Christopher looked about for the pole, and saw it bobbing on end as it struggled against submergence in the down-thrust behind the fall. It was twenty fatal feet away. The ferocity of elemental self-preservation seized on the man and transformed him. This was not the attitude of patient, gentle Christopher, the humble, serving Christopher, but that of a bayed animal. My hands were tied by the necessity of Beelo’s care.
The spectacle that had unmanned Christopher was in a profound recess reaching indeterminately out of the cavern and behind the waterfall. It had not been visible until we rounded the fall and went scurrying behind it in the eddy. Apparently far back,—I cannot guess how far,—ran a broad, high, fantastically irregular tunnel ending in a pit of boiling lava, at an unknown depth below the level of the tunnel, which itself was slightly above the surface of the pool. Deep rumblings issued from it, as from a heavy ebullition, punctured with smothered detonations. Rising from it were thin, cloud-like masses of vapor, like the pale mauve haze of distant mountains. In its rolling it thickened concealingly here and opened revealingly there, with constantly shifting effects.
The dominant color was a deep, transparent crimson of a tint such as may be seen in the cooling iron of a foundry or in the great crater of Kilauea; but following the detonations came leaping flames of bluish purple. It was the red shining through the water that had made the cataract a fall of liquid crimson when seen from the front.
This, then, was the funnel of a volcano, with a lateral vent. Was it one of Pluto’s cooling forges? Was its present activity transient? Was this the beginning of a seismic convulsion that might blow the valley rampart into the sea?
I cannot say when those questions arose. The urgency of an immediate threat demanded all attention. Beelo was in an ecstasy of terror, and Christopher was desperately casting about with all his reassembled wits. In the tumult of noises our voices were useless. We had been flung out of the larger eddy into a smaller one swirling between the back of the fall and the tunnel-mouth. It had a swifter and more dizzying whirl. Soon it seemed that we were still, except for the ceaseless rolling of our craft, and that the roaring fall and the grumbling, blazing tunnel were swinging round us. With the rest passed the bobbing pole, a live, insane thing, nodding this way and that, approaching the downpour gingerly, diving under a sharp water-blow, and leaping up with malicious sprightliness a few feet back. At any moment it might be caught sidewise and crushed.
There was another danger. The centrifugal force of our swing in the eddy was carrying us out to the periphery of the swirl. On one side were the rocks at the mouth of the tunnel; opposite was the waterfall, the slightest blow from which (since it fell from a height of at least a hundred feet) would mean the end. Our swinging was taking us nearer to both those dangers.
Something roused within, overcoming my pity for Beelo. I shook him and slapped his cheek. Astonishment and anger blazed in his eyes, and then with a mighty indignation he crawled away and sat glaring at me. At another time the comical picture would have amused me, for the boy behaved just as a proud kitten under similar treatment. Having secured the desired result with Beelo, I worked to the edge of the raft, and prepared to make a leap for the pole. I was waiting till the raft should swing round and bring me nearer. Before that happened, two soft arms were flung round me from behind, a cheek pressed mine, and I was borne down backward. Two small, firm hands held my wrists down. For the moment I was helpless.
Of course, Christopher knew that our nearer approach to danger brought us closer to hope, which lay in the pole. He was biding the moment, and it came. He crouched on the raft, and a long arm shot out. Beelo’s nerves were quivering till Christopher rose; then they stilled, and he released me.
Christopher had learned from experience, and it was a surer hand now that gripped the pole and sent the raft spinning out of the eddy. To keep it somewhat trimmed against Christopher’s movements had been a small part of my task hitherto, so thoughtful of everything had he been; but now that he saw Beelo and me better used to the situation, he quietly gave us something of that to do, thus securing more freedom of movement.
He found the egress of the stream from the pool, and pushed out. Slowly we crept through the gloomy, misty light, which paled as we went. Christopher must have felt a dread that oppressed me—the danger of recurrent explosions—for he worked with less extreme caution than before, and our progress was better. After a time the light was too dim for me to see Beelo sitting in his sullen pout; and when darkness again fell, he crept up beside me and stole out a hand for mine. The noises had nearly ceased, and Beelo no longer feared the weird echoes.
“I’m glad it’s past,” he sighed, nestling against me. “Aren’t you, Choseph?”
“Joseph.”
He hugged my arm and softly laughed.
“Yes, I’m glad,” I answered.
It seemed many hours since we had entered the passage, and I hoped we should emerge in the morning of the day following that of our start.
New conditions began to arise. Above the cataract the stream had been slow, with few approaches to rapids. Those had been the worst danger-points. Now we discovered that the current was swifter and the rapids more numerous and turbulent. The celerity of Christopher’s movements increased. He no longer tried to spare us the water dripping from his pole as he repeatedly shifted it and groped for bearings. This made me more apprehensive. I wondered whether, even with better facilities, we could return to the valley through this passage, and how the two hundred and fifty colonists could manage to come safely through.
