"After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipple for women, boys, and priests. Down with it right cheerfully or take a sousing in the butt itself—to drown there or drink it dry."

It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing the ox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor's face, and Kurt, the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathing stertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of the by-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up, and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through the crowd and so reach the open square. Stepping into one of the empty guard-huts he quickly divested himself of cowl and cassock, and rolling them up into a bundle he tossed them into a dark corner. His under suit was made of the ordinary gray frieze worn generally among the Doomsmen, and now neither Prosper nor the witnesses of the fracas at the gate would be likely to identify him.

Constans gazed about him with lively interest. Yet so accurate had been his previous bird's-eye observations that he found but little to add to them. He noticed, however, that a banquette of earth, rammed hard, ran around the inside periphery of the walls, affording vantage for the defenders to discharge their arrows and other missiles over the parapet. But, as Constans quickly saw, this same terrace would give useful foothold to the besiegers should once the top of the wall be gained. Instead of being obliged to draw up their scaling-ladders, or risk the sixteen-foot drop to the hard surface of the enclosure, they had only to jump onto the banquette and from thence to the ground. He would have liked to investigate what engines of defence could be brought into service by the garrison, but there was nothing to be seen beyond two machines, sadly out of repair, which were intended for the casting of heavy stones through the force of twisted ropes. So Constans turned his attention again to the scene before him.

A gang of carpenters were putting the finishing-touches to an elevated platform which stood near the entrance to the White Tower. A crimson canopy warded off the sun's rays, and the structure was probably intended for the accommodation of the more distinguished guests. A large chair stood in the centre of the dais, and over it a gray wolf-skin had been draped; certainly this must be the official seat of Dom Gillian himself. But as yet it stood empty.

How hot the sun was! And yet this was only the day of the vernal equinox; it was most extraordinary. Everywhere the gutters ran streaming with water, the snow melting under the unexampled heat of the solar rays like wax in a candle flame. The trees growing in the square were leafless, and the tropic sun's rays blazed mercilessly through their naked branches. Constans found himself panting for breath.

As the hours dragged on Constans felt a vague uneasiness pressing down upon him, and he could see that the people also were growing restless under the unaccountable delay. The laughter and talk little by little died away; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, up the long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under their hollowed hands. Would they never come!

With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litter issued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking that great head with its mane of coarse, white hair—the old Dom Gillian. With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting the unwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The people looked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance of their lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard his people; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon the arms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood on either hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed to collapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.

Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed the zenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-line rested a cloud in bigness like to a man's hand and of the blackness of night itself. Would they never come!

Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against the snowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figure of a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of the slippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowd pressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops falling from his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform. And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from the saddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still slept placidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.



XVIII

A PROPHET OF EVIL

Standing at Dom Gillian's side Quinton Edge bent down and whispered a few words in his ear, inaudible even to those who stood nearest. And yet the people knew that woe had fallen upon Doom. Like flame upon flax the voiceless signal leaped from heart to heart; here and there in the crowd appeared little centres of disturbance, the strong pushing the weak forcibly aside that they might the quicker fill their own gasping lungs; an inarticulate murmur rose and swelled, like to the stirring of forest leaves under the breath of the rough north wind. Quinton Edge heard, and turned to face the people.

"It is true," he said, and gripped hard upon the rail on which his hand rested. "A child's trick it was, but the Southlanders are men of smooth tongue and our brothers were encumbered with the cattle and perhaps overconfident now that their faces were turned at last towards home. Six-score brave men"—he stopped and swallowed at something in his throat.

"The ambuscade was well-planned, and the Southlanders had enlisted the aid of the Painted Men, to their shame be it said. So our brethren found themselves hemmed in at every point. Yet they sold their lives at a good price, and they are mourning to-day in the Southland, even as we here. Not a Doomsman set out upon his long journey to the shadowland but that a Southron was forced to bear him company. It was well done—a good fight, the sword-point driven home, and then the dropping of the curtain. Hail! a hail! to our brothers who have passed beyond."

A few wavering and uncertain voices took up the cry, but it quickly died away before the uplifted hand of Prosper, the priest. He had pushed his way through the crowd and was now standing in its outmost rank directly opposite the platform.

"There were six-score who rode away," he said, addressing himself directly to Quinton Edge. "Six-score, and how many have returned?"

An insolent question in the manner of its asking, but the Doomsman's answer matched it well.

"Four that I counted, but there may be a straggler or two to come in later. Does the Shining One no longer know where his own thunderbolts have struck, that he sends his hired servants to gather up the gossip of the market-place?"

"The All-Wise both sees and knows," retorted the priest. "It is the people you deceive who have need to look and listen, if haply they may understand. You have dared to take the name of the Shining One upon your lips; stand forth now like a man, if you would face him in his wrath."

During the past few minutes it had grown suddenly dark; the sun had disappeared and a curtain of opaque cloud was rapidly overcasting the sky; a peculiar, yellowish light had replaced the radiance of day.

"And what does your god demand that his anger may be turned away?" asked Quinton Edge. "Doubtless the daily offerings upon which his faithful priests depend for their easy, unearned living. Sides of fat beeves and measures of wheat, not forgetting a cask or two of apple-wine or corn brandy."

But the priest, disdaining to answer the taunt, had turned and was speaking directly to the people.

"Is it that you seek a deliverer and find none? But how shall the Shining One keep faith with you who turn your feet away from his sanctuary and bring no victims to his altars? Has he not called to you daily, and have you not stopped your ears? And now that ye call in turn, shall he indeed hear? Already is your woe come upon you, children of Doom. Look and listen!"

