can count the downward steps of my disease as clearly as though
they formed part of the actual stairway under my feet.
"'And this also I know--that the message will reach you, my
brother; so far, at least, my eyes are permitted to explore the
advancing darkness. You will assuredly receive this letter, but
with what disposition of heart? That, alas! I may not know. Nor can
I give aught of service in either counsel or means; I must trust to
your love and good-will for everything. I can only say that the
girl is known to all in Doom as Mad Scarlett's daughter. She has
her father's tawny hair and red-brown eyes, and her name, as I have
already told you, is Esmay.
"'To-morrow night I shall make my opportunity to reach the river
edge unobserved. I shall then commit to the current the bottle
containing this message, a precious freight, for it is my darling's
life and happiness.
"'To you, my brother, the gift and the grace of God, according as
you deal with me and mine.
ELENA.
* * * * *
"'Watch him whom they call Quinton Edge.'"
"The date is a year ago, lacking a month," added Constans, as he handed
the roll to his uncle.
Messer Hugolin tied up the document with a piece of tape, labelled it
with the date of receipt, and laid it away in a pigeon-hole.
"Well?" said Constans, interrogatively.
"Do you want me to put myself within reach of the Gray Wolf's paws?"
retorted Messer Hugolin, shrewdly. "I was flayed badly enough the last
time the _Black Swan_ cast anchor before Croye, and I am not paying
between rent-days."
"The year is almost up," urged Constans, insistently.
"I have lived my life," returned the old man, with sombre fixity of
resolve, "and these things do not interest me. I have other use for my
hands than to keep them stretched out idly in the dark."
"But that letter--a mother pleading for her child. You have but to give
the word--there are men who will go, and gladly."
"I doubt it not, for there are always drones a-plenty around a beehive.
But why should I spend my good, red gold to make a beggar's holiday?"
Constans felt his cheeks burn. "Their blood is redder than your gold,"
he said. "And if they are not afraid to risk----"
"What has cost them nothing and for whose loss there is quick repair in
a few square inches of sticking-plaster. Tush! boy, you speak of these
things as one who dreams visions at noonday. While I--what I know, I
know. There is but one thing precious in the world, and that is what a
man holds safely in his strong-box. Why should I spend myself for
naught?"
"The girl is your niece--your flesh and blood."
"No more so than yourself, nephew. And tell me, have I ever been
over-tender with you on that account? Can you call to mind when and
where I have spared you because you were of my kin? At least, I make a
virtue of my honesty."
Messer Hugolin smiled. He saw from Constans's face that he need not plot
out the thought in plainer words, and so they parted without further
speaking, although the blood throbbed in Constans's temples as he made
obeisance and walked away. He was conscious that he must keep himself in
hand; the stocks and the whipping-post were ever ready for the
rebellious apprentice, and a single hasty act might imperil his whole
future. But as he lay awake that night in his attic bedchamber he
resolved that this should be his last week's work in Messer Hugolin's
tan-pits. The time had come for him to make a second visit to Doom the
Forbidden, and to remain there for an indefinite period--until his work
had been accomplished.
It would have been impossible for Constans to have embarked upon this
new adventure were it not for the two small gold coins that he had found
and carried away from Doom on the occasion of his former visit. It was
against the common law of the land for a bound apprentice to possess any
money, even a handful of copper pence. He had to be careful,
therefore, with whom he dealt, and he expected to be cheated in making
his bargain for a boat and a supply of provisions. As it was, he was
skilfully skinned by the rascal with whom he finally ventured to open
negotiations, and Constans thought himself lucky to exchange it for a
leaky, flat-bottomed tub and fifty pounds weight of absolute
necessaries, chiefly sun-dried strips of beef and parched grain.
[Illustration: "THEY PARTED WITHOUT FURTHER SPEAKING"]
His personal belongings were not burdensome to transfer--the books, half
a dozen in all, his revolver and field-glass, and a good ash bow with
twelve dozen arrows, each bearing his private mark of a scarlet feather.
These last he had been at work upon through many a long evening in the
last two months, and he was sure that they would serve him well should
need arise. Clothing and blankets he did not trouble about, even with
the cold weather close at hand, for he could reckon certainly on finding
abundant supplies of this nature in the city itself.
On the fourth night after the finding of the bottle Constans swung
lightly out of his garret window. He cast one farewell glance at the
shuttered windows of Messer Hugolin's office. Through a chink struggled
a feeble beam of pale, yellow light, but his uncle was poring,
doubtless, over his ledgers and had heard no sound. The wolf-hound Grip
wagged his tail as Constans passed, and he patted his head, the one
single creature in his uncle's household who might regret his absence on
the morrow. Now the way was clear; he stole off into the darkness,
finding no difficulty in scaling the wall, and so was free.
The night was misty and starless and the tide on a strong ebb. The
voyage down-stream was without incident, and by midnight he had landed
within the city lines, but much farther up-town than upon the occasion
of his first adventure. His plan was to seek some uninhabited house
within convenient distance of the library building and make that his
temporary headquarters. He found what he wanted in the block immediately
to the westward of the library, and in three or four trips he had
transported thither his stock of food and other impedimenta. The boat
had leaked badly on the way down the river, and was plainly unseaworthy.
There was no place in which to hide the craft, and to allow her to
remain moored at the pier would be tantamount to announcing his arrival
to the first sharp-eyed Doomsman who might chance to pass that way. So,
pushing her out into the current with a vigorous shove from his foot,
Constans watched the little hull disappear in the darkness. Henceforth
he must depend entirely upon his own resources, inadequate as they were
for the task before him. But upon this phase of the situation he would
not allow himself to dwell. Such unprofitable meditation could breed
naught but irresolution and be unnerving to both body and mind; if he
were to play the coward now he but invited the fate he feared. Courage,
then, and forward!
XI
THE SISTERS
A young girl sat before a magnificent fireplace of cut stone gazing into
the fire of drift-wood that burned diffidently upon a hearth whose
spaciousness would have been more fittingly adorned by Vergil's "no
small part of a tree." Out-of-doors the snow was whirling down in small,
frozen flakes that the northwest gale ground into powder against the
granite walls and then sifted through every crack and crevice; not a
door-sill or window-seat but wore its decoration of a pure white wreath.
Bitterly cold it had grown with the closing in of the dusk, and the girl
drew her cloak, a superb garment of Russian sables, closer about her
shoulders and stretched out her hands to the dying blaze. Then she
clapped them impatiently. A long interval and a middle-aged man answered
the summons--a servant, as the coarse quality of his clothing
proclaimed. He shuffled across the floor, his big boots creaking
unpleasantly.
