"I forgot," DeNortier answered, "that thou dost not know the secret."
Crossing the room and pushing aside the tapestry, he knelt a moment upon the floor and pressed his hand against it. There was a quick click, and slowly the trap door rose. Hampden sprang through it. I held my breath, my unsheathed sword in hand. Surely they must see me; but no, they were too much engaged.
DeNortier sprang up as soon as the trap door yawned open, and rushing over to the door, unlocked and opened it. It slammed to behind him, and he ran down the hall, the sailor following.
In an instant I was through the opening beside me, sword in hand. My enemy was in my grasp. We would fight out the quarrel below, with none but the dead to interrupt us. One of us would come out perhaps; he would have the field to himself; however it ended, the matter would be settled. If my lord fell, I would have the ground to myself; if he triumphed, it would not disturb me; if I fell beneath his sword, it could not matter to the dead.
At the sound of my footsteps, he, not knowing who it was that followed, quickened his own. The dim light through the trap door died out, and we were treading in total darkness. Guided by the sound of his feet, I ran on after him. I had no wish to fight under DeNortier's chamber; some one might hear and interrupt us. I would wait until we got further on into the cavern, where we would be undisturbed.
Several minutes passed; I judged that we were out of hearing, and raising my voice shouted: "Why hurry, my Lord? The night is young yet, and we have much to settle between us. Wait for me but a moment, and I will join thee."
I heard him stop in the darkness.
"Ha!" he said, "speak of the devil and we hear his wings. So that was thou who ran down after me into this black hole; thou must have been behind the arras and have heard all that I said. Well, no matter, dead men tell no tales," and he laughed, a ring of menace sounding in it.
I thrust out in the darkness before me with my sword; he could not be far away, by the sound of his voice—but my blade only struck against the wall, the steel ringing as though struck by a hammer. I heard his footsteps move on down the tunnel.
"Stop!" I cried, "I have long wished to settle several small matters with thee. If thou wilt but wait for me an instant, we will go out into the moonlight, and there we will cross blades and fight out our difference."
"Why should I fight thee?" he answered, his voice coming from in front of me. "The game is mine; did I wish thee knifed, a dozen men stand ready to do it at my command. Why should I risk my life? I do not wish to kill thee, for I reserve thee for a more delicious fate," and his laugh, low and smothered, floated back to me.
"Dog!" I cried, my anger getting the best of me—anger at the taunt—anger that my sword could not reach him. "Boast not, 'there be many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' I may not win my lady but thou at least shalt not have her. Rather would I see her dead than meet such a fate."
"When thou beholdest her resting peacefully upon my breast, my arms around her, my lips pressed close to hers, then, and not till then, will I be content. Fear not. Only a few months, and thou wilt behold her mine. Till then—adieu!" and his footsteps moved again. Then silence.
With a curse I rushed on down the dark passageway, prodding with my sword the walls, cutting the darkness in front of me wildly. Like a madman I dashed on until, cracking my head upon the projecting stone, I staggered back, fell at full length upon the floor, and so was checked in my mad career.
Getting on my feet again, I called. No answer. "Dunraven!" I cried, "Where art thou?" But only the echo of my own voice answered me. He was gone, as though the darkness had swallowed him up to protect him from my wrath. Truly the devil had taken good care of his own.
I resumed my way on down the cavern, for a gleam of light had caught my eye, far in front of me. I drew cautiously nearer; it was the moon shining down at the mouth of the cave, which I had entered a few brief hours ago.
Stumbling over the body of Herrick as it lay where he had fallen, I scrambled up the embankment, pushed aside the bushes, and stood once more in the open air. Far below me lay the mansion, its lights shining out into the darkness as though to welcome me back once more to life and hope. Descending the hill, I made my way down to it.
It was midnight when I stood again on the broad veranda between the great white pillars. No one was in sight, and passing into the hallway I ascended the stairs to my own room.
CHAPTER VI THE PLOT THICKENS
The next day after the death of Herrick I set out again for the cavern, determined to find out, if possible, whether Lord Dunraven still lurked in its dark recesses; and also to follow the right-hand tunnel to its termination, for it might be that it led to some place from which I could escape.
I strode up the hill again, and before pushing through the hedge which screened the mouth of the cave, I turned and looked about me. There was no one in sight, and so bending my head, I brushed aside the bushes and entered. Lighting the candle which I had brought with me, I peered around. The body of Herrick was gone; evidently someone had removed it since last night.
I passed rapidly down the passage, until I reached the place where the two paths diverged. I took the one to the right, and with my candle over my head made my way down it. There was nothing unusual about the tunnel, it loomed about me much as had the other. Its sides and floor were of white stone which gleamed in the candlelight.
I had probably gone about two hundred feet when there came a sudden gust of wind which blew my candle out. Now I was at a loss to account for this, as it felt more like an artificial gust than a natural one; more as if someone with a great fan had created a breeze. Fumbling about, I found my flint and steel which I always carried with me, and striking it, I relit my candle and looked around. There was no one in sight, and so pausing an instant, I started on my way again.
I had barely taken a couple of steps when there came a second blast of wind, as sudden and unexpected as the first, and my candle was blown out again, as silently and quickly as it had been before. Exasperated by this recurrence I angrily struck another light, and as I did so the candle was snatched from my hand, and a low mocking laugh ran through the tunnel; sinister and cold it sounded in my ears, and at the noise I shrank back.
I am not a superstitious man (I have seen too much of the world for that), but the flint and steel as I struck it, had lit up the cave around me for an instant with a flash of light, and it was at that instant that the candle had been caught from me. It had been no human hand that had done this, for I could see distinctly around, and naught had touched my hand; only as I looked had the candle fallen from my fingers.
Again and again I struck the flint and steel, and peered wonderingly about me. There was no trace of the candle anywhere, only the bare, cold walls of the cave could I see, as I stood with white face and shaking hands.
The accents of a voice, stern and low, from I knew not where, fell upon my ears: "Go back! Go back! And if thou wouldst live, come not again to this place."
A sudden shiver passed over me, and my knees knocked together with terror; there was a grandeur and majesty in the tones that I had heard in no earthly language. It was as though I listened to the voice of a god. A sudden dread fell upon my soul as I stood there, and the craven "Fear" which I had never known before in all my life, on the fields of Ireland, or in great London, smote me with his cold hand.
Gone were my manhood and courage now, and I became as some old withered hag, crouched in the chimney by the fire. With a yell I turned and fled down that silent cavern, as though grim Death himself were at my heels. Twice I dashed into the wall in the darkness and fell, screaming at the top of my voice, thinking that the fiends had me for sure; but I was up again in an instant, and with another wild yell had resumed my flight.