A flash of lightning accompanied the priest's last words and the crash of the thunder came almost simultaneously. The obscurity was momentarily increasing, and the gigantic, nimbus cloud-band now reached far beyond the zenith, its slate-blue edges contrasting vividly with the green-and-saffron tints of the narrow strip of clear sky that still remained visible. And in another moment that, too, had disappeared; such was the darkness that a man could not see his neighbor's face, though their elbows might be touching.

"To your holes and dens!" shouted the priest, now quite beside himself in his fanatical exaltation. "He speaks again, he speaks again! Woe, woe to the city of Doom!" Once more the firmament seemed cleft in twain, and the earth trembled under the reverberations of the tremendous electrical discharges. The effect upon the overwrought nerves of the throng was instantaneous; as one man the crowd turned and made for the exits from the Citadel Square. Even the personal attendants upon Dom Gillian were affected by the panic, and leaped over the guard-rails of the platform into the mass of humanity below. In half a score of minutes the enormous square was deserted save for a few infirm and crippled stragglers, and Constans himself thought it prudent to withdraw to the shelter of one of the guard-huts from whose doorway he could still watch the progress of events.

Only Prosper, the priest, remained in the open, standing there with uplifted hands and gazing steadfastly into the sable vault above him. Quinton Edge called to him, but he answered not. Then the Doomsman, leaning far over the balustrade of the platform, struck the priest sharply on the shoulder with his truncheon of office.

"Come up here and help me with the Lord Keeper. These dogs have all sought their kennels and left us to shift for ourselves."

Gathering up his long, black robe, Prosper ascended the steps of the platform and passed to the Lord Keeper's side. He looked eagerly into Dom Gillian's eyes, but the old man's face might have been a mask in its impassive stolidity. Plainly he had neither heard nor understood aught of all that had passed.

"It is too late," muttered the priest. "The crash of steel is now the only music to which the old lion will prick his ears, and the Shining One must strike for his own honor."

Suddenly the obscurity lightened. A downpour of rain was imminent, but the sky had lost its terrifying aspect of abnormality; the yellowish haze that in superstitious eyes presaged some dreadful convulsion of nature had drifted away before the rising wind—it would be a pelting shower and nothing more. Quinton Edge looked around, smiling.

"So it was only a player's effect—a few fireworks and the rattling of a big drum—an opportune conjunction of bad news and bad weather that is hardly likely to occur again. The next time that the Shining One condescends to forge his thunderbolts——"

"They will fall from out of a cloudless sky," interrupted the priest, with a vehemence that in spite of himself shook the cool confidence of the Doomsman. Yet the latter flung back the challenge contemptuously.

"Words, words—painted bladders with which to belabor the backs of fools and children. It calls for a buffet of sturdier sort to convince a man."

The priest measured his adversary. "Let it be a blow, then," he said, coldly, "since a prating mouth knows no other argument than the mailed fist. But you shall not see the hand that smites, nor even know the quarter from whence it comes. Build high your walls and your bulwarks; they shall but prove the greater peril when they crumble under the impact of our lord's hammer. You will believe; yes, when trencher-mate and bedfellow are stricken at your side, and yet no man shall be able to say at what instant the avenger's shadow passed between, or catch the faintest sound of his retreating footsteps. All in his good time to whom a day and an hour and a cycle of the ages are as one."

A dozen big raindrops splashed down, and from the distance came the patter of the advancing hail. Quinton Edge drew himself up stiffly; the necessity of immediate action was a relief more welcome than he would have cared to own. He stepped to Dom Gillian's chair, and, putting his hands under the armpits of the old man, lifted him unresisting to his feet.

"Help me with him to the White Tower," he said, with curt command, and Prosper obeyed in silence. Together they managed to get Dom Gillian down the steps and across the open space to the entrance of the tower, barely gaining the shelter when the storm broke in earnest, the rain coming down in great, gray masses as though the clouds had been literally torn asunder by the weight of their burden. For a few moments everything was blotted out by the deluge, then it lightened again with the coming of the hail, and Constans drew in his breath sharply as he saw a little cavalcade trotting slowly through the north gate from the Palace Road. First came a few of the escort-guard and behind them three or four troopers, survivors of the ill-fated expedition, followed by a couple of horse-litters, improvised from fence-poles and blankets. In these rough beds lay two grievously wounded men, and Constans gazed, half in hope, half in fear, upon their wan faces upon which the stinging hail beat down. Soldierly men they were, too, for they made no complaint, but Ulick was not one of them. A moment later Constans saw him bringing up the rear on a big bay horse. He had a bandage about his head, and looked thin and careworn, but he was alive, and Constans felt glad at heart for his friend. He managed to catch Ulick's eye as the train swept by, and for an instant the latter drew rein, bending low over his saddle-bow as he whispered to Constans, standing in the shadow of the guard-hut:

"In half an hour at the old library," and then, with passionate eagerness, "Esmay—have you seen her?"

"Yes," answered Constans, and the next instant could have bitten his unthinking tongue in twain.



XIX

IN QUINTON EDGE'S GARDEN

It was late that night when the friends finally parted. Their interview had been a trying one; it might have ended in a serious estrangement had Constans been of nature less straightforward or Ulick of disposition less generous. Friendship between men is a beautiful thing, but of such delicate poise that only the touch of a finger is needed to displace it. And the disturbing hand is generally that of a woman. Esmay had come between them, and it needed but the mention of her name that a certain constraint should at once manifest itself.