"More wood, Ugo," said the girl, without looking around; "and I do wish
you would grease your boots. It is unbearable the way you clatter
about."
"Grease my boots!" echoed the man, with ironic emphasis. "That is good
counsel, seeing there isn't enough lard in the house for the frying of
an egg; yes, and no egg to fry."
The girl half turned, as though about to speak, then checked herself.
Ugo went on impertinently:
"I could see long ago how things were going, but, Lord, what was the use
of breaking my heart over it! A dainty lip means a short purse-string,
and a sick woman's fancy is a bottomless well. Let's have plain speaking
about this; it can't hurt any one now, and your mother----"
He stopped short, disconcerted, for all his bravado, by the sudden glint
of red that lit up the girl's eyes. Her hand plucked at the black ribbon
around her throat; yet when she spoke her voice was clear and even.
"Never mind about my mother," she said, and the man kept sulky silence.
"Is it really true that there is no food in the house?" she continued.
"There was never a rope made that hadn't an end," answered the servant,
with a trifle more of his former assurance. "Not a scrap of bacon nor a
handful of flour in the larder; even the rats will tell you that. I saw
two of them leaving to-day, and I've about made up my mind to follow
them."
The girl unlocked a drawer in the teak-wood table that stood at her
elbow, and took from it a leathern thong some eight inches in length and
knotted together at the ends, a purse-string in common parlance. Upon it
were strung three of the thin brass tokens pierced in the centre by a
square hole that were in ordinary use among the Doomsmen as currency,
redeemable against the material supplies on hand in the public
storehouses.
The girl untied the thong and let the coins fall upon the table. She
pushed them over to the fellow with a gesture superbly indifferent.
"Go now," she said, curtly. The man Ugo pocketed the money with a
darkening face and turned to depart. At the door he hesitated, making as
though he would say a final word. But the girl cut him short.
"Go!" she reiterated, and he had no choice but to obey.
"I should have been in peril of having my ear nicked," he said, under
his breath, as he crossed the threshold. "It's just as well that I kept
my tongue between my teeth and concluded not to mind Quinton Edge's
business." He closed the door.
It had grown quite dark, and the fire was making its last stand for
life. Only one small piece of wood remained unconsumed, and the flame
licked at it lazily, like a beast of prey hanging over a carcass, gorged
to repletion and yet unwilling to give over employment so delicious.
Suddenly the girl rose to her feet and went to one of the long windows
that looked out upon the street. The casement shook and rattled under
the gale's rough hand. Hardly knowing what she did, she flung the window
wide open.
In an instant she seemed to have been transported into the midst of the
tumult, her face lashed by windy whips, her eyes blinded by fine
particles of frozen snow, her ears deafened by the multitudinous voices
of the storm sprites shrieking to their fellows. Something in her
nature, fierce and untamed, leaped forth to meet the tempest.
Intoxicated by the strong wine of its fury, she flung out her arms, half
fearing, half hoping that she might be swept away, whirled like some
wild sea-bird, into the heart of the madness. A strong hand pulled her
back.
"Esmay!" shrieked a voice in her ear. "Esmay!"
Loudly as the call must have been uttered, it came to her, as though
from a great distance, thin and of an infinite littleness. Yet she
allowed herself to be drawn back into the room, and made no demur to the
closing of the window.
It was a tall, finely built woman of thirty or thereabouts who stood
beside her--a woman with a dark, passionate face shaded by a mop of
raven hair as coarse as a horse's mane. "Esmay!" she said again, with an
accent of wondering reproach.
The girl stood silent, motionless for a moment; then, with a swift
intake of her breath:
"Don't be angry, Nanna, but something is going to happen. I've got to
laugh or to cry--I don't know which."
It was a laugh, low but genuine, and full of a silver trickle of sound.
The elder woman caught up the girl impetuously into a close embrace.
"My dear! my dear! is it really you? I can't believe it. After these
dreadful three months in which you have hardly said as many words. It
would be a miracle, if there were any saints in Doom to work one."
She drew away for a moment, her eyes ablaze with excitement. There was a
smooth, graceful strength in her every movement that was almost
animal-like; she suggested the idea of a big cat as she alternately
released the girl and then returned, in a half-circle, to take renewed
possession of her. "A miracle!" she repeated.
"Indeed, it almost needed that to bring me to myself," said the girl,
gravely. "But now I see things clearly; it seems almost as though the
mother herself had stood beside me and drawn the veil away. It was Ugo,
though, who really did it," she added, and laughed again softly.
"Ugo!" echoed the other, indignantly. "And, if you please, where is the
fellow? The candles have not been lighted, the fire is dying out, and
not a sign of supper visible. It is unbearable, Esmay, and he shall pack
this very night."
"But Nanna!"
"I won't listen to a word."
"You will. He has gone already."
She pushed the elder woman into a chair. "Now don't dare to move until I
am back with wood and a light. Not a word, sister mine--if you love me."
Taken by surprise, Nanna let her go, and sat waiting.
The girl returned in a few minutes with a basket containing several
lumps of sea-coal.
"This is a thousand times better than Ugo's boards and barrel-staves,"
said Esmay, triumphantly, and transferred the fuel to the hearth, where
it presently burst into a cheerful flame. "There are three or four boxes
of the stuff in the cellar, enough to last us all winter. Now for the
lamp."
On the mantel-piece stood a shallow dish containing a small quantity of
cotton-seed oil and a piece of lampwick. Esmay took down the vessel and
inspected it with a calculating eye. "It will last until bedtime," she
announced, and lit it with a spill of paper.
Nanna looked at her half-sister questioningly, but did not offer to
speak. She had never seen Esmay just like this, and the change was
especially noticeable after the silence and apathy of the past months.
Her thoughts travelled back to the human link that had united them for
so long--the woman whom each had called mother, although to Nanna it had
been only a step-relationship. How impossible it had once seemed that
there could be any new adjustment of life's machinery; how difficult the
realization that nature is accustomed to settle these matters in her own
time and way, and invariably does so! Yet here was Esmay suddenly
returned to herself, moving about, alert and eager, knitting her brows
over the one important problem of the moment, the question of supper.
"You'll have to make out with the firelight for a little while," said
Esmay, picking up the rude lamp. "But you won't mind, dear?" She
stooped, kissed her sister, and was gone again.