My reason had forsaken me for the moment, and I was as though a madman. I fancied I could see white figures, with outstretched hands and glaring eyes, awaiting me at every step. Screaming and yelling I rushed on, and never once did I slacken pace, until in front of me I saw the light streaming through the undergrowth at the entrance.
Dashing up the embankment, I tore through the bushes and out into the open air again, where I cast myself flat upon the ground and sobbed with thankfulness for the sunlight, the calm blue sky above me, and the fresh air beating upon my face.
It must have been a ruse of DeNortier's to frighten me from the cave, fearing that I would discover some of his secrets or perhaps his buried treasure; and if it were a trick, it served his purpose well, for never, from that day to this, have I put foot again in that cavern. Not for a barrel of gold would I tread again its dark recesses and feel that thrill of horror at the sound of that solemn voice. I sometimes now at night awake trembling with fear, thinking I hear once more in my ears those calm, majestic tones, the like of which I have never heard again from the lips of man.
An hour after I had rushed from the cavern I was standing on the porch of the mansion, watching the ocean as it roared and chafed against its sandy prison, as though it were some caged thing striving to be free.
* * * * * * *
Two weeks had flown by since I had listened to Lord Dunraven's voice in DeNortier's chamber. Two weeks in which I had waited, my nerves keyed up to the highest pitch, for the next move from my enemies; but no sound came.
My lord I had not seen since that night when he had disappeared in the cavern. It was as though he had vanished forever; but I knew that somewhere behind the scene he was watching and waiting for the time to ripen, so that the curtain could rise for the last scene in the tragedy. DeNortier had said naught to me, though he must have known of Herrick's death, and of the fact that I now had discovered the secret of my captivity. He still came and went as heretofore.
I heard the sound of footsteps behind me and turning I saw one of the Indian attendants, called José.
"What is it, José?" I asked, speaking in his own tongue.
"The Señor wishes to talk with thee," he answered. "Even now he waits in the great room," and so saying he disappeared into the house.
So the next move had come after all. I would be very watchful and silent, and so thinking, I passed into the hall and back to the great room where DeNortier awaited me.
He was seated there in one of the huge chairs, his head buried in his hands, and did not hear me as I entered.
"What is it, Count?" I asked.
I had not seen him in several days, and the change in his appearance startled me; it was so different from his accustomed look.
"Art sick?" I asked, "or what is it that ails thee?"
He answered slowly and lifelessly. "I have even now a throbbing headache. But be seated, there is something of importance that I would speak to thee of."
Seating myself near him, I waited in silence to hear what he would say.
"Thou wilt remember that a few months ago I freed a beautiful Spanish girl at thy request. At that time thou didst tell me that I might do with thee what I would, if I but freed the maid. Is this not true?"
"It is true," I answered. "But at the same time I told thee that I would do nothing unworthy of an English gentleman. Thou dost remember that too?"
"Distinctly," he replied. "What I now ask of thee is nothing that would stain the honor of even the most scrupulous. 'Tis but a simple thing. If thou wilt sign the paper that I shall hand to thee in a moment, then not only wilt thou have kept thy promise to me, but in addition thou shalt be set at liberty, with the sum of five hundred pounds to speed thee on thy way. Come, 'tis a generous offer, and one worthy of thy acceptance."
"Where is the paper?" I asked. "Let me but see that, and I will then tell thee in a few moments whether I will sign it or not."
The Count reached his hand within his doublet and drew out a long stiff paper. He looked me full in the eye, and I could see the excitement upon his face, try as he would to conceal it.
"Do nothing rash," he said in a hurried tone. "Believe me or not, I wish thee well, and would grieve to see thee come to harm. Be cool, and weigh well what thou doest; for after thou hast once chosen, thy decision cannot be revoked. On one side liberty, on the other side imprisonment and perhaps death," and he coughed dryly behind his hand. "Choose which thou wouldst have," and he extended the paper to me.
I took it in my hand and breaking the seal, held it up to the candlelight. What paper could it be, that would be worth such a price as this?
"This indenture made and entered into this the twenty-fifth day of February, 1587, A.D. and in the reign of our Sovereign Queen——" I glanced on further down. "Between Thomas Winchester, Kt., of the City of London, England, party of the first part, and James Henry Hampden, Lord Dunraven, of the city and county aforesaid, party of the second part. Witnesseth: that for, and in consideration of the sum of five hundred pounds to me in hand paid——"
A long string of legal phrases followed, all jargon, and without meaning to me.
" ... Said party of the first part, doth hereby relinquish, release, assign and transfer all the right, title, interest or pretension, which he may have or possess, to and in the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll, of Riverdale, England. And the said Thomas Winchester, Kt., doth hereby promise and bind himself not to have any communication by any means whatsoever with the said Lady Margaret Carroll, and doth further bind himself not to set foot in England for the space of fifty years from the date hereinbefore set out; and to reside abroad during the whole of that time."
I had seen enough. Tearing the document into a thousand fragments, I scattered them to the four winds, before the astonished Spaniard could rise from his chair.
Then turning to him, my voice hoarse with anger, I cried:
"And thou hast the hardihood to present such a paper as this to me to sign? On guard and defend thyself," and drawing my blade, I stood waiting for him to rise.
But the Count did not move from his seat nor turn even so much as an eyelash.
"Strike if thou wilt," he replied calmly. "I will not defend myself," and he sat still and motionless where he was.
I could not murder him in cold blood, and he would not budge to raise a finger in his own behalf. Sheathing my sword I leaned over the table, and speaking slowly and distinctly, my face almost touching his own, I said:
"Go back and tell thy master that I spurn his offer as I would himself, were he not too much of a coward to be here in person, instead of sending thee as a tool in his place." And turning on my heel, without so much as another look at him, I strode away and out of the house.
A storm was brewing upon the sea. Already the dark, heavy clouds hung over us, and a calm, deep, ominous silence seemed to brood over earth and sky, as though the storm god gathered every nerve and sinew, and crouching low, poised himself for one great effort that would carry terror into the hearts of men.
Passing down the steps of the house, I made my way out to the sea. My mind was in a chaos of thoughts and doubts, and I longed for the storm and struggle of the tempest.
The pale twinkling stars above me were vanishing one by one behind the storm clouds; cold and silent they looked down on me from their great heights, as they had gazed upon so many of the storm-tossed children of men. Generations and ages had passed away since they had seen the first mortal upon the earth. What mattered it to them that poor sin-cursed humanity lived and died; had their loves and hates; their friends and foes; their good days and their bad ones; lived their little span, and then crept away to make room for others who would take their places.