"We'll have to drop the subject, then, or, rather, leave it where it began," said Ulick, breaking the final pause. "Perhaps it's just as well that I don't understand the reason why—it's even possible that you don't know clearly yourself. I sha'n't ask you to tell me."

Constance flushed, and was angry with himself, at this evidence of a weakness so unexpected. "It can't go on in this way," he said, decidedly. "Neither of us could wish that, and it lies with me to make it plain—to her, you know. Of course, you must have guessed that there are certain contingencies——" He stopped abruptly, as the remembrance of what Esmay had said rushed back upon him. "I don't see that Boris is with you," he continued, gravely.

"He lies under the shadow of the southern pines—one of the first to fall that morning when the storm of gray goose arrows drove down upon us. A good end and perhaps the better one."

Constans was silent. Here was one of his contingencies that existed no longer; with Boris out of the way, the decision that Esmay must make was enormously simplified. Or was it still more infinitely complicated? With a woman to consider, the question was not so easy to answer. Nor would he attempt it. He rose, and put out his hand, "I am going to tell her," he said, simply, and Ulick, in his turn, had no further word to say; so they parted.

It was not until noon of the following day that Constans found opportunity to set out for Arcadia House, for all that morning he had been kept in close attendance at the temple. The old priest had displayed a new and astonishingly practical interest in the mysterious power that had been for so long under his nominal control; he had even joined Constans in the latter's daily task of cleaning and polishing up the working-parts of the machinery, and, as they worked, he had questioned him searchingly.

"The Shining One may be a god or no," he said, cunningly, "but it is meet that I should know him better, if only to serve him the more faithfully. You, my son, are wise, and you will tell me what you have learned from your books, that it may be added to all that our fathers have handed down by word of mouth. So shall our lord have great honor, and the unbelievers be put to shame."

Constans had no recourse but to obey, and for several hours they worked steadily, experimenting with the intricacies of switch-board and commutator, stringing various wires about the hall and noting the conditions under which they might be charged and discharged from the central source of power. Dangerous work, as they came to realize after Constans had narrowly escaped being burned by contact with a live wire. Yet undeniably fascinating, this uncovering of a great world secret, this sense of growing mastery over a power that could be none else than twin-brother to the thunderbolt. But the face of the old man gave no sign, no one could have guessed whether he now believed all or believed nothing. Certainly he was proving himself an astonishingly apt pupil, his years of practical experience with the machines admirably supplementing Constans's theoretical knowledge. It was not until mid-day that he gave the order to shut down the engines, and Constans was at liberty.

He walked rapidly in the direction of Arcadia House, for this was the hour of the principal meal with the Doomsmen, and the streets were entirely deserted. The abnormally high temperature of yesterday still prevailed, although the sky was clear, and everywhere could be heard the sound of running and dripping water. The snow, that twenty-four hours ago lay a foot deep upon the ground, was now a mass of slush, making locomotion exceedingly disagreeable. How hot the sun was! it might have been midsummer instead of the last of March; how oddly sounded the premature chirping of the birds in the leafless trees!

Arcadia House was once more in sight, and Constans's first thought was for the signal. It was still flying from the cupola window, but that fact, of itself, meant little. All or nothing might have happened in the twenty-four hours that had elapsed since its first setting.

The rope-ladder was in its hiding-place, and Constans, by its aid, was quickly on the garden wall. Here he waited for an instant, to look and listen.

All was quiet, and there was no sign of life in the closely shuttered house. The snow in this exposed and sunny enclosure had entirely disappeared; there would be no fear of his footprints being noticed. The dogs—but Esmay had assured him that they would be kept in leash so long as the signal was flying. He wasted no further time in reflection, but descended into Quinton Edge's garden.

The plantation of spruce-trees screened him for the moment; then he ran swiftly across the open space and reached the shelter of the pavilion. It was empty, but he had expected that; he had previously set his answering signal at the window of a house overlooking the garden at the back, and he would now have to wait until Esmay should find opportunity to join him.

An hour passed, and there was no sign of her appearance. Constans grew restless, impatient, uneasy, until finally inaction became intolerable. Certainly Esmay should have come by this time, supposing that she had observed his answering signal. She might be absent, ill, a prisoner.

He looked searchingly at the apparently deserted house; the bold thought struck him to examine it more closely, even at the risk of discovery. He had his rope-ladder with him, and, at a pinch, could make a run for it. Along the northern wall of the enclosure there was a wind-break of evergreens that would protect him up to the sunken carriageway, and, surely, he could adventure thus far and then trust Fortune and his own wits for the next move.

The piece of open ground was some seventy yards in width; he crossed it at speed and dived into the shadow of the trees, keeping close to the wall as he worked along. He reached the road without misadventure and dropped lightly down upon its stone-paved surface. It was cool and damp in this semi-subterranean causeway; the stone flagging was blotched with lichenous growth, and ferns flourished rankly in the wall crevices. Constans stood for a moment gazing up at the blank facade of the north wing, wondering how best to proceed. Then, suddenly, a face appeared at a window; Esmay herself was looking down upon him in wide-eyed astonishment. She hesitated, then motioned him towards the eastern or river side of the house, and he obeyed unquestioningly. Following the driveway around, he found himself before the pillared portico that masked the front of the main edifice; springing up the steps, he met her standing at one of the long windows that opened off the drawing-room of the mansion. She drew back, inviting him to enter.

"You are very foolish," she said, in a whisper, yet looked upon him approvingly as a woman always must upon the man who dares.