The elder woman felt her eyes brimming saltily. The girl, so far as
years were concerned, might almost have been her daughter, since Nanna
had been both wife and widow at seventeen. For all that, the sisterly
relation was the true one between them; they were of the same strong
breed, even if Esmay were only in half a daughter of the Doomsmen. Nanna
had never been able to forget that her father's second wife had been of
the blood of the despised House People. In spite of herself she had
learned to love the dead Elena; she adored Esmay as a part of herself. A
primitive emotion, but then Nanna was the elemental woman.
When Esmay returned she brought with her a bowl containing a small
quantity of cottage cheese, hard and yellow with age. Surmounting the
bowl was a plate upon which were some crusts of bread and a knuckle of
ham, the latter being little more than the bare bone. A table stood in
the middle of the room, a handsome piece of buhl-work. Esmay drew it
forward to the fire and proceeded to arrange her feast. Scanty enough it
seemed, but the cloth covering the table was of the finest damask, the
plates that she took from a glazed cabinet were of the precious china of
Sevres, the knives and forks were in solid silver, and the drinking-cups
of silver-gilt had been fashioned by a great artist. A strange contrast!
beggar's fare served so royally; but hunger is not nice about trifles
one way or the other. And so it was upon the viands that Nanna's
attention was immediately concentrated. She glanced suspiciously at the
cheese, despairingly at the knuckle-bone, and then said, solemnly:
"Tell me, Esmay, what does it mean? Where is Ugo?"
"Ugo has deserted us--like the rats," answered the girl. "And the
situation--it is just this." She stopped and took a swallow of water.
"It is three months now since she--the mother--slipped away from our
arms, and of course the pension stopped with her. I gave the last
handful of tokens to Ugo to settle up his wages. So you see I'm a
beggar. It's a woman against the world, and one of us will have to
devour the other. Lucky, isn't it, that I woke up desperately hungry?
That means that I'll make a fight for it. Have the first bite."
"Esmay! You know that I have still my widow's rate."
"Yes, and I also know that it is barely enough to keep one body and soul
together; the two of us would only starve by inches. No use, Nanna, we
must take things as we find them. But isn't it strange--" She stopped
abruptly and let her glance wander over the luxurious table-service, the
gleaming surface of the silver reflecting her troubled eyes. She went on
slowly:
"All this meant something once--this array of silver and jewelled glass,
the tapestries on the walls, the fur cloak about my shoulders. Think of
it, Nanna! These things must have been the envied treasures of the rich,
the luxuries of life. And now any one may possess them who cares to
fight their battle with moth and rust."
"While a single one of Dom Gillian's brass tokens outweighs it all,"
rejoined Nanna, nodding her head wisely. "It is not hard to understand
why, for with the token any one may buy a quarterweight of flour at the
public stores or a fore-shoulder of mutton."
"And bread and meat mean life, don't they? Well, and suppose one doesn't
happen to possess a long purse-string laden with these wonderful,
miracle-working bits of token-money, what then? A woman can't put on a
quilted coat and steel cap and go out with the raiders to earn her share
of the loot. Fancy my teaching a fat House-dweller how to dance on a
red-hot plate or riding the toll roads of the West Inch in a jacket full
of arrow-holes."
"That is true," agreed Nanna, gravely.
Esmay rose and walked excitedly up and down the long room.
"It's just hopeless, Nanna, to stay on here in this city of the dead."
She stopped and faced her sister.
"So I have decided; I am going back to my mother's people. There is a
chance in their world for a woman to secure her own living; here she
can only starve or accept some man's protection."
The elder woman remonstrated feebly, but the girl swept her aside.
"Listen to me, Nanna. You know that Messer Hugolin, Councillor Primus of
Croye, is my uncle, my mother's own brother. She ever insisted that in
his charity I had a final resource. He might not offer it, but surely he
could not deny me, if I sought it. Nanna, you recall what the mother
herself said--how she always believed that the message would reach him.
My own uncle and Councillor Primus of Croye," she concluded, hopefully.
But Nanna was not to be so easily convinced. "But, Esmay, it is
impossible," she exclaimed. "You could never escape from Doom."
"But I will."
"You cannot. The High Bridge to the north is always guarded, and on the
other three sides of the city there is deep water."
"I shall manage it," returned the girl, confidently. "It is simply a
question of my going empty-handed to my uncle's house. Now gold among
the House-dwellers has a value that it does not possess with us; so Ulick
once told me. They use it as money."
"Here in Doom it is nothing," assented Nanna, "save that we women like
the pretty things that the ancients fashioned from it."
"Precisely; and as you know there is not much of it in existence, even
here in Doom, where silver is almost as common as iron."
"Well, and then?"
"Don't you see? If only golden tongues could plead my cause in Croye I
should be independent, even of my uncle Hugolin. Now there is store of
this gold somewhere in Doom. It must be so, for the war-galleys always
carry a money-chest when they sail to the northern colonies."
"A treasure," said Nanna, slowly. "Who would know of it here in Doom?
Dom Gillian himself--or perhaps----"
"Master Quinton Edge," supplied Esmay, and thereupon silence fell
between them.
The minutes passed away. Then, suddenly, Esmay stopped in her monotonous
pacing of the room and flung herself on her knees by her sister's chair.
"You goose!" she exclaimed, with tender suspicion. "I believe you have
been crying."
"Not a bit of it," returned Nanna, sitting bolt upright and staring hard
at the ceiling. "I only want you to be sure and let me know before you
go. Or couldn't you take me with you?" she added, wistfully, as though
the idea had but just occurred to her.
"Why, Nanna, as though I could have dreamed of anything else! Go without
you! Don't you see yourself how ridiculous that would be?"
"Then nothing else matters," said Nanna, comfortably, and openly wiped
her eyes. "When do you want to go--to-night?"
"Foolish one! But then you love me, and I can forgive you. Now let me be
quiet; I want to think out my--our plan."
Nanna left the room softly. Esmay sat looking into the fire, her small,
firm chin propped in her palm. So violent was the storm that she did not
hear the opening and closing of the street-door, but the flickering of
the lamp in the swirl of a current from the outer air warned her that
she had a visitor. She recognized him instantly as he came forward, his
laced hat in the hollow of his arm. There was no one in Doom besides
Master Quinton Edge who bowed with so easy a grace--a woman has a quick
eye for such trifles.
"You are Esmay, daughter of Mad Scarlett," he began, gently. "My
intrusion is unseasonable, perhaps, but none the less unavoidable."
The girl made no answer.
"I will speak to the point," he went on. "Are you ready to make choice,
to-night, between young Ulick and his oafish cousin Boris? I have a
reason for asking, believe me."