A sense of my own littleness crossed my mind. Out here with nature, stripped of all the gloss and glitter of civilization; alone, without that sense of security which comes to us when we are huddled with our fellows; a single atom upon the troubled sea of life—my own perplexities seemed to dwindle, and a feeling of peace swept over my care-worn spirit.
The storm was about to burst; great white-capped billows surged up, like the serried ranks of the foe ready to charge. The roar deepened and increased to a perfect thunder which seemed to shake the very earth. The sea lashed and whipped itself into a foaming caldron; the winds howled like the spirits of the departed; and the great black clouds seemed to almost touch the very sea. A flash of lightning forked, many-tongued, sprang athwart the sky, and a burst of thunder peeled forth like the roar of a score of culverins.
One lone bird, solitary and forsaken, beat forward before the approaching gale. Such was my life I thought, as I watched him struggle against the wind. Why must I ever be the storm petrel, sport for the wind and wave, borne on, ever on, before the tempest, by the resistless force of the blast.
My old friends sat in London to-night with lights and cheer. The old Mermaid Inn rang with song and jest as they passed the cup, and smoked the fragrant weed that had been brought back from the golden Virginia. I could almost hear the hoarse tones of Francis Drake as he spun out some long-winded yarn; could hear the deep-chested laugh of Raleigh; and the yell ring out as Bobby Vane struck up some light-hearted ditty, and the others with a roar joined the chorus.
Theirs was a pleasant, easy way, smooth to the foot, bright with the garlands of flowers and the companionship of their fellows; mine was a solitary, lonely road, rough and stormy, with no friend to help or aid me. I must walk high up above the crowd, walk as best I might, this untrod path until morn. So be it. I would not murmur at what fate held in store for me. Come what might, I would at least play my part with what courage I possessed.
A slight sound seemed to come from the darkness about me. I bent forward and listened. Someone was evidently approaching, making his way toward the mansion. I could hear the quick crunch of the sand under the advancing feet, though the night had grown inky black and I could distinguish no figure in the gloom. Throwing myself flat upon the sand, I waited for the coming traveler.
The sound came nearer and passed where I lay, invisible in the night. Just as it moved swiftly by, there was a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the darkness with dazzling brilliancy, and throwing into relief the stout form of Father Francis, as with head bent down to avoid the force of the wind, he stood motionless, his back to me, waiting for the crash of the thunder to die away. What was the priest doing here, at this time of night and in such a gale? It must be something of importance that called him forth, for he loved his own ease too well to sally out in the storm and tempest without good cause.
Like a flash I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as I did so; and as he stood there motionless, before he could turn, I was upon him. Catching the weapon by the blade, I brought the heavy hilt upon his head, and with a dull thud, he fell to the ground.
Kneeling beside him, I ran my hand over his garments as he lay there. Perhaps he had some paper or message that he was carrying, which would be of use, could I but discover it. Ah! I touched a square oblong package in the folds of his cassock, and running my hand on the inside, I drew it out. They were papers most probably, tied up securely, with a fold of canvass around them. Was there aught else there? I searched thoroughly, but could find nothing further, though I felt over every inch of his robe.
As I straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of rain poured down upon me. Hastily sheathing my sword, I left the priest where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in my hand. Had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows, I would never have found it in the darkness; but I reached the porch, after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its fury.
Hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, I stepped upon the veranda and passed into the hall. DeNortier, pale and distraught, was standing in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm.
"'Tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "See the surf," and he pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us.
"Terrible," I answered. "The wind roars like the culverins of a fleet."
Passing him, I made my way up to my own room. Lighting the candle and fastening the door, I looked around me. All was quiet and silent, and going to the window, I drew the curtain across it. Then seating myself under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, I cut the fastenings and opened the package.
Drawing out a paper, I looked at it. It was a brief account of the coming of Hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which existed.
But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...."
I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven.
Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it.
The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name—Margaret Carroll.
Yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island, separated from her by leagues of rolling water, I pressed that sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy. Thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where I could feel the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, I arose to my feet.
Replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, I looked around the room. Where should it be concealed? I could not keep it about my person, that was out of the question. My eye fell upon a heavy chest against the wall, and moving it I pushed the papers under the bottom; they could stay there at least, until I could find a better place.
I was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed, I dropped off to sleep.
CHAPTER VII THE PHANTOM
And now I am about to recount an occurrence so strange and unearthly that I have sometimes since doubted whether it was not the creation of my own fancy; whether or not I really saw what I am about to relate. I can offer no reasonable hypothesis that would account for such a physical impossibility—something that we are taught to sneer at—I can only say with others who have trod before us: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in thy philosophy." I can only set down in black and white what really took place, as best I can.
I know not how long I slept, whether one hour or five; I only know that I was awakened by that peculiar sensation which thou hast felt in thy sleep, when conscious that someone is gazing intently at thee. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room.
The storm clouds had passed away as rapidly as they had come, and the moonlight, streaming through the window, bathed the whole room in a flood of light, and lit it up as brightly as could the noonday sun.
There, standing cold and grim and gray near the bed, some six or eight paces away, clothed in a coat of antique armor, leaning upon his great bloody sword, his eyes fixed sternly upon me, was the figure of Geoffrey Winchester, first Lord Richmond.
There is a tradition in the family, handed down from father to son, from generation to generation, which runs somewhat like this: When William the Conqueror landed in England, he brought with him from Normandy a certain stout, sturdy, and gallant gentleman—this same Geoffrey Winchester—whom he held in high esteem for his stout arm and undaunted courage.
At the great battle of Hastings, the death-blow to so many noble Saxon scions of great families, this gentleman, Geoffrey, bore himself with great valor. Twice was William beaten to his knees by the furious assaults of the desperate Saxons, and twice did Geoffrey come to the rescue, and with his great two-handled sword clear a path around the King.
And so after the battle was over, William had called the Norman to him, and had asked him what he would have, telling him that he should have what he willed, even to the half of his kingdom. And Winchester had answered, so the legend ran, that he cared not for earthly honors, but he would that he might be able to come to the rescue of those of his own blood, when in some danger from their foes.
The King, struck by the strangeness of his request, had called to him a pious bishop who had fought by his side that day, and recounted to him what the soldier would have.