Presently I felt in the water a turgidity where the current was slow, and heard a hoarse, growling rumble quite different from the sounds that we had left behind. Beelo tightened his clutch and breathlessly said:
“It has come!”
“What has, lad?”
“Hush!”
Except for an unusual slapping of the water against the rocks, the commotion had passed. I wondered if the storm had broken in the valley and the torrent was coming; but this did not look like it.
“It has gone, Beelo. What was it?”
“No, it hasn’t. Hold tight. Sit hard, Christopher!”
“Beelo,” I impatiently demanded, “you must tell me what——”
The speech was stopped by a groaning crunch that tossed the stream, splashed the water high on the rocks, and filled the passage with a sound like that of crushing glass. Beelo was again in terror.
“Be quiet, lad. There’s nothing——-”
“Don’t talk!” he desperately commanded. “The third one will come. That’s the worst. Wait!”
The seconds dragged through an awful silence. Beelo’s breath struggled spasmodically through the repression under which he tried to hold it.
The third shock came, and then, though I had never felt one before, I knew what it was. The whole world seemed to heave and writhe and jolt and grind, all with a fearful noise. The earthquake, grim brother of the boiling cauldron we had left, had us in its jaws, and its power was manifest in the ease with which it crushed and ground the rocks about us. Fragments of these began to splash in the water and rattle on the raft. Just in front, a huge block plunged into the stream and dashed us with water.
Beelo flung himself upon me; I again bent over him to shield him.
Another heavy stone struck the raft in the narrow space between Christopher and us, and tore through it into the water, sending up a geyser through the hole.
A stiffening wave of terror overswept Beelo. He sprang to his knees and tightly embraced my neck in both arms.
“We are going to die!” he feebly cried, and pressed his lips to mine, sinking inert into my arms. My fingers anxiously sought his pulse. It was fluttering.
“Christopher!” I called in alarm,—not realizing that the earthquake had passed and that a dim light made visible the rocks in a turn ahead,—“Christopher! Something has happened to Beelo!”
“Yes, sir,” came with the steady old calm.
“Stop! We must do something for him.”
“We are going out, sir.”
We swung the curve, and the blessed daylight smiled ahead. The raft slid out of the passage in placid water, which here, as at the other end, was deeply embowered. The glorious day, though overcast, was brilliant to our eyes as it sifted through and rested sweetly on the water. As Beelo was unconscious, Christopher observed extraordinary care in proceeding, and as soon as possible secured the raft in the sheltered reach.
I was looking down into Beelo’s face. His head had fallen back, and although his eyes were closed, his lips were open. It came over me with a pang that a richness and a maturity which I had not before noticed in his face, rested there now.
“How long has it taken us to come through?” I asked Christopher.
“‘Mos’ four hours, sir.”
I was surprised. It had seemed much longer.
He came to lift Beelo out, but I myself bore him ashore and laid him on the ground, and knelt over him. Christopher was standing near, studying him, but showing no anxiety.
“It is only fainting, isn’t it, Christopher?” I asked.
“That’s all, sir.”
To give him air, I began to open his blouse.
“I wouldn’t, sir,” interposed Christopher.
“Why?” I asked, looking up in surprise.
He only regarded me in silence. At first I thought that Christopher’s singular penetration had discovered that Beelo was lighter of color than a full-blooded native and was delicately warning me not to invade the carefully guarded secret. I recalled the story that I had told Beelo, and my suspicions as to the purity of his native blood. And what harm could come if I did learn?
Then the truth came upon me with the overwhelming force of long cumulation. His conduct in the tunnel, his sweetness and gentleness, the strange conclusion of the scene with Annabel when they had met,—a thousand memories of things that had passed unheeded in the stress of dangers,—came as a blinding light. I do not know when Christopher learned the truth, but in his chivalry he would have seen me go blind to the grave without a word from him in betrayal of Beelo’s secret.
The shock stunned me, and my head was bowed in reverence. When I again looked into the patient face, now having for me so sweet and touching a pathos, the deep-blue eyes were looking up into mine; then they turned to Christopher, and all about. The old mischievous, bantering smile parted the perfect lips. The eyes again sought mine.
“Choseph! It’s fine to be dead!” But the voice held a different music from that of the lad whom I had loved and who was now gone forever.
In the Enemy’s Land. The Weird Light on the Valley Wall. Mr. Vancouver. A Visit with Lentala. She Tells a Secret Which I Already Know.
I Would respect Beelo’s wish that she appear as a boy, and must keep hammering into my mind the words, Boy, Lad, Dear Little Brother. I must not for a moment think of her otherwise. “Boy, Lad, Dear Little Brother.”