Esmay flushed with annoyance. "I will not listen to either of them," she
said. "Boris I detest, and Ulick is only a boy, and a silly one; I have
told him so a score of times."
"I thought as much, but I wanted the confirmation of your own lips, my
dear child. The knowledge emboldens me to offer you an asylum under my
own roof for the next few months--or longer. Ulick, as you say, is but a
boy, half hot, half muddle-head. He, perhaps, could be kept in
check----"
"I can manage that sufficiently well," broke in the girl, haughtily.
"No doubt, no doubt; but with Boris also in the field the situation
becomes a complicated one. Accordingly, I have concluded to offer you my
assistance in dealing with it."
"It is difficult to think of Master Quinton Edge in the light of a
disinterested adviser. Perhaps you have other motives."
"Possibly," returned the man, with calm assurance. "Why not a dozen of
them? But to disclose them--this is not the time. You have only to
accept my offer and be thankful."
"Suppose that I refuse?"
Quinton Edge glanced over his shoulder, and the three men who had been
standing motionless in the shadow of the doorway took a step forward.
"You perceive that there is no such alternative," he said, suavely.
The girl started but kept herself in hand. "My sister goes with me?"
"No," said Quinton Edge.
But Nanna's arms were already encircling her treasure. She had entered
unobserved, and she had heard enough to understand. "You!" she said, and
spat at Quinton Edge.
The man's face paled. He stepped forward as though making to push the
intruder away. In a flash she had turned upon him and her teeth closed
upon the fleshy part of his right hand. He shook her off as one does a
snake.
"A true forest-cat," said Quinton Edge, and smiled as he twisted a fine
lawn handkerchief about the wounded member. Then, with entire
good-humor: "I apologize for my incivility and truth; it were a biting
rejoinder. Madam, you, too, are welcome to my poor house. With such a
dragon in the garden, he will be a brave man indeed who thinks to filch
my apples."
Nanna, huddled up in a corner of the room whither she had been flung,
answered not a word, but watched him steadily, unwinkingly, her eyes
narrowed to two gleaming slits. Esmay went over and assisted her to her
feet.
"You will give us time to get a few things together," said the girl,
turning to Quinton Edge. "A woman cannot be moved about like a piece of
furniture."
"Ten minutes."
It were waste of breath to renew the argument, and within the quarter of
an hour the two women, closely shawled and veiled, descended the steps
to the street. It was still storming. A coach drawn by two horses was
waiting at the curb, and the Doomsman, having assisted his unwilling
guests to mount within, took his place on the box with the driver, the
three men following on horseback. The little company moved slowly down
the avenue; then, turning into a side thoroughfare, proceeded directly
eastward.
XII
THE HEDGE OF ARROWS
For the first few days following upon his arrival in the city, Constans
kept under rover, venturing forth only after nightfall. He wanted to
make sure of all his bearings before taking any long step in advance,
and the extent and strength of the enemy's defences particularly
interested him. Fortunately for his purpose the weather was growing
colder every day, autumn having given place to winter much earlier than
usual, and on these chilly nights the Doomsmen were not inclined to
wander far abroad. By keeping closely to the side streets he ran but
little risk of discovery through a chance encounter; at the same time he
must get inside the danger zone if he hoped to obtain any information of
value.
Constans found the solution of his problem by betaking himself to the
house-tops. Through the aid of a rope, furnished with cross-pieces
inserted in the strands at regular intervals and a grappling-hook at the
free end, he could pass easily from roof to roof of contiguous
buildings, and so gain points of observation that otherwise he would
never have dared to approach.
One of these aerial routes led from the side avenue on the east to a
moderate-sized building situated on the Citadel Square and directly
overlooking the fortress. Twice now he had ventured to spend the whole
of a day lying perdue in this convenient eyrie, his binoculars in
constant use, and what he saw and learned increased his thoughtfulness,
although he would not let it shake his resolution.
So far as he could judge, the Doomsmen could not be regarded as
formidable through mere weight of numbers. Their available fighting
force Constans estimated at two hundred, which would indicate a total
population of a round thousand. Now Croye alone was a city of full
fifteen hundred inhabitants, and the census of the West Inch should show
twice that number. In an open field, and man to man, the House-dwellers
were much more than a match for Dom Gillian's wolves.
On the other hand, the Doomsmen were all trained warriors, and to smoke
them out of their own nest--one would have to think twice about that.
Here was a half-ruined city, several square miles in actual area, and
surrounded by unfordable tidal rivers. Deep at its heart was the
citadel, strongly built and abundantly supplied with water and
provisions. Under these circumstances it was a simple matter for a small
force to maintain itself indefinitely; it would necessitate the
employment of an attacking army four or five times as large as the
defence to even up the chances. This, of course, on the presumption that
both sides were armed alike. Constans's thoughts reverted to the fire
artillery of the ancients; with that at his disposal he would hold the
balance of power. The possession of a single score of rifles should
enable him to demonstrate the feasibility of the attempt to his
sluggard kinsmen, the Stockaders, and to the even more reluctant
townsmen. He determined to take the first opportunity to make a careful
search of the city armories and ammunition depots; in the mean time, it
was his business to acquaint himself as thoroughly as possible with the
material situation.
The stronghold of the Doomsmen occupied the middle section of the
ancient city square. In shape it was an irregular oblong, the original
builders being apparently content to enclose sufficient space without
reference to architectural symmetry. Its perimeter might be roughly
estimated at eight hundred yards, respectable proportions, and
indicating a capacity to comfortably accommodate the whole population of
Doom should the necessity arise.
The barricade was constructed of stone, principally paving-blocks torn
up from the adjoining streets, and since the material was unlimited in
quantity the walls were of massive proportions, sixteen feet in height
and nearly six feet in thickness at the bottom course. At the several
corners stood towers elevated some ten feet above the wall veil and
properly loop-holed. Under the east and south walls and virtually built
into them were a series of huts, which served as storehouses and for
living quarters in time of siege. At present these huts--low,
uncomfortable-looking structures of stone and roofed with broad, flat
flags--were untenanted save for the two or three used by the small
garrison on duty. The western side of the enclosure was occupied almost
entirely by storehouses for grain and other provisions; here, too, were
pens for cattle on the hoof and immense cisterns for the storage of
drinking-water. Somewhat to the south of the centre of the square stood
what appeared to be the administration building, a round, tower-like
structure, three stories in height and with enormously thick walls. One
could fancy it the scene of a last stand in a lost cause.