The holy man of God had turned to Geoffrey Winchester, and bidding him kneel, had prayed to the God of Battle that he grant the request of Winchester's heart, and then blessing him, had said: "Thou hast chosen wisely. So be it. In the ages to come, when thou hast long crumbled into the dust, still thou shalt have the power to appear once to those of thine own blood when they are in sore distress, and warn them of danger. Go thou in peace."
And so it had been from that day. When Richmond Castle was sacked during the troublous times of Stephen's reign, the phantom had appeared to warn the third Lord Richmond, who had escaped barely in time to save himself. In the reign of Richard Cœur de Lion, John Winchester, sixth Lord Richmond, who accompanied the King on his crusade to the Holy Land, saw this vision, which told him not to embark on the vessel that was to carry the host across the Mediterranean Sea. He did as the spectre had cautioned, and though his companions jeered at him for his craven heart to fear a dream of the night, still he stood firm, and the ship had gone down with all her crew on board. And so on down the ages. My grandfather, fighting the Scots upon the frontier, was warned by the gray Geoffrey to ride for England without delay. He waited for naught, but mounted and dashed away post-haste; an hour later the camp was sacked and burned by the wild Highlanders, and the whole company put to the sword.
Once, and only once, he had appeared, sooner or later, to each of the blood of Winchester, and in their hour of direst need had warned them of their danger.
True to the story, he stood before me to-night, just as he had stood when the bishop had blessed him at the battle of Hastings, the great dents still in his armor, his huge sword dripping with blood. There was no mistake; I had often seen his picture, when I had been but a child at the castle, and it had made an impression upon me. There was something wild, but yet noble, that I could never forget, in that bold, dark eye, the broad, high forehead, prominent, curved nose, and mouth set in its stern mould.
And now as I lay gazing at him the marrow almost froze in my bones; the cold, damp sweat stood out in great beads upon my forehead; my very hair seemed to rise on my head; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; I could not speak.
For a moment he stood thus, looking down at me, while his dark piercing eyes seemed to read the very secrets of my bosom. And then he spoke—or was it but the beating of my own heart? "Up! Be vigilant!" For an instant I saw him standing there, and then—there was only the moonlight as it cast the moving light and shadow upon the wall opposite. He was gone.
Springing up, with trembling hand I found my flint and steel, and lit the candle. Carefully I searched every nook and cranny of the broad room—there was nothing here; no one but myself.
Whatever there was to fear was plainly outside, and I knew not what to guard against, nor how to prepare myself for the danger that even now approached me; for I had no doubt that the specter spoke truth. He had never deceived one of my name yet, and deep down in my heart, I felt—yes, I knew—with a conviction unmistakable, that I stood to-night in perhaps the greatest peril of any which I had yet faced.
Blowing out the candle and drawing my sword, I took my seat in the darkest corner of the room, and waited—I knew not for what. I sat there an hour; no sound floated up from the silent house, nothing stirred; only the moon, pale and calm, shone down into the window. What meant the warning? Did danger imminent and portentous threaten me? I could draw no other meaning from the vision; and if so, where and how did it approach? I could only wait.
This much I knew, that whenever the first Lord Richmond had appeared to any of my house, on down through the ages, he had ever warned of some great peril, which, but for his appearance, would have proven the end of him to whom he spoke.
An hour I sat there, silent and motionless, my drawn sword in my hand, and then—I had almost persuaded myself that I had dreamed of the spectre, and turned to go to bed when lo! I heard a slight sound. It was as if someone had halted near me, I knew not exactly where, and stopped to listen. Then a click, and from the shadow of the room opposite, as though from out the solid wall, there stepped a man. Slowly, silently, he crept forward; quietly, softly, as though he feared to breathe, he crossed the room and drew near the bed. Then as he stood beside it, he straightened himself, raised his hand high, and as he drew back to strike I saw something glitter in the dim light.
Dropping my sword, I sprang forward with one bound, and caught him by one hand on his throat, the other clutching the arm that held the dagger. A short struggle, and I felt him grow limp under my iron grasp, for I held his throat like a vise. Carrying him forward in my arms to the window, and laying him down on the floor, I peered into his face. It was the fat priest.
I waited patiently, the dagger that he had dropped clasped in my hand. It was a long, sharp blade, and had it not been for my ghostly visitant, I would even now sleep that sleep that knows no waking.
A long sigh from the priest; he was coming to his senses. Sitting up, he looked around him, and catching sight of me as I stood opposite, the dagger in my hand, he cowered back against the wall, and covered his face with his hand.
"Listen," I said, bending toward him. "One sound, and I will run this dagger into that craven heart of thine. If thou dost fail to answer one question of mine, I shall say no word, but I will kill thee where thou sittest. Take away thy hand from thine eyes, and answer me quickly, as I put the questions to thee. Dost hear?"
Father Francis had jerked his hands from his face like a puppet figure, and now he sat by the window, his ruddy face all white and ghastly in the moonlight. "What wouldst thou have?" he moaned.
"Who sent thee here?" I asked. "Answer me quickly and truly, or into the nether world thou goest," and I flashed his dagger in his face.
"In the name of Heaven!" he cried in alarm. "Good Sir Thomas, brandish not the dagger about me so recklessly; should it but slip and strike me, I would be done for this world," and he shrank back against the wall.
"It would but serve thee right," I answered grimly. "Thou deservest no better fate. Answer me as I tell thee," and I pricked his fat arm with the point of the weapon.
With a loud howl of pain, he rubbed the injured spot vigorously.
"No one sent me," he said sullenly. "Didst thou not strike me down but a few short hours ago, without cause or provocation, as I walked peaceably along the shore, and then take from me papers that concerned thee not? Am I a man, that I should bear such treatment as this quietly? My head rings yet from the blow," and he raised his hand to his forehead, where there was a great swollen place as large as an egg.
"Thou liest," I answered coolly. "Speak truly; one last chance I give thee, and if thou dost fail to answer, thy soul shall go out to join that of thy comrade Herrick," and I made as if to stab him.
The ruse succeeded admirably.
"Stop!" he cried. "Stop! Wouldst thou murder me? I will answer truly, if thou wilt but give me time. It was DeNortier."
"And so thou wouldst creep upon a man and slay him unawares, while he sleeps. Is that all the manhood that remains in thee? I would not soil my hand with such carrion as thou art. Though thou dost richly deserve death, yet thou shalt go unharmed this once; but remember this, if thou dost cross my path again I will slay thee as I would a serpent, calmly and without compunction. Go! And tell thy master that he should do such work as this like a man; not hire such scum to do that which he fears to attempt himself. But stay a moment," I said, as the priest scrambled to his feet, and began to slink toward the door. "Give me that ring of mine which thou wearest upon thy finger." And I held out my hand for it.