"I told you that I would come," he answered. "Yesterday it was the unexpected that happened, the return of the expedition. Between the storm and Ulick, you and the signal were clean put out of mind until too late."

She flushed. "Then you have seen Ulick?"

"Yes; he is safe and well." He hesitated. How should he tell her the truth about the other? He ended by blurting it out.

"You know that Boris—he will not return."

"He is dead?"

Constans nodded. The girl turned and looked out of the window for perhaps half a minute.

"I was to have decided between them this very day. He who is my master had so determined, and that is why I sent for you. For indeed I cannot——" She stopped; it was so difficult to put into words what must be said. Then she went on, speaking softly:

"If it had finally come to that, I must have named Boris, for I could have gone on hating him just the same as before. With Ulick it is different, for he really cared."

"But now," interrupted Constans, impatiently, "it is no longer a question of choice, but of a decision."

"I have already come to it," she returned. "I must escape from Doom; I cannot stay here for even another day."

In their absorption neither noticed how the door leading into the central hall slowly opened. It remained ajar, its very attitude that of a listener.

"You want my help," said Constans, half to himself. He was casting over in his mind the effect that the death of Boris might have upon Quinton Edge's intrigues, and he could not but conclude that Esmay had become a factor more necessary than ever in their successful development. Ulick was now the sole heir to the old Dom Gillian, and he was hostile to Quinton Edge. Only through Ulick's passion for this slip of a girl could the Doomsman hope to control him. What an admirable stroke, then, to snatch the card from his hand before he had a chance to play it.

"I will help you," he continued, aloud. "But where to find a boat?"

"There is a canoe which is generally kept moored at the garden dock; you can see it from the terrace. It is a good, stout dugout, and, oh——"

"Well?"

"There is Nanna, my sister; I cannot go without her."

"She is in no danger," said Constans, with calm indifference. "The boat will carry only two—is that it?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then; Nanna must remain behind."

"It is impossible to leave her; I have promised."

"No; it is her coming that is impossible, and because I say so."

The girl remained silent. Had she yielded to a will stronger than her own? The door seemed to hesitate; then it closed noiselessly.

Esmay crossed over to one of the windows opening on the garden grounds and flung the shutters open. The coolness of the later afternoon breeze fell gratefully upon her hot cheeks; the horizontal, reddish-rays of the declining sun emphasized the warm coloring of her hair and complexion, and brought out again those curious carmine flecks in her eyes of topaz that Constans had noticed once or twice before. An odd combination, but he realized now that he had thought it pretty. The girl divined the unspoken word and drew back a trifle.

Retreat is the first and essential principle of feminine strategy, and in practice it should suggest the ambuscade to even the most thoughtless of masculine minds. But it never does. Constans stepped up a little closer.

"Nanna must go with me," repeated the girl, hurriedly. "You will help us to get out the boat and tell me in what direction Croye lies. We shall find our way, never fear, for I know the stars, and Nanna can paddle all day long as well as a man."

"And what will you do when you get to Croye?" asked Constans, gently. "Must you hear the whole truth about your uncle, Messer Hugolin? It is not that he is unable but unwilling to turn a hand in your behalf. The humblest shelter, the meanest food—I know what you would say. But not even a night's housing in the cattle-byre or a plate of broken victuals is to be had from Messer Hugolin unless one is prepared to pay, and roundly, too. Remember that I, too, am of his blood, and have dwelt in his house."

The girl's eyes grew cloudy and troubled. "There is the town itself," she faltered. "Surely among so many people there must be some chance for a livelihood—there is work—-"

"Not of the honest kind and for such as you," he retorted. "Must I make you understand? Look at yourself, then, in the glass behind you." Suddenly he took her hand between both his own. "Who would dare hint at work to those fingers so slimly white? But one may live delicately, even in Croye."

The girl recoiled as though from a blow, and Constans felt the shame of having actually struck one. "But not you," he stammered, and raged inwardly at himself. She forgave him in a look. "But, Esmay," he said, humbly. She smiled to him to go on.

"You are thinking of the world beyond, but indeed you do not know it—its cruelty to the weak, above all to a woman. Here, at least——"

"Here the least of all," she interrupted, but would not look at him to make her meaning clearer.

"Yet you see how I could not let you go alone or even with Nanna," he urged.

"Yes, I understand that. What is it that you wish me to do?"

Constans started. Was he, then, prepared to make himself responsible for this young creature's future? Of course she could not remain longer in a position so dangerous and equivocal. But why should she not be reasonable? It was true that Nanna was quite capable of managing the boat; he had only to assist them to get away and give the word to Ulick that he might follow. Ulick would go to the end of the world to serve her.

A thoroughly sensible solution of the problem, and then in a twinkle Constans forgot that he had ever wanted Esmay to be reasonable, forgot the faith owed to a friend and the vengeance sworn against an enemy, forgot times and seasons and the peril in which they stood, forgot all things save that he was a man and she was a woman, and that he had suddenly come to desire her above all else in life.

"A woman, and some day he would come to know what that meant." Now he knew.

Esmay stood waiting for the answer to her question.

"You cannot go alone," he said, in a half-whisper, "and your sister's protection is useless. You will have to trust yourself to me."

Esmay had turned away her head, but a treacherous mirror intercepted the confession in her eyes and flung it back to him who had compelled its utterance. Now a man may never yet have seen that look on a woman's face, but he need not fear lest he fail to recognize it when at last his time comes. Constans saw, and suddenly the primeval passion of the world seized and shook him. "I want you," he said, and would have taken her—then stopped, confounded and appalled.