Directly opposite, in the north wall, was the gateway. It opened on to
the Palace Road, one of the principal avenues of the ancient city, and
was in the form of a vaulted passageway defended by flanking towers and
superimposed battlements. A notable stronghold was this citadel of the
Doomsmen, wisely planned and well built, and Constans could hardly fall
into the error of under-estimating its resources. For all that, he would
not acknowledge that it was impregnable; stone walls cannot stand
forever against stout hearts.
Day by day went on and Constans kept adding steadily to his stock of
information. Most important of all, he had succeeded in definitely
locating the several positions of the enemy. It appeared that the
district actually inhabited by the Doomsmen included only the fortified
square and a few of the city blocks contiguous to it on the north. The
distance from the citadel to the library building and Dom Gillian's
house was about a mile, and it was some five miles further to the tidal
estuary which formed the northern boundary of the city proper. Of the
various structures that had formerly spanned the stream, but one, the
High Bridge, remained. Built of massive masonry, it had wonderfully
resisted the disintegrating processes of time, and stood to-day,
immovable as the granite hills of which it formed the connecting link.
Being the sole means of landward approach to Doom, it was guarded
carefully, and a detail from the general garrison was at all times on
duty there.
The final conclusion to which Constans arrived was that he had only to
avoid the immediate neighborhood of the Palace Road and the Citadel
Square to pursue his investigations with entire safety. Accordingly he
grew venturesome, and began to go out-of-doors at all hours of the day
or night. And then on the fourteenth day after his arrival in the city
his immunity came abruptly to an end.
It was early in the forenoon, and Constans was exploring a quarter of
the city that lay to the northeast of the Citadel Square. He became
interested in the curious, bridgelike structure which spanned the
street; enough of it remained standing to show him that it had been
designed for overhead traffic, a highway in the air. There were the
rails, the signal-boxes, and other mysterious adjuncts of the ancient
railways; he had read about them in his books and he recognized them at
once.
Now this particular section of the aerial railway must have been a
branch line, for it ended abruptly in front of a building of unusual
size and consequent importance. Beyond this again could be seen a
surface net-work of iron rails converging to the black mouth of a great
tunnel--a highway under the earth. Constans felt a lively impulse to
push his explorations further. This was evidently a terminal station of
the wonderful steel roads of the ancients; within the building itself he
might reasonably expect to find some of the old-time engines and wagons
with which the traffic had been carried on.
Passing through a central hall of fine proportions, Constans found
himself standing under an immense arched structure of stone and iron and
glass. The ancient car-shed, so Constans conjectured; then he paused
excitedly before a long platform, at which stood a complete train, made
up and ready to start.
Constans examined this new find with critical attention. The enormous
locomotive-engine, with its driving-wheels that stood higher than a
man's head, impressed him mightily, for all that the monster's burning
heart had grown cold and its stentor breathing had been hushed forever.
He climbed into the cab and wondered hugely at the multiplicity of
stopcocks and levers and cabalistically lettered dials. It seemed
incredible that the giant could have moved even his own weight, and yet
there was his appointed task strung out behind him, fifteen long and
heavy vehicles--it was amazing!
Behind the engine came the cars for luggage, piled high with bags and
boxes, and then the regular train equipment, a long line of coaches.
These last were of the most luxurious pattern--that was plain to see,
although the varnish had blistered on the panels and the silken curtains
at the windows hung in tatters. The last car of all had clearly been in
service as an eating apartment, and fortunately the doors of this coach
had been left closed and the windows remained intact. Constans entered
and looked about him, noting that the tables still bore their weight of
plate and china and napery. Most moving of all was the little nosegay
that stood in a tall glass at each cover. But even as he gazed,
delighted that the flowers still retained recognizable shape, they broke
and crumbled into nothingness.
It was difficult to understand why the train should have been abandoned,
it being evident that it had stood here, ready for immediate departure,
but the unquestionable fact may serve to emphasize again the suddenness
of the final catastrophe. People had simply dropped and forgotten
everything. In the extremity of terror civilized man had become a
savage, reverting to primeval instincts in preferring his legs to any
other means of escape. There was but one thing left for him--to run
away.
It was a depressing experience to be standing solitary and alone under
these vast arches that had echoed to the tramp of feet innumerable. A
sense of his loneliness pressed heavily upon Constans; then, suddenly,
he became aware of the presence of a man, who stood leaning against a
pillar a short distance away and watched him from under close-knit
brows.
The fair hair and frank, kindly face seemed dimly familiar to Constans;
and what thighs and breadth of shoulder! The stranger stood little short
of gianthood, and Constans would have run small chance against him as
man to man. Bitterly he regretted having left his bow behind; even his
double-edged hunting-knife was missing from his belt.
The man walked deliberately forward to meet him. Certainly his dress and
equipment proclaimed him a Doomsman, and by the same token he must have
recognized that Constans was an alien. Yet he smiled and held out his
hand as he came up.
"It is Constans, of course; for who else among the House People would
dare to cross the Gray Wolf's threshold. Do you not remember Ulick?"
The two young men shook hands heartily, albeit a certain constraint was
immediately to fall upon them. For Constans could not be unmindful of
his purpose, and Ulick was a true Doomsman, and hatred of the
House-dweller was the first article in his hereditary creed. The
inheritance of a naked sword lay between them. Was it not inevitable
that one or the other of them should be moved to take it up?
It was Constans who realized that only frankness could save the
situation, and as they walked along he told Ulick the full story of the
enmity between him and Quinton Edge, then of the years of his
apprenticeship to his Uncle Hugolin, and of the message in the bottle
that had served to crystallize desire into action. The purport of the
letter was still fresh in his mind, and he repeated it as nearly as he
could word for word.
"Esmay, did you say?" interrupted Ulick. "It was Esmay who helped me
trap you. Don't you remember her eyes, brown and with a flame in them
like to the carbuncles in the bracelet that I gave her? Elena was her
mother."
Constans assented, indifferently. In truth, he had entirely forgotten
about the girl.
"Ten days ago she disappeared," said Ulick, gloomily, "and not a trace
of her have I been able to discover. Yet I believe that your friend
Quinton Edge could tell me if he would."
"I don't understand."
"Nor does anybody else. For all that, I am sure that he does not want
her for himself; no woman has ever been able to boast that Master
Quinton Edge looked at her twice. Were it otherwise I think I should go
mad."
Constans shrugged his shoulders impatiently; then he looked up and saw
the pain in the big fellow's face. It touched him, although he could not
comprehend the weakness (for such it seemed to him), that had given it
birth.
"If you could see her, you would understand," continued Ulick, as though
divining his thought. Again they walked along in silence. Constans broke
it abruptly:
"And your grandsire, is he still living? I can see him yet, that
terrible old man who wanted to cut out my eyes and tongue so that you
could have a new toy."