“What are you dreaming, Choseph, and what are those words your lips are saying?” It was Beelo’s cheery voice.
He was sitting up; I was beside him looking down at the gliding water. I woke to the familiar raillery, and turned with a smile.
“Dear lad!” I joyfully responded.
“You had forgotten me,” he ruefully said. “And you, old Christopher! Don’t you see I’m dying of thirst?”
Christopher plucked two large leaves, fashioned them into a cup, and brought the water, which Beelo eagerly drank. He held out his hand, and I helped him up. He tried his legs.
“That’s better,” he said.
The perfect grace of movement, the exquisite feminine figure so artfully concealed,——
“Boy, Lad, Dear Little Brother.”
“Mooning again, and talking to yourself!” cried Beelo.
“It was a rough trip through the passage, boy. I’m a little shaken.”
“That’s past. Shake the other way.” He was pirouetting round a tree.
“But how are we going back, lad?”
“This way,” he carelessly answered, making wing-motions with his arms.
“There was an earthquake, Beelo.”
He stopped short, and his eyes lighted deep.
“Yes!” he softly but impressively exclaimed.
The old caution settled in his face; he peered and listened warily, and then came a look of assured repose.
“That is good,” he said,—“if—” a cloud drifted over his face—“if they felt it on the surface.”
“They did,” interposed Christopher.
“How do you know?” Beelo sharply demanded.
Christopher pointed to a large rock near us, to the path that it had freshly torn through the brush, and to a steep slope from which it had been dislodged.
“Good for Christopher!” said Beelo. He studied the sky, and dejectedly added, “But the storm is coming!” After a little reflection he remarked, as if to himself, “I don’t know whether that should change our plans or not.” He seated himself to think it out, and began arranging twigs on the ground. “No Senatras will be within miles of the passage,” he ruminated. “They fear it, for the earthquake is born here, and they have run away. So, we can make better time. Mr. Vancouver is safe today; we won’t go there.”
“Where, dear little brother?”
Pain crossed his face. “To the clearing opposite the Face. If only another earthquake would come, or this had come sooner!”
“Is one usually followed by another?”
“Often. Sometimes not. Come! The sun will be setting before long, and we have miles to go.”
We hid the battered raft and struck out. Our way led parallel to the stream, which tore foaming down a gorge of steeply sloping sides. It slipped into a pleasant valley, richly verdured. There we left it and began the ascent of a mountain on the west. Dusk was coming on. Beelo fearlessly pursued the trails in the darkening hours.
Occasionally we paused to rest. The valley which we had crossed lay a black-green sea below. Behind us the eastern sky was cut straight across by the level summit of our valley wall. Beelo was closely studying it.
“You see no sign of fire over there, do you?” he asked, pointing toward the clearing opposite the Face.
There was none, and Beelo was gratified. Our attention was diverted from that spot by a faint purplish flash, which slipped along the crest above the river passage, and was quickly gone. Beelo stood tense and still, and whispered:
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
We waited for its reappearance, but none came. Beelo said no more. The light had come from the subterranean lava-pot.
Beyond the wall was the blackest part of the sky. Under the horizon in that direction lightning was at play, as we judged from faint illuminations in the distant heavens, and the rumble of far thunder.
Night had nearly fallen when we reached the summit. The descent was rapid on the other side, for Beelo went with the sureness of familiarity. At last we stopped at an abandoned hut, hidden in the deep forest. Beelo paused on the door-step.
“See,” he said, pointing to a glow a mile or less away, down the valley. “That is the main settlement of the Senatras. The king’s palace, where Lentala and I live, is there. We will visit it tonight,—if Lentala agrees. You will rest here awhile and have something to eat. After the visit to the palace you will sleep here.”
He showed us within, closed the door, blew a flame from smothered embers on the hearth, and lighted a nut-oil lamp. He had been very sober and quiet all the way, but now his eyes began to dance.
“This is your mansion!” he exclaimed.
The place had been made clean and sweet, good beds of leaves were on the earth floor, and fresh water stood in calabashes. Beelo dragged forward a copper vessel, and took from it a generous food supply.
“Isn’t she pretty good—for a girl?” he casually asked.
“Who?”
“Lentala. She did these things.”
Ever since the scene at the end of the passage, sadness had sat upon me, and I was in no mood to enjoy Beelo’s pleasantries,—this, too, while I was deeply touched by the labor and gentle thoughtfulness with which everything had been done for our comfort. Still, something precious was gone from my life; my heart hungered for the lad. But he was here! In a swirl of perversity I seized Beelo’s hands, and held him before me.
“Dear lad,” I said, “I am walking in the dark. Believe me, little brother, I am grateful—more grateful than any words could say—for the skill and the kindness that we have seen from you. But my heart is sore, and you are laughing at me.”