Through the open window came the sharp, staccato yelp of a hound at field. Yes; the dogs were out, and already they were at work, ranging in great semicircles, alert with the joy of the chase. There was Blazer, with his tawny muzzle, and behind him Fangs, the great, black bitch, half mastiff and half bloodhound, the saliva dripping from her jaws as she ran. Constans drew a deep breath as he watched them. Already they were nearing the pavilion; in a few seconds at the farthest they would be giving tongue upon the striking of his scent. He must decide quickly then, and he turned to Esmay.

A black suspicion gathered in Constans's mind as he looked upon her mute agony and misinterpreted it.

"What is it?" he asked, with rising anger, but she answered no word. The memory of the ancient betrayal rushed back upon him.

"Perhaps another bracelet of carbuncles?" She shrank back as though from a blow.

"Esmay!" he said, roughly, and shook her by the shoulders, not being in fear for himself but intent upon knowing the truth, however incredible. Then as she still gave no sign he flung her from him and strode away, the flame of a fierce anger in his heart. To die here—the base fate of a runaway slave upon whose trail the master has set his hounds—no, it should not be! Yet, with only his bare hands, for there was not even a billet of wood lying about—well, if it must be— Then he bethought him of the boat that Esmay had told him was always kept moored at the garden landing-stage. He glanced out and saw that the canoe had disappeared. He turned to the girl and announced the fact. "If indeed it were ever there," he added. It seemed as though her eyes pointed to the door leading to the other part of the house, but he shook his head. "I would rather meet it in the open," he said, coldly.

He considered a moment longer, and threw off his black soutane, having determined to take to the water, although it was truly a desperate chance, the current running like a mill-race with the ebbing tide, and, moreover, being choked with ice-floes. Ah, there was Blazer's bay, he must lose no time. Without another glance at that silent, rigid figure, he stepped quickly through the long window and gained the portico. Something snapped in the girl's throat, her lips quivered hysterically, and she laughed aloud, a flood of silvery sound.



XX

THE SILVER WHISTLE BLOWS

Constans remained motionless at the window. Every instinct of self-preservation urged him onward, but yet he stopped and listened to a girl's laughter. It ceased, and he sprang forward—too late! for already the blood-hounds were upon him.

Fangs, the bitch, was in the lead, and as she sprang Constans kicked out savagely, his heavy boot catching the animal squarely on the flank. The portico had no guard-railing, and the dog, taken off her balance, was precipitated to the terrace below. Constans shouted exultantly, but there was still Blazer with whom to deal. Before he could recover, the brute had him by the throat and was bearing him downward; man and dog rolled together on the stone-paved floor of the gallery. Something passed with the swift rustle of wind-distended garments, but Constans could see nothing, his eyes being blinded by the acrid foam from the animal's jaws. Fortunately, the high collar of leather that he wore prevented the dog's teeth from fastening on his actual throat, but that advantage could not endure, and already he could feel that the animal was shifting its hold for a better one. Then, as he despaired, his right hand struck upon something round and hard in the outside-pocket of his doublet; it was the handle of the loaded revolver that he had carried for a month past. A supreme effort and he managed to seize it; without attempting to draw it from the pocket he pulled the trigger. The report followed, and immediately he felt the dog's grip relax; he pushed the dead weight from off his chest and rose to his feet.

Up from the river terrace came Esmay, and behind her ran Quinton Edge. Constans turned to meet them; then, as they gained the portico, he saw the girl's face go white and realized dizzily the danger that still menaced him. But he was past caring now, and so stood stupidly in his tracks as the great, black bitch crawled up behind him, her belly close to the ground, and crouching for her rush. He heard Quinton Edge shout and saw him raise his hand; the dog, recognizing her master's voice, even as she leaped, was quick to obey, arching and stiffening her back in mid-air so as to break the force of her spring; he saw her fall in a heap at his feet, and lie there whimpering. Whereupon, for a brief moment, the trees seemed to bow themselves before him and the sky grew black.

When again he found himself, he saw Quinton Edge bending over the dead hound and inspecting, with curious attention, the ragged hole in its chest. But the Doomsman asked no questions; he spoke, lightly and carelessly, as was his wont.

"Fortunate that I happened to be returning from an excursion on the river, for my pets are a difficult pair to manage, even for one who carries a thunderbolt in his doublet-pocket. You scored nicely on poor Blazer, but I venture to think that Fangs would have avenged her mate had I let her have her way." He stopped and patted the brute's huge head. "My compliments, old woman; doubtless this visitor of ours will always remember you respectfully as one who feared neither God, man; nor devil, but only Quinton Edge. Now be off with you." The hound licked her master's hand and limped away. Quinton Edge straightened up and passed his lace-edged handkerchief across his lips. Then, with smooth irony: "An honor, indeed, to entertain so unexpected a guest at Arcadia House; to what happy chance am I indebted?"

"That I am here should be condemnation sufficient for your purpose," said Constans, slowly. "I have nothing to add to it."

He hardly troubled to look up as he spoke; exhausted and dispirited as he was, what did it matter what he answered.

"Then you do not even plead a first offence?"

Constans remained silent. Like a disobedient school-urchin, he told himself, glowering sulkily in the presence of his tutor. Between this man and himself lay an enmity that was deeper than the grave, and yet to Quinton Edge he was merely the petulant boy to be scolded and punished or, even more contemptuously, ignored. Was he never to stand before him as man to man?