Ulick smiled, and the current of his darker mood was diverted.
"Lucky for you that he fell asleep again before he could give the order
for the irons to be heated. And so we ran away trembling, and I brought
you to the vault underneath the sidewalk--do you remember?"
"I remember," said Constans, briefly.
"He is living still; think how old he must be! Nowadays he sleeps nearly
all the time; sometimes for a week on end he will not leave his couch in
the darkened room. Then again he will have himself apparelled and his
great sword girded upon him, and he will come down into the court-yard
and walk in the sun for hours. You should see those lazy rascals of
guardsmen scatter at the first sight of him--like mice running to their
holes when puss begins to yawn and stretch herself."
"You are still the heir?"
"Yes, unless the council sees fit to set my rights aside in favor of my
cousin Boris. To tell the truth, neither of us is fit to be chief in
Doom while Quinton Edge lives."
"Tell me."
"Why, you see, Boris is a brute whose brains, such as he has, are always
fuddled with ale. And I----" Ulick stopped and laughed a little
sheepishly.
"Well?"
"Frankly, then, I don't want to carry the weight of the wolf-skin; I
should feel like a man buried up to his neck in sand. I dreamed of that
the other night, and how a raven that had Quinton Edge's face came and
pecked at my eyes."
"Then you really don't care," commented Constans, shrewdly.
"No; except to have my fair share of the fighting and feasting--and, of
course, Esmay."
Constans laughed. "You always come back to the girl."
"How could it be otherwise, since I love her?" said Ulick, simply.
Constans grew sober again. "Strange that it should be the same man,
Quinton Edge, for whom we are both seeking. I can see, however, that my
arrow must not leave the string until first you have had speech with
him."
"But that is just what I cannot do," returned Ulick, with a frown. "It
is a week now that any one has seen him, and yet neither galley nor
troop has left the city since the new moon."
"He must show himself in time; we have only to wait."
"Waiting! it is the one thing----"
"Yet you must; the chance is certain to come. Only, if I help you in
this, then afterwards when you have learned what you want----"
Ulick nodded. "Do what you will, but until then it is Esmay who stands
first, and he lives under her shadow."
The young men had been walking in the direction of the Citadel Square,
and the time had come for Constans to decide whether or not he should
give Ulick his full confidence. Yesterday he had moved all his
belongings to a large building on the south side of the square
overlooking the fortress, and he was minded to establish himself there
permanently. It might seem foolhardy for him to take up his abode, not
under, indeed, but just above the noses of his enemies; in reality, he
was as safe in one place as in another. Here was an immense building,
containing literally hundreds of apartments; it was like being in a
rabbit-warren, a labyrinth of passages and rooms that it would take a
regiment to explore. He had only to observe reasonable prudence in
entering and leaving his lair to be assured against the ordinary risks
of discovery, and he depended, too, upon the obvious negligence of the
sentinels. It was a simple application of the principle that what is
nearest to the eye is oftenest overlooked.
For where he stood he could see the huge bulk of the sky-scraper
towering into the blue. The building had been constructed upon a narrow,
triangular plot of land, and its ground-plan bore a fanciful resemblance
to the shape of a flat-iron. Its acute angle was pointed towards them;
one compared it instinctively to the prow of some gigantic ship of stone
ploughing its way through billows of brick and mortar.
"Come," said Constans, and Ulick, understanding the confidence about to
be reposed in him, followed silently.
It was a small front-room on the third floor that Constans had fitted up
as his abode, and after Ulick had passed approving judgment upon his
friend's domestic arrangement they walked over to the window and stood
there looking down into the thoroughfare upon which the building faced.
Formerly this open space had been paved with small oblong blocks of
stone, but these had long since been incorporated with the walls of the
fortress, and in their stead was a stretch of thick, short turf. Pacing
slowly along, there came in sight the figure of a man, his head bent
down and his hands clasped behind his back. Constans recognized him
instantly, even before Ulick's eager whisper had reached his ear. It was
Quinton Edge.
Constans knew that he was doing a foolish thing, but the humor of the
moment gripped him, and he yielded to it. To make sport of this
insolent, and so wipe out, in some measure, the memory of his own
humiliation--the temptation was too great to be resisted, and the next
instant the bowstring twanged and an arrow plunged into the ground, a
scant yard in front of Quinton Edge, and stuck there quivering.
Involuntarily, the Doomsman stepped back and another arrow grazed his
heel; a half turn to the right and a third shaft sheared the curling
ostrich-plume from his hat. A fourth arrow to the left of him, and then
Quinton Edge understood. He drew himself up and stood still while a
dozen more skilfully directed bolts winged their way to complete the
barbed circle that hemmed him in. And each missile bore its individual
message to his memory--a tiny tuft of scarlet inserted in the
feathering.
Quinton Edge waited an instant or so, as though out of pure politeness,
then turned and faced the great building that towered mountainously
above his head. There were hundreds of window openings in the tremendous
facade of the "Flat-iron," and he had no means of guessing the precise
one in whose deep embrasure his enemy stood concealed; at any moment he
might expect the final shaft striking home to his heart and staining its
feathering all crimson in his life blood. Yet there was no hint of
perturbation in the affected languor of his voice; he bowed slightly and
spoke:
"What a sorry marksman! See! I will give you a final chance to hit the
gold. Make the most of it, for here in Doom no man's hair grows long
enough to hide a nicked ear."
He threw back his cloak of crimson cloth and unbuttoned the white,
ruffled shirt that he wore underneath, exposing his naked throat and
breast. And not an eyelash quivered, while he stood there for the space
in which one might count a score slowly.
"As you please, then," he continued, readjusting his garments with
punctilious care. "I must warn you, however, that standing so long in
this chilly air may mean the influenza for me. By the Shining One! if we
keep on like this the interest due on our little account is likely to
exceed in amount the original principal. That would be a pity as
happening between gentlemen, who know naturally nothing of what they
call business and have no desire to cheat each other."
[Illustration: "AN INSTANT LATER THE BOWSTRING TWANGED"]
Then he laughed heartily, unaffectedly. "What a comedy! and you and I
cast for the fools in it. Which is the bigger one neither of us should
be willing to say. And for the best of reasons, we don't know. My
compliments, brother imbecile, and so good-day."
Quinton Edge doffed his hat as though to intimate that the interview was
at an end, then stepped lightly across the hedge of arrows and proceeded
at an even pace to the eastern angle of the fortress, around which he
disappeared.