Something between suspicion and embarrassment had been rapidly growing in Beelo’s face. Of a sudden he closed my mouth with his hand and made a brave rally of Beelo’s old flippancies.
“Christopher,” he said, “did you ever see such a goose? Such an old goose?”
I gently removed his hand.
“I am serious, boy.”
“Hush!” commanded Beelo in a whisper.
His hunt down into me was ruthless, but the hurt there helped me to steady my gaze. “When I fainted——” he began, and stopped, having found my face expressionless. He turned to Christopher, who, giving no attention to us, was setting out the supper on a mat. Beelo’s sharp eyes came back to me.
“Dear little brother,——”
“No, no! Not a word!” he broke in. “I haven’t time, and you are hungry. Come, Choseph!”
He turned me to the supper and forced me to sit on the ground opposite Christopher. It was pleasant to be man-handled by Beelo. His abuse of me was always smoothed by affection. I had no appetite, but who could resist Beelo? He played that I was an invalid and unable to help myself. He patted my cheek, put food into my mouth, chattered nonsense as though I were a baby, and petted me with outrageous condescension. There was nothing to do but melt under his dear absurdities; and when he found me re-established, he kissed me on the forehead and dashed out, calling that he would be back before long.
When he returned he was brilliantly alive. There seemed no end to his vitality.
“It’s glorious!” he cried, seizing Christopher and sending his bulk in a twirl across the hut. “It’s splendid!” he went on, smashing my dignity with boy’s play. “It’s just——” But his breath was gone, and he tumbled in a panting heap on the ground.
“What news, Beelo?” I inquired.
He sat up, but as yet had meager breath for speech.
“Mr. Vancouver—is safe. Doesn’t look very—happy. Hasn’t seen—the king. Oh, no! Lentala,—who is an Angel—and Sweet—and Kind—and Beautiful,—is just dying—to see you. And——”
“Rest a minute,” I interrupted.
He flung a little pout at me, and then archly demanded, “Aren’t you good-natured yet, Choseph?”
I shook my head.
“You will be when you see Lentala,” he said with mock melancholy. “Don’t you like girls?” he suddenly fired at me.
“Y—es,” I stammered consciously.
“You like Annabel!” with a spitfire touch on his tongue.
“I once liked, very much, a dear lad named Beelo more than any girl.”
“Once liked Beelo!” His shining eyes were lances.
“I like him just as much yet—when he is Beelo.”
I knew by his start that the thin ice on which I walked was cracking.
“And what is he when he isn’t Beelo?”
“A little devil.”
He laughed. “You aren’t quite dead,” he said, and a briskness sprang into his manner. “We must go. Most of the Senatras have already gone to sleep. Come.”
He rapidly led us into the valley, meanwhile instructing us how to respond if greeted. The natives were not garrulous nor inquisitive, and we passed unnoticed, until the outskirts of the settlement were reached. There, in a dimly lighted hut, Mr. Vancouver was resting under guard, Beelo informed us. A barely visible figure challenged Beelo. The prompt response made the shape sink from view.
“We haven’t time to see Mr. Vancouver now,” said the lad to us.
A turn in a lane lined with huts brought us into a beautiful highway, broad and white, and picketed with odorous trees which arched overhead. The darkness would have been profound but for a diffused light which glowed ahead upon something white. We went rapidly toward it, and found it to be a high stone wall; the light was from two lamps on posts where the highway swung to the left and ran at the foot of the wall.
Instead of following the main road Beelo turned into a narrow way to the right. The overhead growth was so dense that the light from the lamps was soon lost, but Beelo knew the way. At last he stopped, and slipped a key into a lock. The heavy wooden door, plated and strapped with iron, suggested a postern in an archaic fortress. He led us within and secured the door.
The nearer approach of the storm brought lightning, which increased Beelo’s caution while revealing glimpses of our environment. In the region behind the wall the verdure was less dense and more orderly than in the park through which we had come. The lightning made the open spaces embarrassing to our guide, who hurried us across them to the shadows. Finely kept paths wound and intersected, but Beelo knew shorter routes. A rising wind assisted the stealth of our progress.
He brought us under the shadow of a low arcade, open on one side, and closed on the other with a long stone house. The pillars were massed in vines. Here the darkness was intense. The stone floor gave no sound under our tread.
Beelo stopped us, advanced a few paces, and rapped on a door. It was cautiously opened, but we could not see within as Beelo entered. A very faint light barely made him visible.
“Lentala!” he whispered, “they are here.”
A voice fuller and mellower than Beelo’s yet much like his, answered, “Yes? I had given you up, and was undressing for bed.”
“You’ll dress?” Beelo spoke nervously.
“Yes. Tell them to wait a little while. They are safe out there. Beelo, the king is furious because you ran away tonight. He is waiting for you. Go at once. It is something about the man from the colony.” I resented her domineering manner toward Beelo.
“Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he answered sweetly.
Coming back to us, he began to explain, but I told him we had heard. A reassuring hand was given to each of us, and he was hurrying across the garden fronting the arcade. He halted and came back.
“Don’t stay with Lentala longer than ten minutes,” he earnestly said. “The king may detain me. If I don’t come, can you find your way back?”
I assured him that we could, and that even should he come, we would not let him conduct: us to the hut.
He gave my hand a grateful little squeeze as he slipped the gate-key into it, and darted away, saying:
“Wait at Lentala’s door till she opens it.”
Presently she bade us enter. Instead of her barbarous but highly becoming dress at the feast, with neat jacket and short skirt blazing with gold embroidery, she now wore a plain, loose garment. It was partly redeemed by a low cut in the neck, a splendid girdle consisting of a heavy and elaborately linked chain of gold, and a necklace of wonderful diamonds.
I could not have explained why this dazzling woman, who had filled so wide a space in my fancy, now looked a negligible quantity, an intrusion. There was little of the sparkle that I had expected. The childlike coquetries, the careless abandon, the subtleties that had flitted so unconsciously through the conduct of the Lentala I remembered,—these and a thousand other graces were absent from the sedater young woman smiling upon us and composedly seating us.
She had greeted us with a warning finger on her lips.
“My servants,” she explained in a low, rich voice, “are all in bed and asleep. But they are not far away, and we must be careful.” There was a curious reminder of Annabel’s preciseness in this new Lentala.
She must have felt my discomfort, for she let some of her consciousness slip away, and a dash of her native wildness gradually returned.
“Beelo has told me everything,” she said; “I’ll not trouble you with questions. And we are not to discuss any plans tonight.”
The beauty and richness of the room came forth, faint in the light of suspended lamps, which, clouded in thin fabrics, cast no shadows and softened all contours. A rich massing of hammered gold and silver, of exquisite bronzes and ivories, of hangings and rugs, was softened to grace by their perfect arrangement, and over that in turn was a fine breath of daintiness. My astonishment grew as the significance of it came over me. Did this girl, all seeming innocence, gentleness, and kindness, feel none of the crime and blood with which these treasures were drenched? Yet only the sweetest of spirits could have cast upon this charnel-house loot the cleansing that held its grisly suggestion back.
She had been moving about and gently chatting, and I had made empty responses. At last I discovered that she was growing nervous. A heavy crash of thunder brought out the cause. She looked anxious, and said: “The storm is near. You must go before it breaks. Beela”—I noted her odd pronunciation of the final syllable—“said that if he didn’t return in ten minutes you must go without him, but I can’t think of that. He has been gone much longer.”
I tried to assure her that we could go alone, but still she was uneasy. Christopher and I rose. She came and laid a hand on my arm.
“Wait a little while.” She hesitated over the next words. “Do you like Beela—Beelo?”
“Very much,” I answered dully.
A liquid softness entered her beautiful eyes, and with it a sparkle of the old Lentala—and of Beelo too.
“I am going to tell you a secret,” she went on. “You will keep it?—and you, Christopher? And you’ll not let Beelo know?”
We pledged ourselves. She removed her hand, looked down, and while busying herself with a readjustment of her girdle, said, very low:
“Beelo isn’t a boy.”
Her fingers stopped in her acute tension. I stood silent. With an effort she raised her eyes to mine, and hers betrayed a keen suspense.
“Beelo is a girl,” she added, as though I had not heard. “Her name is Beela.” She found my look coolly meeting hers.
“You liked Beelo the boy,” she groped on; “don’t you like Beela the girl?”
“I—I’m not acquainted with her,” I fumbled.
For a moment the Lentala of the feast returned in a look of mischievous amusement, followed by one of pretended sorrow. I was enjoying the fine play in her face..
“But don’t you see,” she asked, “that in knowing and liking the boy, you knew and liked the girl?”
It would have been impossible for me to make her understand that I was not nimble in violent readjustments; so I held my peace.
“She was Beela the girl all the time,” Lentala insisted. “It couldn’t have been anything but the girl in her that you cared for.” She did not know in the least that she was talking to the wind.
“Of course,” agreed I, very uncomfortable.
My tone made her turn impatiently away. With much spirit she went on as with ease and softness she paced the floor:
“After all she has done, too! I don’t see———”
“Lentala!” I interrupted; “don’t misunderstand. I do like——”
“No, you don’t!” Her voice was growing unsteady. “My poor little Beela! I know she’s a madcap, but she is good, she is kind. She had to be a boy. I made her be one. She couldn’t have done what she did——”
“Lentala, please——”
“——-unless she was a boy. And now she is shamed and humiliated! Don’t let my sweet sister ever know that. It would break her heart. Poor little Beela!”