Slowly he drew it from his pudgy finger, and dropped it into my outstretched palm.
"And another thing, how camest thou into the room? Show me but that, and thou shalt go unharmed." And catching him by the collar, I dragged him across the floor to the corner where I had seen him first.
With a growl he raised his hand, and touched the wall with his finger. Immediately a panel slipped back and disclosed an opening in the solid wood.
I turned to him. "Go!" I said, pointing to the door, "before I forget myself and run thee through. No—not through the panel, but out yonder door."
He waddled back across the room, and turning the key in the lock, opened the door. Stopping on the threshold, he looked back at me as I stood by the open panel. A smile was upon his fat countenance—a smile of triumph.
"Be not so sure that thou wilt explore yon passage to-night, my Lord," he cried in glee. "The battle thou knowest is not ever to the strong;" and as he said this the secret door in the wall slid to with a snap, and with a loud laugh, even as I sprang towards him, he slammed the door of the room and the bolt turned in the lock. He had touched some secret spring outside, that closed the aperture in the wall.
Long I stood there on the floor listening, but I heard no sound. The house was as though all were wrapped in slumber.
Crossing to the window, I looked out; along the sand outside there was passing the figure of a man. I did not have to look twice to know who it was; short, thick, and clumsy, it could be none other than Father Francis.
He halted, and I saw another man step forward to meet him. They were too far away for me to recognize who the stranger was; wrapped in a great cloak, he stood close to Francis and they seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation, for they would turn and point towards the mansion as they talked, and I saw the priest double in a loud fit of laughter.
At the sight a bitter smile crossed my lips, for I surmised that he was relating how he had outwitted and trapped me.
I turned my head; footsteps soft and slow were coming down the hall, and at the sound I crossed over to the door, and beat upon it with the hilt of the dagger. The steps stopped outside.
"What is it, Señor?" said the low voice of one of the Indian attendants, called José.
"Open, José," I whispered. "'Tis I, Sir Thomas."
A moment of silence. "I dare not, Señor," he whispered. "What would the Count say?"
"Open," I pleaded, "and thou shalt have a fine piece of gold with the face of the great mother across the water on it."
An instant, and then the key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and the face of the native peered in.
"I know not what the lord would say, did he know that I had done this," he muttered, trembling.
"He need not know of it," I replied. "Not unless thou dost tell him, for I most assuredly will not;" and tossing him a coin, I stopped only long enough to pick up my sword, which lay in the corner where I had dropped it.
Rushing quickly down the stairs and out of the house, I dashed toward the place where I had seen the priest and the stranger a few minutes before. The sky had clouded again, and it was evident that we were to have another storm; for in this changeable climate one moment the weather would be fine, and the next the heavens would be darkened by the heavy clouds.
I made my way cautiously down the path and followed the couple who, several hundred yards ahead of me, were walking slowly by the side of the water, seemingly deep in confab. Quietly and stealthily, keeping some distance behind, I followed them, gradually drawing nearer all the while. Never once did they look behind, as with heads bent, they walked steadily on.
Suddenly I saw them stop, and I threw myself flat upon the sand. They were evidently discussing something of more than ordinary interest. Who could the priest's companion be? I could not tell from this distance.
They had seated themselves upon the bench, and at the sight, I crawled cautiously up to where the rough, uneven sand lay heaped back from the water, and began to worm my way, flat on my stomach, towards them. 'Twas slow work, for I had to move at a snail's pace lest I should startle the twain, so engrossed in their conversation.
Minutes passed; I was getting nearer to them now, when there rang out a splash from the sea, and peering gradually up, I saw a boat, manned by four seamen, approaching rapidly the spot where the priest and his companion awaited them. Turning my head, I could see that I was within a few yards of them; but I did not care to run into their hands with the boat approaching, so I lay quiet where I was.
Nearer it drew, until within a few yards of the land; then one of the sailors hailed. Father Francis answered; and the boat grated upon the sand, while the men rested on their oars in silence. As they did so, a stray moonbeam came out from behind the clouds and fell full into the face of the tall stranger, who had arisen and was about to step into the boat. It was Lord Dunraven.
For a moment I lay still; and then, reckless of the seamen, thinking only of the way that he had slunk from me in the cave, of his plans against Margaret, and how he would wrest her away from her friends and home if he could, I arose to my feet.
"And so Lord Dunraven is afraid to walk in the day, and slinks about under cover of darkness to meet his hired assassins!" I cried ironically. "Such bravery as this is worthy of thee, and deserves commendation."
At the sound of my voice he had turned toward me, his foot upon the stern of the boat.
"Ah, Sir Thomas!" he said, "did I not have other plans on foot, I would meet thee here, and once and for all settle all matters of difference between us; but mighty reasons, which I have already stated to thee, forbid me from doing so. Should I by any mischance fall by thy sword, it would be a shame that the loveliest lady of England should weep out her eyes in sorrow at my untimely fate. Even now I go back to England to her kisses. I trust that thy stay upon the island may not prove unprofitable, and should time hang heavy on thy hands, perchance thou mightst amuse thyself with the thought of the bright lady in my arms. Farewell!" And he stepped into the boat.
"Dog!" I cried, rushing forward, "wait but one moment, and thou shalt hold no lady in thy foul arms again."
The priest, who had stood quietly on the sand, intending I suppose to see my lord off, at the first sound of my voice had pushed by Dunraven and sprang into the boat. Now as I ran forward, he cried:
"Wouldst thou wait for him? He is a fiend in disguise. Did I not lock him up, and has he not broken loose? Push off!—for the love of God push off!" his voice rising to a shriek as I neared them.
The boatmen needed no second bidding; plainly they feared the cold steel in my hand, for in a twinkle they had pushed off, and bent their backs to the oars with a will. When I reached the spot where my lord had stepped on board, they were fifty feet or more from me.
I hesitated for one moment, sorely tempted to spring into the surf and swim after them; but angered as I was, calm common sense came to my rescue. I was burdened with my steel breastplate and sword, and could not overtake the light boat manned by four sturdy seamen; even though I should, it would mean certain death to me. Six men to one, and he in the water; so I stood and watched them pull away.
Oh for a musketoon! I could have picked off my lord, as he sat in the stern facing me, as easily as I would a hare.
And even as I stood there upon the shore, biting my lips with rage to see them so easily glide out of my reach, my lord arose, and sweeping his hat from his head, bowed. "Adieu!" he said. "May thy dreams be pleasant. I shall remember thee to my lady," and he took his seat with a smile upon his face.