Ulick's eyes were sparkling as he turned to Constans.
"He is at least a man," he said, half proudly, half enviously.
But Constans only set his teeth the harder. "I could have gone out, met
him face to face and killed him," he said, sombrely, "only for you and
your Esmay."
XIII
GODS IN EXILE
February, and a full three months since Constans had come to Doom. And
yet he was virtually at his starting-point, so little had he been able
to accomplish along the line of his purpose. A dozen times indeed he
might have planted an arrow between the delicately shrugged shoulders of
Master Quinton Edge as he strolled, of a sunshiny morning, along the
Palace Road, surrounded by his little body-guard of flatterers and
political courtiers. But such an act would have stained his honor
without fully satisfying his vengeance; he did not want to strike until
he should know where it would hurt the most.
It had been Ulick always who had stood in the road; Ulick with his
eternal lamentations over the maid Esmay. Together they had searched for
her in every possible quarter. But where was one to look first in this
wilderness of stone? It would have been an obvious procedure to have
kept close watch upon the movements of Quinton Edge, whose complicity
was a matter of reasonable suspicion. But the first attempts at
shadowing him had resulted in nothing, and early in December the _Black
Swan_, with Quinton Edge himself in command, had left her moorings in
the Greater river, bound doubtless on some piratical expedition.
It was an added aggravation of Constans's impatience that Ulick himself
was ordered away at the end of January. He had been drafted to take part
in a raid, and since the route of the proposed foray led far to the
southward he would probably be absent for a considerable time. It would
take a fortnight's hard riding for the band to reach the distant colony
against which the attack had been planned, and fully six weeks would be
required in which to drive the cattle home. Two full months, then, and
as yet only one had passed; the returning raiders would not cross the
High Bridge much before the first day in April.
As the weeks went heavily on, Constans, in spite of his philosophy,
began to fret and chafe. He could put in a part of each day in the
library poring over his books and digging out the ancient wisdom from
the printed page by sheer force of will. But there always came a time
when only physical exertion would have any effect in dispelling the
mental disquietude that possessed him, and then he would throw aside his
books and walk the empty streets for hours.
The weather continued bad, bitter cold alternating with storms of rain
and sleet. Towards the end of January the snow came in earnest: it lay a
foot deep on the level, and the Doomsmen, after their custom, kept
closely within doors. Constans would occasionally note a few fresh
tracks along the Palace Road, and the smoke that curled steadily from
scattered chimney-pots and the bivouac fires on the Citadel Square might
be taken as evidence that the suspension of social activities was only
temporary. But for the present, at least, Constans had the city to
himself, and he wandered about as he chose without a thought of
possible danger.
An anxiously longed-for discovery was the reward of one of these lonely
excursions. In a shop that had once been devoted to the sale of
fire-arms, Constans found a quantity of ammunition of a caliber that
would fit the chambers of his revolver. The cartridges had been packed
in hermetically sealed cases, presumably for export-shipment or upon a
special order. However that might be, the precaution had prevented the
deterioration of the powder, and the ammunition was consequently, in
condition for use. Constans nerved himself to make the experiment, but
although his studies had made him well acquainted with the theory of the
explosive projectile, he had to summon all his resolution for the actual
pulling of the trigger.
The detonation that followed startled him out of his self-possession. He
dropped the pistol, and was out of the shop and half way across the
street before he could recover himself. Then, ashamed of his cowardice,
he forced himself to pick up the weapon and went forward to examine the
two-inch plank at which he had taken aim. To his astonishment and
delight he saw that a hole had been drilled clean through the solid oak
and the bullet itself was lying on the ground, flattened from its impact
with the masonry behind the planking. All this, let it be said again,
was perfectly familiar to Constans in theory, but its realization in
fact gave him a strange thrill. A score of men armed with these large
caliber pistols, or, better still, rifles, might easily enough compel
the surrender or bring about the destruction of the entire fighting
force of the Doomsmen.
Inspired by this new thought, Constans made a thorough examination of
the stock of arms in the shop. To his disappointment he found most of
the rifles in unserviceable condition, covered with rust and verdigris.
Finally, however, he came across a dozen carbines carefully wrapped and
packed for a prospective shipment across the ocean. Protected by their
heavy coverings the weapons had suffered comparatively little damage,
and Constans spent the best part of a week in cleaning them and getting
the mechanism of their working parts into tolerable order.
Later on, Constans removed the serviceable ammunition, amounting to
several hundred rounds, to a convenient hiding-place in the cellar of a
building fronting on the Lesser or Eastern river, and he also
transported thither the carbines, the latter carefully wrapped in
greased rags to preserve them from dampness. Some day the opportunity
would come to put these things to use. And now, February had passed, and
March was well into its third quarter; in a few more days the returning
sun would cross the line, and spring, the time for action, would be at
hand. How he longed for its advent.
This was the third occasion upon which Constans had noticed that
peculiar noise, a continuous, deep, humming note, such as might have
been made by swarming-bees multiplied a hundredfold. On the day that he
first heard it he happened to be walking three blocks to the westward of
the Citadel Square, and it seemed then that the seat of the mystery lay
almost due south. A week later he happened to be in the same locality.
Once more, those deep-toned vibrations smote upon his ears; now the
sound-waves were all about him and the sense of direction was lost;
again, and they plainly proceeded from somewhere to the eastward. It was
perplexing, but the varying quarter and strength of the wind might be
sufficient to account for the difference, and in one curious particular
the two observations corresponded. The day of the week in each case had
been Friday, and the humming noise had commenced at precisely the same
time--the passing of the sun over the meridian.
To-day was the third successive Friday, and Constans had made
preparations for the careful noting of the phenomenon should it reoccur.
He waited with a lively sense of expectation, and he was not
disappointed. At high noon the humming began again, and it seemed to be
louder than when he had listened to it on the two former occasions--the
air was full of the vibrant droning. There was a sinister quality, too,
in its monotone, and Constans for the moment felt himself swayed by a
gust of superstitious terror. He recalled the traditions current among
the House-dwellers, the belief that Doom was inhabited not only by the
outlaws but by demons of many a grewsome sort and kind. There were
strange tales of lights that lured the wanderer onward, only to vanish
as the victim sank into some frightful abyss; of invisible hands that
plucked at the rash intruder's skirts; of monstrous shapes that leered
and gabbled behind the traveller's back and were only blocks of stone
when he turned to face them; of bloodless creatures that one might meet
in the full flood of day, and whose unearthly character was only to be
proved by observing that they cast no shadow in even the brightest
sunlight; of vampires and ghouls and fair women with enchanting voices,
who enticed their victims into blind passageways and then changed
suddenly to foul, harpy-like monsters. But in this latter case the
foolish one had only himself to blame, for if he kept on the lookout he
could always detect the masquerade by observing the creature's hands.