“This is all wrong. I——”
“Even for my sake you might be generous. It is——”
Three strides brought me to her, and I was unconscious of the power in my angry grip on her wrist, but her tongue went silent. She raised her eyes under the compulsion of mine.
“That is enough,” I said.
There was a moment’s matching of our forces. A ripple of mischievous and innocent surprise animated her, and she laughed with the glee of a gentle child. She was very much like her sister then.
A deepening thunder-crash came.
“You must go—now! I’m going with you. I won’t let you——”
“You shall not go,” I firmly said.
“I must. I want to. I’ll get a——”
“No, Lentala. Good-night.”
As I was turning away, I saw the second time in her face the look of one whose road has stopped at a wall. When I smiled and bowed to her as Christopher and I were passing out, she was standing where I left her, looking blankly at me.
The Fate Awaiting Mr. Vancouver. We Play a Trick on the Natives. My Nerves Give Way. A Ghastly Hint from Christopher. A Perilous Place.
THE drenching, thunder-ridden storm was so favoring that I determined to investigate Mr. Vancouver’s circumstances, and, if possible, ascertain the plans focusing in him; for since the discovery of Beela’s sex, her horror and timidity concerning those intentions were explained. I must now take the lead, since the work was not fitted to a woman.
No guards were outside Mr. Vancouver’s hut when we arrived, and the wetting of the ground silenced our footfalls. My impulse was to enter, and cautiously ascertain the truth; but I realized that the risk was great. In creeping round the hut we overheard two native men talking near the rear wall.
“Hush!” continued one of the voices. “He is groaning again, and may wake.”
In a little while the other remarked, “He is asleep. What were you telling me?”
“The king is very uneasy. The people all know that the white man is here.”
“Is there dry wood?”
“Yes. It is stored in a thatch hut on the east side of the clearing. The people are clamoring for the white man to be taken to the stone.”
“That can’t be done while the storm rages.”
“No; but the first hurricane never lasts long. The king has promised Gato that the white man shall be sent to the fire as soon as this storm passes. That may be tomorrow.”
“Does the white man suspect?”
“Undoubtedly. He frets and groans.”
“What are these stories about the Black Face?”
“The scouts sent by Gato say that it looks more ferocious than ever.”
“Does the king realize that the people will rise unless he consents to the offering?”
“I don’t know. He is silent and deeply troubled. Danger stops any direction that he can take. But Gato is ready.”
A horror that I felt rather than understood came over me, and, fearing that I should betray our presence by some rash act, I was creeping away, when I discovered that Christopher, moving similarly, had started before me. Every tree-branch was a tempting club with which to break a savage head and free the prisoner.
Instead of returning to our hut, we went to the summit of the wall enclosing our valley. Clearly Christopher required no explanation to understand my purpose. With slow, sure caution we took an eastwardly course, parallel with the brink of the precipice and at a safe distance from any men that might be patrolling it. From time to time we would stop, creep nearer the edge, make a careful inspection, return in silence, and go on. The violence of the storm abated somewhat, thus making our progress swifter, but more risky.
With true instinct Christopher went straight to what we had been seeking,—the opening in the forest on the top of the wall fronting the Face. The clear space was smooth, level rock. One segment of the nearly circular opening was cut off by the sheer drop of the precipice. Near that edge was an exquisitely built circular stone platform some four feet high and ten in diameter. As we worked round for a nearer view, we discovered on its top old marks of fire which the rains had not washed off. I recognized it as the object that I had seen from the valley, opposite the Face. There was a moon, but only a faint glow from it filtered through the clouds; occasional flashes of lightning gave us clearer seeing. The air was stifling.
We edged nearer to the cliff, and stood peering across the valley as we waited for light. It came, and revealed the Face. The sodden, sordid, worse than bestial mask, more repulsive than ever in the gloom of the storm, held its gaze fixed upon us. We were upon the scene of the unthinkable tragedy awaiting Mr. Vancouver.
We circled the eastern edge of the clearing. Soon we found a squat structure of thatch, half hidden in the edge of the forest. It was filled with neatly piled firewood. No surprise showed in Christopher’s face.
After further exploration of the vicinity, and satisfied that the place was unguarded, we loaded ourselves with wood from the hut, and plunged into the thicket. A short distance away I had discovered a deep cleft. We threw our loads into it; the fall was long before the sound came from the bottom. Thus, after many trips, we disposed of all the fuel, and hastened back to our hut for sleep. The night was far gone.
The storm broke afresh, and I lay sleepless, and listened to the elemental furies at play. Every nerve ached, and sleep was a sore need. Contingencies riding the hurricane would likely offer still heavier work for tomorrow. Whatever innocent pranks Beela might indulge, her profound seriousness and her appreciation of the dangerous risks in this undertaking were genuine.