The boat dwindled down into a speck upon the water; still I stood there silent. Dunraven seemed ever to escape me, as I had my hand upon his throat. What meant he when he said that he returned to England? Did he speak truth, or was it but some lie to throw me off his track while he remained here to watch my movements?
Was the priest his spy kept here but to watch me, and perhaps the Spaniard also, and report all that we did or said? It seemed so from the diary that I had read. Perhaps Dunraven distrusted the Count as much as he did me, and was keeping an eye on us both.
I was beginning to think that he had good reason to fear the Spaniard, for had not the priest said in the cave to his companion Herrick that he had seen DeNortier walk the floor in agony, and cry out "Margaret! Margaret!"
I knew something of the Count by this time, and realized that he was a dangerous foe. Instead of one rival, it began to look as if I had two. Perhaps I might be able to join forces with DeNortier, and thus outwit Dunraven; then I could settle with the adventurer later. But where had the Spaniard seen Margaret? Echo answered "where?"
And so musing I retraced my steps towards the mansion, my head bent low in thought. The wind was rising again, and we would have a great storm if this but kept up for the night.
It was nearly day when I stood again in my own room. Something hung and dangled from the window, swinging to and fro in the rising wind, and knocking against the side of the house. My God! It could not be!
Rushing to the window, I drew through the grating the rope that hung outside; and there, his face bruised and disfigured, with gaping tongue, a great cut in his breast, hung the body of José, the servant who had released me from the room only a short while before. Cold, stiff, and lifeless he hung, and there, kneeling by his lifeless body, I swore that if God gave me health and strength I would pursue and punish the fiend who had done this deed.
CHAPTER VIII I DICE FOR A LIFE
It was noon before I awoke; a terrific storm was raging outside, and the sea was white with foam. Dressing rapidly, I made my way to the great dining hall. Often had I eaten there, sometimes alone, and sometimes with DeNortier, for when he was not on the island I ate alone; the men always kept to their barrack, and never came to the house save on some errand. They were uniformly respectful to me; they had evidently had orders from the captain to be so, and they knew him too well to dare to disobey his commands. I, of course, had naught to do with them, save occasionally to ask them some question.
DeNortier supplied me with all that I needed. One evening when I returned from a stroll, I had found a new doublet and hose in my room; at another time a new feather for my hat. I had several times found small sums of money upon my table, and appreciated that delicate sense of honor which realized how I must feel, and did not roughly force what I needed upon me.
DeNortier was seated at the table alone, eating a slice of venison.
"Welcome!" he said in a cordial tone. "This venison is excellent," and he took a great bite as he glanced up at me.
There was no trace of the pallor and wildness of the night before in his manner; now self-composed, alert, calm, he was himself again.
Seating myself opposite him, I helped myself to the meat.
"Count, I have a grievance to lay before thee," I said.
"What is it?" he inquired. "Have any of the men failed to show thee the proper respect? If so, thou hast but to speak, and I will know how to punish them."
"No, it is not that," I answered. "I find this morning the body of one of the natives swinging in front of my window. Who has done this deed?" and I looked intently at him.
His voice was cold as he replied: "He was a mutinous rogue, and even dared to disobey my orders. The safety of my plans—the safety of us all—depends upon the rigidity of the discipline which I maintain. Did I but loose the reins, even for a moment, the men would break out of all bounds, and our heads would pay the penalty; so I punished him as he deserved."
"No need to hang him to my window, if thou didst!" I cried. "Thou hast done many deeds of bloodshed and sin, but as I live I shall have thy life for this!" and I struck the table with my fist a loud blow.
"It is a warning, Sir Thomas," he drawled, "'a word to the wise is sufficient.' As for thy sword, put it up. I will not fight thee now; I told thee once before, that I could not cross swords with thee just yet. Have no fear, I will meet thee; thou hadst best save thy wind and thy sword too, for thou wilt need them;" and he drummed upon the table with his fingers, unconcerned, though I stood within two feet of him, my sword in hand, and could have run him through before he could have saved himself.
"Dost thou call thyself a gentleman?" I asked bitterly, "and hire a cutthroat to slay a man, whom thou fearest to meet thyself?"
A dull red flush covered the Count's face, his eyes glittered like a trapped beast.
"What meanest thou?" he growled hoarsely. "Explain thyself, for I know not what thou referrest to."
"I refer to last night, when Father Francis tried to knife me by thy command while I slept," I answered. "Oh! thou art a noble of Spain to do such work as this; and then fear to meet the man thou didst try to have murdered. I would disgrace myself by crossing swords with such as thee."
"Have a care," he growled, his face swollen with anger, "have a care lest I forget myself and run thee through. As for the priest, I swear to thee that I know naught of that which thou sayest, until thou didst tell me of it but a moment ago. This much I will say to thee, that I never yet feared man or devil. I have ever done my work in the open, have never stooped to such tricks as this, and were it not for a matter that I cannot explain I would fight thee now, and forever rid myself of thee."
"Save thy breath for one who will believe thee," I answered. "As for myself, I believe naught that thou hast said." And picking up my hat, I left him there, his face hot and red with rage, and walked out upon the porch.
Looking out I saw two sailors coming up the path, leading a youth between them. He was a stranger, young, handsome, with a sunny brown eye, long yellow locks, a frank, open face, and could not have been more than twenty years at most. As he came nearer I saw him glance at me.
"What hast thou here?" I asked one of the men.
He answered, respectfully enough: "A young gentleman, sir, who was washed ashore last night from the brig that went down. We kept him in the barrack, for he was half drowned, although to-day he is as bright as a cricket, and is the only soul that came ashore alive out of the ship."
"Art thou English?" I asked the youth.
"Yes," the young fellow replied, looking at me out of his frank eyes. "In whose hands am I?"
"Ask those who are better acquainted than myself," I replied. "The Count is in the dining hall, my men."
"Come," said one of the sailors, and they led him in to where DeNortier sat.
I watched him as they carried him into the hall; his was a fresh, young face, virile and strong, a captive too, like myself, and I naturally felt an interest in his fate. Turning, I passed back into the dining hall, where the Count, silent and moody, still sat.
He was questioning the lad when I entered.
"What is thy name?" he asked, speaking in English.
"Oliver Gates," the boy replied in the same tone, his head held high.
"What art thou doing in these strange seas?" the other said.
"I was page to my Lord Lamdown," the lad answered brightly; "but I had grown tired of the soft, idle life, and being an orphan, with none of kin in England, I embarked with Captain Jones as a gentleman adventurer for the coast of Cuba to trade with the natives. We had gotten this far and all seemed well, until last night the storm arose, and the ship went down."