"It is just as well," continued the Doomsman, "since there have been other eyes who have kept watch for me. I am not entirely uninformed concerning a romantic adventure of two days ago at the pavilion in the garden. But perhaps on this count the maid may choose to answer for herself, speech being a woman's prerogative, and ofttimes her opportunity."

But Esmay, holding herself as straight and white as the portico column behind her, made no sign of even hearing, and Quinton Edge fell upon a sudden earnestness of speech and manner.

"Then since neither of you have a word to say, you must perforce listen to me of a matter equally concerning you, Esmay Scarlett, a daughter of the Doomsmen, and you, Constans, son of Gavan of the keep. For to-day the fate of the world lies between us three—a ball that we may toss from hand to hand.

"You know both the strength and the weakness of Doom. We have lost heavily in the expedition to the south; every man in the reserve must now be called upon to fill up the ranks. Dom Gillian is fast sinking into the grave, where Boris already lies. Ulick, who must now succeed, in the ordinary course, has only physical courage to recommend him. That is not enough if Doom is to remain mistress of the world.

"Yet if our weaknesses are patent, no less apparent are our springs of power. Here in Doom and here alone will you find that unity of action which makes for empire. Were the Stockaders and the House People to join hands they could overwhelm us in a night, but they will not, since jealousy digs an ever-widening chasm. Moreover, it is a strong position that we hold here in this wilderness of stone, when every brick is a man. There is no need for boasting; this is the truth, as you know.

"Yet there is one thing lacking—a man to lead and a brain to guide. Ulick may possess the strong arm, and doubtless I have the wits, but I fear that, like oil and water, we, too, shall never mix. Besides, I may grow weary of the business, or the time may come when I must turn my back upon it all. Yet I could not be content that chaos should reign in my stead. I must leave a man behind me, and that man is you, Constans, son of Gavan.

"Nay, but hear me out. Apostate, renegade—I know what you would say. Yet what are these but words—mere words. You are alone in the world," and here for just an instant Quinton Edge dropped his eyes, although the even tones of his voice never wavered. "You owe no debt of gratitude to either Stockader or Houseman. A crust from one, a bone from the other; they would have done as much for a starving dog. You see that I have watched you longer than you have been aware.

"And so I offer you the first and last of the things that all men crave. The first is love, and she who stands there is fair, else why do I find you in my garden? The last is power, and it is the world that I put under your feet."

He stopped abruptly and seemed to catch at something mounting upward in his throat. Then he continued:

"There is still the blood-debt between us, and I promise you it shall be paid and to the last drop. The only condition is that you must leave it to another to name the day of reckoning; that privilege belongs neither to you nor to me. Rest assured that when that day does come, I shall be ready; ay, more than ready to pay my score."

Again silence fell between them for the space of a full minute. Quinton Edge turned to adjust the jabot of fine lace about his neck, and that he might have both hands free he laid upon a wicker garden table the object he had been carrying. Constans saw that it was a bunch of May-bloom, a glorious cluster of pink-and-white blossom.

"I am waiting for my answer," said Quinton Edge.

Constans tried to command his voice, but he could not speak, and Quinton Edge turned to Esmay:

"We have both of us omitted to remember where courtesy is first due. Madam, I should have informed myself of your pleasure in this matter."

"No, oh no!" she stammered.

The Doomsman laughed. "Yet I must ask you to reconsider; nay, even to use what arts you possess to induce this short-sighted young gentleman to accept my generous proposition. For, mind you, there is a consequent upon his refusal—and yours."

The hidden fire in the girl's eyes seemed to leap forth, a bolt of fiery scorn that would have fused, upon the instant, metal less resisting.

"A consequent—of course. And it is——"

"A lofty one. He mounts either to Dom Gillian's chair or to the yard arm of the Black Swan. A spy's death for a spy—it is but justice."

Esmay turned to Constans.

"Surely it were shame enough for any woman to find herself made part of such a bargain. But my humiliation goes even deeper, for I must parade my poor wares before you like any huckster, beseeching you to buy. My lord, it is for your life, and I am but a flower that it may please you to wear to-day and cast aside to-morrow. Buy of me, my lord, and at what price you will—it is for your life. But be quick; he will not wait over-long." She plucked at his sleeve. "Do you not understand? The men are coming; you can hear the rattle of the sheaf-blocks at the mast-head of the galley—Constans!"

But Constans looked only at his enemy, Quinton Edge. "I am ready," he said, coldly.

Esmay passed through the long window and so into the drawing-room. To her overly excited senses the signal was already sounding in her ears, and a gradual faintness mounted to her brain, even as water rises about the swimmer advancing through the shingle to the first shock of the surge. Then, in deadly truth, she heard Quinton Edge blow his whistle, and the darkness closed in upon her.

For the second time the Doomsman raised the pipe to his lips. It slipped from his fingers and fell to the garden-table at his side.

As he bent to recover it the subtle, uprising scent of the May-bloom struck him like a blow; a dark flush overspread his brow. He spoke, quickly, insistently:

"The canoe is still at the landing-stage. Go, while there is yet time."

He seized Constans by the shoulders, slewing him around and pushing him towards the steps that led to the terrace.

"Go, and forget all that you have seen and heard in Doom the Forbidden. You and your secrets are known; be content to leave my people with theirs. And to me my memories."