The harpies could transform themselves in every other way, but their
claws remained unchanged, and they were, consequently, obliged to cover
them with gloves. "Beware the gloved hand," was a familiar aphorism
among the wise women of the West Inch, and Constans, shaken in spite of
himself by the remembrance of these old fables, felt the sweat break out
upon his forehead, for all that the wind blew shrewdly cold.
Yet as he waited and listened and still nothing happened his natural
good-sense reasserted itself. Overhead a glorious winter sun was
shining; as everybody knew, the sirens never sang until after dark, and
assuredly they were accustomed to give a much more artistic performance.
His courage re-established, curiosity asserted her rights; he must
discover the source and nature of this mystery, and so he proceeded
cautiously in the direction from whence it now appeared to come, a
course that led him south by east for perhaps ten of the city blocks.
Constans found himself a short distance below the Citadel Square and in
a quarter of the city that he had never yet explored. Suddenly he came
upon a large building of brick covering a full square in area but only
two stories in height. As he approached the humming noise grew louder
and louder; the secret, whatever it was, lay concealed behind those
common-place-looking walls. Constans held his breath and went forward
slowly.
The street, upon which the main elevation of the building faced was an
unusually wide one, and directly in front of the entrance to the
structure the snow had been cleared away from a circular space whose
diameter was about forty feet. In this enclosure were three women whose
costume, a dark gray cloak and scarlet hood, proclaimed them to be of
the Doomsmen. They were kneeling on the hard pavement, and kept
alternately bowing their foreheads to the ground and then bringing the
upper body to a vertical position, the arms extended and the palms
turned outward. The movements were done in time to the rhythmic throb of
the mysterious humming, and undoubtedly the ceremony possessed some
religious significance.
For perhaps ten minutes Constans stood motionless, watching the scene.
Then, together, the women rose to their feet and approached a rude,
block-shaped structure of stone that apparently served as an altar. Upon
it each in turn laid her gift, some article of food, and immediately
departed. In his eagerness to see what would follow, Constans stepped
boldly around the corner, and so came within the view of a man who had
just made his exit from the building.
It was too late to retreat, and Constans stood his ground, noting that
the stranger seemed equally astonished with himself at the encounter. An
elderly man, to judge by the whitening beard, but his eye was bright and
searching, and there was no hint at superannuation in either port or
movement. He was dressed in a long skirtlike garment of black
cloth--true priest garb--and for a girdle he wore a length of hempen
rope tied in the peculiar and sinister fashion known as the "hangman's
knot." Around his neck, suspended like a priest's stole, hung a steel
chain with pendent manacles or handcuffs that jangled unmusically as he
moved. A grotesque, almost ridiculous figure this priest of the
Doomsmen, but with the first look into the man's face one forgot about
the fantastic garb. A singular contradiction it presented, for the
large, square jaw was indicative of a mind keenly rationalistic, while
the high, narrow forehead assuredly proclaimed the partisan and the
bigot.
It was the elder man who broke the silence.
"The time is long since a man of the Doomsmen has appeared to pay his
vows to the Shining One. You are welcome, my son."
Constans wondered if he had heard aright. Then he remembered that he was
wearing a suit of Ulick's clothes and that his hair was cut after the
Doomsmen fashion. It was a comfortable assurance of the merit of his
disguise that it had passed muster so easily; he had only to guard
against talking too much, and detection was practically impossible. So
he contented himself with what might pass for an obeisance and some
vague words of apology. The priest, however, paid no attention to his
excuses, but continued in a tone of sarcastic bitterness:
"Strange that you should think it worth while to seek a god who is
served only by women. Yet the Shining One seems neither to know nor to
care that the sons of the Doomsmen come no longer into his presence
chamber and bring no gifts to his altar. A god forsaken by his people, a
neglected shrine, a worn-out creed--why, indeed, should any one do
reverence to such things as these? Yet you have come."
"I--my father----" stammered Constans. "There are reasons; I will
explain----"
"It matters not," interrupted the priest, impatiently. "It is enough
that you are here, and, being a man, you have the privilege of the inner
mysteries. And possibly a message may be awaiting you. Come."
He took Constans by the hand and drew him towards the vaulted
entrance-way. There was no reasonable opportunity for protest, and
before Constans was fully aware of what was happening he had been
hurried through the passage and into a large, semi-darkened building
that was filled with the rumble and clank of machinery in rapid motion.
Constans, having recovered from the first surprise and his eyes becoming
accustomed to the obscurity, looked about him with a dawning sense of
comprehension.
In the middle of the hall was installed an enormous piece of machinery,
a vast cylindrical construction revolving at great speed, and Constans
became the more certain of its real nature as he proceeded to examine it
in detail. He recalled the illustrations and diagrams that he had been
poring over only the day before at the library building, and he was sure
that this monster could be nothing else than an electric dynamo, and one
of the very largest size, delivering as high as fifteen thousand
horse-power of potential energy. But how to account for the chance that
had preserved this mightiest of the Old-World forces? What miracle had
been wrought to keep this soulless giant in life through so many years
of darkness and of silence? Constans felt his head spinning; the
consciousness of a fact so tremendous was overwhelming; to save himself
he turned away from the dynamo proper and began looking about for the
source of its mechanical energy. He found it in an odd-appearing motor,
to which the dynamo was connected by the ordinary means of a shaft and
belting.
The engine was simple enough in outward construction. All that could be
seen was an apparatus consisting of two ten-foot tuning-forks of steel
supported on insulated pedestals, and between them a disk of some
unknown composition, mounted in a vertical plane and revolving at
inconceivable velocity. The power was taken from the shaft of this
revolving disk and reduced in speed by means of gear-wheels before being
conveyed to the dynamo. The prongs of the big tuning-forks continued to
vibrate strongly, and gave out in unison the loud, humming note that had
originally attracted Constans's attention. It was undoubtedly, a form of
motor whose power was derived from some secret property of vibratory
bodies, a recondite subject to which his books alluded but obscurely.
Yet in the years immediately preceding the Great Change the principle
seems to have been reduced to practical utility. Here was the engine in
actual operation, and whatever its source of fuel supply or the ultimate
secret of its energy there could be no doubt about its production of
power. It moved, it was alive, and Constans gazed upon it with
fascinated eyes.
The priest had risen to
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