"Where am I?" continued the boy, as DeNortier sat silent in the great chair, his head bent in thought, as though forgetful of all around him.
At this question the pirate stirred, and raised his eyes to the handsome face of the lad.
"I could best answer that question by telling thee into whose hands thou hast fallen," he said, with a frown. "I am the Count DeNortier."
Oliver started, a look of fear crossed his face.
"What!" he cried. "Not DeNortier the pirate?"
"The same," answered the adventurer, unmoved by the other's alarm.
"I am in need of recruits," he continued. "Thou dost seem a likely strippling, wilt thou come with us? Thou shalt be my right-hand man, with thy pockets full of gold, and sword in hand thou wilt be the envy and admiration of all the maids in London," and he laughed, a grim look of mirth upon his face.
But the lad stood determined.
"I will not come," he said firmly, "though thou dost slay me. I was raised in the family of, and have served, a nobleman; thinkest thou that I would disgrace my training like this? To roam the seas with a band of cutthroats, and finally to swing 'twixt heaven and earth, a rope around my neck?"
The answer seemed to fan the smoldering rage of the Count into a flame. With an oath, he caught up his sword which lay upon the table, and drew it from its sheath.
"Choose!" he cried. "Either thou shalt join me without more words, or prepare to meet thy doom; for as certain as thou dost stand there, I will run thee through if thou dost not join me."
The boy threw back his head, his cheeks were pale, but his look was high and unflinching.
"Strike," he said, "if thou wilt, for I refuse to join thee."
The Spaniard raised his sword, but leaning over I caught the hilt with my hand and held it.
"Ruffian!" I cried. "Wouldst thou slay the youth? He is but a child."
A slow, evil look was upon his face; for a moment his anger mastered him.
"Twice hast thou crossed my path to thwart me," he growled. "Take care, there shall be no third time." Then drawing back, he sheathed his sword.
"I will dice with thee for the lad's life," he said suddenly. "If thou dost win, he is thine to do with what thou wilt; if thou shouldst lose, then he is mine. Wilt cast with me?"
I hesitated a moment; then turning to the boy, who stood gazing with wide-open eyes upon us, I cried:
"Art thou content that we should dice for thy life, or wilt thou have none of it?"
His face was pale, but he answered me quickly: "I am content; better that I should die, than be in the hands of such as he."
"So be it," I answered. "Where are the dice?"
Turning to the corner, he drew from a chest the dice, and a little round box, and with those in his hand, moved to the table.
"Wilt thou throw first?" he asked, "or shall I?"
"No," I answered; "do thou throw. I will follow thee."
It was a strange scene in that great room. The rough seamen gathered around the table watching, eager to see which way the dice would fall; the boy, Oliver Gates, as he stood behind me, watching the dice in the Count's hand—his life the stakes for which we gamed. DeNortier, a dark scowl upon his face, fingering coolly the box in which the dice lay, ready to cast without a tremor the little squares on which depended a human life; myself, with face as white as the boy's, as I thought of the great load which rested upon me, and of how much depended upon "Chance," the blind goddess.
DeNortier stood opposite me, only the little light in his dark eyes betraying his excitement. I watched his hand narrowly while he shook the dice in the box, preparing to throw. I have often thought of that scene since, and wondered if I fully appreciated its solemnity as I watched the Spaniard, and yet I was oppressed by the thought that a human life lay in my hands, either to be lost or to be gained; but as the lad had said, better that he should die than to live a captive in the pirate's hands and at his mercy.
He threw, and with a rattle the dice rolled out upon the table. For a moment I feared to look, and then summoning all my courage, with an effort I looked at the dice—double fours—could I beat that?
I saw the look of triumph in DeNortier's eyes, plainly he thought that he had won; and there as I stood with the box in my hand, I sent up one fervent prayer to whatever gods there be, to fight for me in that hour, and guide the dice aright.
Raising my hand I tossed, and they rolled down upon the table and over to the further side. I bent over them with eyes that feared to behold the result, and I could hear the quick, deep breathing of Oliver Gates behind me, as with beating heart he awaited to hear his fate. The two seamen were bending over the table with eager faces. I straightened myself up—five and four.
"The day is mine, Count," I said triumphantly.
"Yes," he answered, "thou hast it; the fates are propitious. Beware! they will not be ever at thy side;" and turning from me he passed out of the room. The men followed, leaving me alone with Oliver.
"Thy life is safe," I said to him, "and thou shalt be my page. Wilt enter my service?"
"Who art thou?" he asked. "It seems as if I had seen thy face before, yet I know not where."
"Sir Thomas Winchester, of London," I answered.
"I recognize thy face now," he said. "Oft have I seen thee in London, but thou art changed," and he hesitated.
"Say that I have grown older," I replied. "Nay, do not deny it. I know that I have grown older, and that the gray is beginning to fleck my hair; hadst thou been through what I have the last six months, thy hair would be gray too."
"What doest thou here?" he asked, his eyes fixed still upon my face. "Thou hast not joined these ruffians, and become one of them?"
"The saints forbid!" I answered quickly. "I am a captive here even as thou art." And then I related in a few words all I wished him to know of my kidnaping and detention upon the island.
He listened intently, a look of wonder upon his face.
"And why does my Lord Dunraven hound thee thus?" he cried. "What motive has he, that he should detain thee here?"
"Lad," I answered, a bitter smile upon my face, "thou art young yet, and hast much to learn; when thou growest older thou wilt know what a man will do for the love of a maid. Dost know the Lady Margaret Carroll?"
"Aye," he answered, "the loveliest lady in England; as well ask me if I know my master."
"Then," I answered, "is there need to look further than the lady for a cause?"
A look of understanding came into his face.
"I see," he said, "and wonder no longer. A lady so fair would tempt a man to risk his soul, could he but win her."
"But thou hast not answered my question; wilt be my man and enter my service? I have need of such a one here, and when I come to my own again, thou shalt not regret it."
"Yes," he answered, a look frank and true upon his open face. "I owe my life to thee. I am thy man, for better or for worse, and here is my hand on it," and he stretched out his hand to me.
I reached out and grasped it, a mist before my eyes. 'Twas the first friendly hand I had clasped since Steele had sailed away and left me weary months before, and I knew what it meant to be alone and friendless among bitter foes.
"Thou shalt not rue it," I said.
And thus Oliver Gates entered my service. He was a treasure, that boy; he fell to and cleaned my muddy clothes and boots, polished my rusty breastplate, mended the rents in my ragged doublet, and was ever at my elbow, ready to serve me.