With the swirl and dash of the rain came the roar of the tearing wind and the mighty bellow of thunder. Flash, peal, and boom rended the firmament. Our cabin braced itself and strained under the tug, as though digging its claws into the ground to hold firm. Large trees on the slope behind us fell crashing.
This was more than a hurricane: it was a tornado; perhaps worse yet, a typhoon. Many ships ride out the worst of these; but mentally I saw brown men being told off to man the promontories of the bight, and to watch for staggering, heart-broken specks on the sea as the wind following the hurricane urged them on slowly to a pleasant beach, five hundred swordsmen, an oily savage king and a feast, and a march over the mountain to a guarded paradise; thence to be “sent away” to their homes—their eternal homes—one at a time! one at a time! So far as civilization had reached, it had strangled an unspeakable practice in these seas.
Not even the churn of the storm in my veins could check the cold that ran in my blood. Was the father of Annabel to be only the first? Were we waiting as fattening hogs, instead of being out and afield, fighting a way to liberty, and dying, if we must, as men should?...
I found myself off the pallet and rolling on the floor.
“Christopher?” I called, staggering to my feet.
“Sir?”
I knew by the nearness of his voice that he was already beside me, but invisible in the blackness.
“Light the lamp. We are going to dress.”
He obeyed without a word. I was feverishly rummaging for my clothes.
“There, sir,” he said, pointing to my moccasins, but neglecting to fetch them to me.
I had forgotten that my dress was Senatra and that moccasins were the only part of it I had removed. I made a blundering affair of putting them on, for the clutch of my hand was shaped better for a bludgeon just then. Christopher was observing me with a mild, exasperating patience.
“Put yours on,” I roughly commanded.
He made still denser the stupidity in his stare, and stood still.
“Hurry!” I cried.
“Sir?”
“Hurry, I say! You are going too.”
“Me?”
“Yes! We are going to take Mr. Vancouver away from those beasts.”
Without a change of expression he made a pretense of preparation. In doing so, he edged up to the barred door, placed his wide back against it, and calmly faced me.
“What do you mean by that?” I demanded in a fury.
“Sir?”
“Stand aside, Christopher!”
“Me, sir?”
In exasperation I seized the copper vessel and advanced upon him. Not a muscle of his body moved; his ape-like arms hung loose; his hands were open. But it was not his defenselessness that stayed me. Far more potent was the deep devotion in his eyes, which held a profounder sadness than usual. It was a dash of cold water on my heat, but not my determination. In all kindness I would reason with him.
“Christopher,” I asked, “do you know what they are going to do with Mr. Vancouver?”
He omitted his formula, and simply gazed at me.
Then I told him, in raw, sore words. It was the first time they had been spoken by a member of the colony.
I was astonished at his placidity on hearing them.
“Do you understand?” I had to thunder the question above the outer din.
But he was listening to sounds that the storm did not make. I waited impatiently.
“They won’t him, sir, if they get you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re younger ‘n’ fatter.”
Like most other of Christopher’s remarks, this one dealt in a conclusive terminal, omitting postulate and explication; but I understood. He had told a long and dramatic story in those halting words—our blind assault, our being beaten down and secured, and then the awful end. I wondered at that, and longed for the power to see into the working of his strangely luminous mind, its far light behind its frontal darkness.
“And there ain’t no dry wood, sir.”
The last of the ice in my blood broke and ran melting before him. I was very tired, and found myself shifting on my feet like a drunken man. Tongues of flame began to slip through the hut and dart hither and thither with curious dips and turns. Some of them were purple, but the most were crimson. A luminous vapor crept in. The boom of a waterfall rumbled; and then came a crashing subterranean detonation. Christopher was a gigantic ape floundering in a drowning sea of steam.
“Christopher!” I cried, trying to catch the wall as it swung past.
A firm, gentle arm went round me—an arm of a strength so great that my most desperate struggles could not break its hold, yet I was a very strong man. Slowly I was borne down on my pallet, and a thin, soothing voice came with a hand that tenderly closed my eyes and held the lids down. My breathing came easier.
It was daylight, and Christopher was standing in the open door, looking out. The rain had ceased, but the morning brightness was smothered under the overhead lowering. The pleasant odor of coffee perfumed the hut. Without appearing to notice my waking, Christopher served my breakfast, but said nothing. A dull lassitude made the straw bed more inviting than my feet.
Beela’s cheery good-morning an hour later was checked in alarm when she entered and found me prone; but her electric vitality palpitated through me and brought me smiling to a sitting posture. Her inquiring look at Christopher read nothing in the bland face. A shadow of uneasiness drifted through her eyes, but she drove it away.
“Good!” she said. “I’m glad you are resting. Lie down again.” She dropped to a seat beside me on the straw, and pushed my head down.