The madness of protest, of resistance, was still upon Constans, and yet he found himself yielding to this stronger will. Mechanically, he leaped to the terrace below, and from thence ran on to the landing-stage just as Kurt, the Knacker hobbled around the corner of the house at the head of a squad of sailors from the Black Swan. An arrow or two flew wild, but Constans quickly had the boat in the current, which was running out on a strong ebb-tide, and so was safe from further molestation. Half a mile down-stream he ventured to make a landing. The dozen or so of rifles and store of ammunition that he had left in hiding at this point were too precious a treasure to be abandoned without an effort. Yet hardly had he transferred the last case of cartridges to his boat than he became aware that the Doomsmen were close upon him, and this time he got a bruised shoulder from a spent cross-bolt by way of a parting salute. The canoe was heavily laden, but fortunately the wind had gone down with the sun, and the water was unusually smooth. Constans bent to his paddle, shaping his course to the southwest, the direction of his old home on the West Inch.

How cool and pure the air! How clean and sweet the stars that shone above him! Little by little the fever and the fret of life departed from him, and he was at peace. He wondered now at the madness that had possessed him, at the passion that had thrilled him at the touch of a woman's hand. He had come so near to proving himself a traitor, a recreant to all that was sacred in his life. And then a hound had bayed, and a girl had laughed, and the shining bubble had vanished into the air. Beguiled, betricked, betrayed—base repetition of the ancient injury. What a fool he had been!

Then, his heart being sore, he tried to comfort himself after a man's fashion. It had been all a mistake from the beginning; he had never really loved this amber-haired enchantress; it had been the infatuation of passion only, and he had escaped; let him be thankful. Or even granting that love lay behind, was not all of life before him? One day had passed, but another was soon to dawn, a day for new purposes, fresh consecrations. In his present exalted mood, even his long-cherished vengeance upon Quinton Edge seemed a small, a contemptible thing. What were either his love or his hate in the world-drama that was being enacted under his eyes. Again, as in days long past, he thrilled to the thought of a new and larger life, the redemption of humanity, the establishment of peace and righteousness, the shadow of Doom forever lifted from the land. There were the rifles and ammunition lying at his feet, potencies irresistible; surely this was the fulness of time. What a splendid vision! How glorious his own part in it might be! And so, through the night, he dreamed and drifted.

* * * * *

It was a week later that Esmay looked into Nanna's face bending over her, and knew that remembrance had come again. She had listened silently, as Nanna, between fits of weeping and stormy self-reproach, made her confession, of her eavesdropping at the door, of her jealous terror lest she should be separated from her darling, of her new-born hatred of this Constans, who dared to stand between herself and Esmay, of the final madness that had tempted her to the unchaining of the dogs. Yet, when it was finished, Esmay had put forth her hand and drawn the rough, tear-stained face close to her own. "You could not know, dear," she said, quietly, "and it was all for love of me."

It was not until the end of another week, a sunny day, when she had ventured out for the first time, that Esmay found courage to ask the question that had risen so often to her lips.

"When did the Black Swan sail away?"

"That same morning," answered Nanna. "Although it's a living wonder that I should have cared to take notice of anything beyond your face that lay so still and white upon my arm."

"And our master—he carried out his purpose?"

Nanna looked puzzled. Then she answered, carelessly, "Does he ever fail in that?"

There was a pause, and Esmay turned again to look upon the shining river.

"He might have saved his life—and lost it," she whispered to herself. "I am glad for him. And for myself—for now he knows."



XXI

OXENFORD'S DAUGHTER

Constans had now spent nearly a fortnight in the valley of the Swiftwater, and, while he had been hospitably received and entertained, he made but small progress in his mission; it seemed as though this second propaganda were also doomed to failure. There was neither unanimity nor enthusiasm among these rustic seigneurs; they were content to leave well enough alone, and the rest of the world could shift for itself, as in the past.

"Doom will not trouble us, and why should we concern ourselves about the flaying of a few fat burghers. Mayhap a little blood-letting now and then is efficacious in warding off the falling sickness, and in the end the churls get it back out of us. Your own worthy uncle, Messer Hugolin, has squeezed me more than once. As for your ideal republic, stuff of dreams, lad! Take an old man's word for it."

Piers Major, of the River Barony, spoke decidedly, yet withal not unkindly, for he had been blood-brother to Constans's father, and he liked the boy for his own sake. Constans had gone; to him last of all; unconsciously he had been counting upon his support, whatever else failed, and to be repulsed in this quarter was bitter indeed. The old man looked into the clouded face before him and continued, earnestly:

"A dream, I tell you. Let the morning wind scatter these vapors; you are young, and the world is before you. Harkee, lad, for I speak for your own good—nothing less. There is the Greenwood Keep, and it still remains 'no man's land.' True, the house was badly gutted by the fire, but there is plenty of good timber in the forest, and every man among us will be glad to lend a hand to the reconstruction of your fortunes. Finally, there is your tall cousin Alexa, 'Red' Oxenford's daughter. Methinks she looks upon you not unkindly, and she bade me be sure to bring you to her coming of age to-day. The whole country-side will be present, and you may bag all your birds with one fairly shot bolt. What say you?"

Constans was silent; for the moment he was conscious of being allured by an offer so well and kindly meant. To restore the old home, to find himself again among his kinsmen and friends, contentedly sharing their simple, wholesome life, to plough his own acres and see the smoke curling upward from his own hearthstone—were not these things, after all, the actualities of life?—was he to be always turning his back upon them to grasp at clouds mirrored in running water, shadows that ever eluded his grasp? His cousin Alexa—undoubtedly she was a pretty girl, with her rose-leaf complexion and bright, gray eyes. He had met her on two or three occasions, and he was not wholly unaware of her shy pleasure in his companionship, impersonal as it had hitherto been. He might, indeed, stop and consider.