He had cleaned the musketoon which I carried, and one morning I came suddenly upon him, his eyes fixed upon the sight, the weapon at his shoulder.
"What art thou doing?" I asked in surprise, seeing no one at whom he pointed.
He lowered the gun, a look of confusion upon his face.
"I was but wishing that my Lord Dunraven walked below," he answered, "and I would soon rid thee of him forever;" and he looked up into my face.
I was strangely touched by his thoughts of me, for I had grown to love him well, with his frank and merry ways, ever with a song upon his lips, ever busy with thoughts of my comfort and welfare.
"Lad," I said, "I know not what I would do without thee."
A tear came into his eye, and rolled down his rosy cheek; he tried to speak, but could not, and turning, hurried from the room.
Sometimes at night as we sat together in my room under the candlelight, I would have him to tell me of London, and what my friends did there, of himself, and of his life before he sailed on his ill-fated voyage.
I learned that my old comrade Drake had sailed for the Spanish Main in search of gold; that Bacon was busy with his law; Raleigh was in high favor with the Queen, and seemed at present to be the favorite; Bobby Vane he did not know. The Lady Margaret Carroll was the toast of London, happy, gay, light-hearted; rumor had it that she would soon become the bride of the Lord Dunraven, who, devoted, gallant, and attentive, was ever her constant shadow, and since I had vanished so mysteriously from London, he had no rival of importance.
Of me, London had gossiped for a few days; the tale of my disinheritance had been the talk of the town, and followed so soon by my disappearance had created quite a sensation, and a dozen different stories had been circulated by way of explanation. Some said I had committed suicide; others that I had gone to the Low Country to assist the Dutch; still others that I had joined the freebooters and become a sea-rover.
It had furnished sensation for the ladies and gentlemen of fashion, as they gathered under the evening candles and sipped their tea, but other things came to engage their attention; what cared they if one poor gentleman, stripped of his position and fortune, lived or died? I had passed from their world forever, and so with a jest upon their lips they had flitted to some new topic.
Only a few friends had made an effort to find some trace of my fate. Bobby Vane and Raleigh had indeed searched, but could find no clue. It was as though the earth had swallowed me up.
Oliver Gates loved me, I believed. He followed me about like a dog; had searched the island for Father Francis and Dunraven, and was ever vigilant to track the Spaniard in hope that he would discover some trace of my lord, but in vain.
Dunraven and Father Francis I had never seen since they left the island that stormy night in the boat. Sometimes I thought they had gone down in the gale, but they were too wicked to die like honest men. No, I believed they were alive, perhaps in England, engaged in plots to abduct my lady, and at the thought I would pace the floor and wring my hands. At such times Oliver was a boon to me. He would sing some ballad of the olden days, when a knight, brave in his armor, and with his waving pennant, would ride out to do battle for his lady love; and at the sound of his rich, mellow voice, the care and sorrow would fade away from my heart, and I would forget myself and all my woes.
So the time passed, and spring had come; the sun shone brightly, and its beauty had tempted me out of the house. All was light and merry beneath the morning light; the birds were singing, and all earth seemed to lie quiet and peaceful, as though weary of toil and labor, and resolved to take holiday for one brief day.
Oliver I had not seen for several minutes, and I strolled down the lane that led to the little settlement of the natives. A few of them I met as I walked down the path, and with a word of greeting, they had stepped aside to let me pass.
I kept steadily on my way, my head bent, thinking of old England and wondering if I would ever see it again. The grass was green and fresh there, the spring flowers were beginning to bloom, and in the fields the sod lay upturned to the sun. The fresh scent of the turf struck my nostrils. Ah, this was England! It held naught for me, perhaps only scorn and hatred; still my heart yearned for the Old Country like that of the exile condemned to some prison, far from his home. It was where my eyes had first beheld the light, and it was there, when I finished my weary journey and life's brief sorrows were over, that I wished to rest quietly beneath its green turf, where naught of the world's turmoil and strife could reach; safe from all harm, with only the silent stars to shine down upon me, I would sleep with my fathers.
I was coming into the group of bark huts; only one old woman was visible, her form bent nearly double with age, her hair snow white, her eyes sunken, her face weather-beaten as though by many a storm. Crouched by one of the low entrances she sat, her eyes fixed upon me. There was that look of knowledge, of understanding, in them, which comes only with extreme age; the look of one who has tasted of all life's secrets, and who has known all that it contains.
I paused beside her, struck by the look of withered age upon her face, and by her snow-white hair; for I had never seen a native with white hair before.
"What is thy age, old crone?" I asked her, in the native tongue.
She did not stir, only her sunken eyes were fixed upon my face, and then, in a voice cracked and broken, she replied:
"Neulta has seen the suns of one hundred and four summers, and still she remains; those whom she knew in her youth have long since gone from among her people."
One hundred and four years old! She was mad; but still she was extremely old, her face showed that.
I knew the name too; often when the servants at the mansion had lost aught, or anything had mysteriously disappeared, they would go to Neulta, and she would tell them where to find the missing article. Strange to say, when they had looked where she directed, they would always discover the missing thing.
Wonderful stories were told of her superhuman powers by the natives. It was said that DeNortier always consulted her before embarking on his voyages; that she had foretold to Herrick, months before, that he would meet death by the hand of a tall stranger, alone in a cavern; he had laughed at her, but lo! it had been even as she had said. The Indians swore by Neulta, and regarded her as a goddess.
I had scoffed at the tales told me by the dead José and the other servants; had told them that the old hag had stolen the things herself, and did but tell them where they were hidden that she might increase their faith in her, but I could never persuade them that I spoke truth. Some thought of the idle tales crossed my mind as she told me her age.
"Thy mind wanders," I answered. "It is not possible; tell me something that I can believe."
The old woman sat still and motionless, then she answered: "Before the Señor's father came into this world I was a middle-aged woman. When the Señor dies I will still be here; for I hold the magic power handed down from my people, who dwelt on this island long before these miserable natives whom thou now seest about thee had landed in this place. Ah," she continued, rising to her feet at the thoughts of the past, "they were a race of men! These are but cattle, who are fitted to wait upon the white man. But why do I talk thus?" she muttered, seating herself again. "My people have vanished, and I alone remain.
"The Señor does not believe me; he thinks that I dream. Let the Señor but come into my hut here, and I will show him things which are not of this world. Does he wish to behold whom he thinks of? But follow me and he shall see what he wots not of. Come!" and she hobbled to the door of the hut and threw it open.