“That’s better,—Choseph.” Her hand was on my forehead.
“Joseph,” I insisted.
“You don’t like the way I talk, Ch—Dzhoseph?” banteringly, stealing sly hands to mine and pretending to stare mockingly at me while peering into my eyes.
“Very well, Beelo. Did you square yourself with the king and have a good rest last night?”
“Of course. Do you think any king———”
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Trying to see if I’m sick. Even though I were dead, your coming would bring me to life.”
“My! Did you hear that, Christopher?”
The sensible man did not answer, nor even look at her. She made a mouth at his back, withdrew her hand, and edged away a few inches. Had I made a slip after that confidence and caution from Lentala? I roused myself.
“What’s the news, little brother? What game and what killing today?”
Her face fell grave. “Something has happened with you since I saw you last night, Choseph.”
I told her all, and she held her breath over the audacity of our work.
“I—I shouldn’t have dared to suggest it,” she said with charming helplessness as she gave Christopher and me a look of wondering admiration. “It was splendid, Choseph!” Her dear leaning girlishness, so natural and unconscious, started a tumult in me, and it was hard for me to keep the deception of her sex at work. “Now,” she went on, “Mr. Vancouver is safe so long as the weather is bad; and when it clears, time will be needed to gather dry wood. We’ll do nothing for the present.”
“But we must be ready,” I firmly protested, sitting up. “This matter is in my hands and Christopher’s now, not yours, my lad, for this is work that only men can plan and do.”
The timidity in her look was new, but not less charming than her surrender.
“What are you going to do, Choseph?” she inquired with a mocking exaggeration of a helpless reliance that was quite genuine.
“We shall be ready to take Mr. Vancouver by stealth or force the moment that actual danger comes near him. We will bring him to this hut and hide him here. But a man from the colony will be needed to guard him. I am going immediately to bring one out for that purpose.”
Her eyes kindled with alarm. “No, no, Choseph! That would be impossible. You couldn’t find the way nor pass the guard. I will go.” Argument and persuasion were equally useless; she knew when to be firm. “I will go,” was her answer to everything, and she came to her feet. “You and Christopher come with me to the summit of the wall, and there you’ll hide near the guard, and wait. I’ll bring the man nearly to the place and send him ahead, and give you a signal. You must trick the guard out of the way, and meet him; I will follow. It would ruin everything for me to be seen.”
I agreed, and told her to bring Hobart.
“Beelo,” I said, “you understand that we have accomplished one of the tasks for which you brought us out of the valley, and in doing so have learned the fate awaiting our colony.”
Her face at once grew pinched. “Don’t speak of it, Choseph!” she cried. “I don’t know whether you have or not, and I don’t know what is in your mind. Simply think of saving Mr. Vancouver.”
“Of course, dear lad,” I agreed; “but we must be planning also for means to leave the island, since only something awful awaits us here. You must tell me all that I should know. I won’t dance any longer to your mysteries and concealments.”
It was as though I had struck her. She stared, her eyes flooding, her lips trembling.
“Choseph,” she answered, “there are things that you must see and hear for yourself, and they will come tonight and tomorrow. I’ll take you——”
“I must know now,” I demanded, not realizing the harshness of my tone.
“Choseph, I——”
“Did you speak to me, sir?” came from Christopher, standing behind her.
“No, Christopher. We’ll wait, dear little brother.” The sunshine came swimming into her eyes again, and she made a grimace of triumph in which was an understanding that Christopher had disciplined me.
“You’ll be good now, won’t you, Choseph?” It was said in her most teasing manner, and I smiled.
We started under an angry sky through which heavy cloud-masses tumbled. It was a cautious journey. The very air seemed filled with expectancy. On the way we formulated a plan for tricking the guard.
In approaching the point of egress from the valley, Beela practiced the slyness of a lynx and the silence of a serpent. Every step was studied lest a twig snap; the leaves on the ground had been softened by the rain. Presently we sighted the guard—a draggled lot, unused to exposure and dispirited by the weather. There Beela left us in hiding. I now understood the perils that she had breasted in every trip to the valley. If they were so difficult under these conditions, how much more they must have been when fair weather made the guard alert and the ground noisy under foot!
Beela was to warn us of Hobart’s coming by giving a certain bird-call thrice. Christopher’s answering signal would be notice to Beela that Hobart was safe.
The savages, not twenty paces away—at least two dozen stalwart men—were variously squatting, sitting, and lounging. They were in a compact group, and were talking in low voices, but with an animation unusual to the race. I motioned Christopher to follow, and we crept nearer.
Some important news had just been brought by the relief guard.
“And so the king isn’t going to wait for night,” said one, as though the news was surprising.
“That is true,” came the answer. “He fears that the ground will shake at any time. Besides, the storm will likely come again tonight, and the great fire would be impossible then.”