Yet the temptation passed as quickly as it had presented itself. There was that other work in the world to-day, and who was to take it up if he drew back? Others might be of gifts more competent, but at least he had come to know himself through hard experience, and knowledge so bought was not to be lightly flung away.

"It cannot be," he said, shortly. "Believe me, that I am not ungrateful, but my own way is plain, and I must take it." He hesitated. "You are of my father's covenant," he continued, slowly.

"The blood-bond is between us," assented the other, heartily enough, and yet knitting his brows as he spoke.

"Then if I choose to exact the full obligation of brotherhood, even to sword-service——"

"It must be paid, and it shall be," said Piers Major, quickly, and still his countenance was troubled.

Constans deliberated. "I shall not require so severe a test of your good faith," he said at length. "Yet I may ask you to hold the question open, to give me a chance to prove that my plans are feasible and that action is necessary for the future peace of all."

"That I can agree to with all my heart. But, mind you, the argument must have a keen edge and weight behind it. We Stockaders are a stubborn generation."

"So, too, are facts," returned Constans, "and possibly you may have to deal with them rather than with my theories. It is a long time since the men in gray have needed to go afield in this direction, but the country around Croye is a dry sponge, and I happen to know that there were more empty saddles than full hands in the expedition that has just returned to Doom from the Southland. I stood on Harbor Hill last night, and there were lights in the Narrows."

"It may be so," said the old man, sombrely, "but the graybacks should not have forgotten already the lesson we taught them at the Golden Cove the year of the red comet. But, Constans, lad, we should be on our way if we would not have the pretty Alexa furrowing her forehead over our empty seats at her birthday board. Hola! Willem; the horses!"

The way to Deepdene, Red Oxenford's stronghold, led through the forest, and the green drive was a pleasant place on this brightest of May mornings, there being the languor of coming summer in the fitful breeze. The two horsemen rode slowly, yet their speech was brief, each being absorbed in his own thoughts and questionings.

A couple of miles farther on and they came to the crossing of the Ochre brook. As they rode their horses into the ford, a wild dog that had been lapping at the brink started up with a snarl under the very feet of Piers Major's steed. Now such is the cowardly nature of the wood-dog that he will run from the presence of man if chance of escape be offered; yet if cornered he will show all the ferocity of a wounded boar. In this instance the dog could not retreat to advantage, and so he sprang at the horse, gripping the tender muzzle in his strong, sharp teeth, and hanging there like a rat on a terrier. The horse, maddened with pain, plunged and reared. His master drew his hunting-knife and made an ineffectual pass at the ugly beast.

"Hold!" shouted Constans. "Back in your saddle and leave him to me."

The pistol in his hand spoke once, and the dog, shot through the lungs, fell back into the water. A bubble of crimson foam floated for a moment on the current, and he was gone.

"That was well done," said Piers Major, gravely. He had finally succeeded in quieting his horse, and they were again on their way.

"It is one of the ancient secrets," said Constans, and explained as best he could the mechanism of the revolver and the composition of its explosive cartridge. The old man examined the strange weapon with respectful attention; he had had proof of its powers.

"Have you ever killed a man?" he demanded.

Constans was obliged to answer in the negative, and the other seemed a little doubtful. "Look," said Constans, and, drawing rein, he took aim at a beech-tree a few yards distant. The bullet ploughed into the wood, leaving a small, round hole in the smooth bark. "See how deeply it has penetrated," he continued. "Think you that a man could endure to have this lump of lead drilled through heart or brain? Ay, and against it no cuirass of quilted cloth will avail, however well it may turn an arrow-point."

Piers Major smiled grimly. "If I questioned your assertion," he said, "you would doubtless invite me to stand up and put the matter to the proof. I am content."

"In a secret place, some three miles from here," went on Constans, "I have in store a dozen similar weapons, together with as many of a larger pattern—rifles as they were anciently called. Also abundance of ammunition. Put them in the hands of brave men, and would not the odds be in our favor, even if the Doomsmen out-numbered us?"

"Yet may not our enemies provide themselves with the same means of offence?"

"No," said Constans, decidedly. "It took me a month's hard work to get what I have into serviceable condition. Besides, the weapons are useless without the cartridges of gunpowder and lead. Of these only a small quantity remained fit for use, and I have secured it all."

The old man's eye brightened. "Good," he said, laconically, and relapsed into his abstracted mood.

* * * * *

It was a joyous and inspiring spectacle that presented itself when they finally drew rein before the doors of Deepdene. On the smooth lawn within the stockade full a hundred horses were picketed, while their masters strolled about in the bright sunshine. For the most part they were well-built young fellows, clad in all the bravery of a rustic holiday. Constans and his companion paused only long enough to receive the salutation of those nearest, and then passed into the house to pay their respects to the host. They had been among the last of the guests to arrive, and now the signal was given for the festivities of the day to begin in earnest.

The sports were of the sort characteristic of such a gathering—wrestling and foot-races, target-shooting and bouts at cudgel-play and night-stick. Towards the middle of the afternoon, when the athletic prowess of the young men had been fully exploited, came the great spectacle, the bull-fight, and of this it will be necessary to speak somewhat particularly.

The pen, or corral, as it might more properly be called, was a circular enclosure of fifty yards in diameter, the ring being formed of stout post-and-rail fence. The victim, a wild bull, was first turned blindfolded into the enclosure and baited by the dogs until excited to frenzy. Then half a dozen of the bolder youths would vault into the ring armed only with their throwing-knives, and the real sport would begin. The master of the ring, having provided himself with a long pole to which a sharp knife-blade had been bound, would watch his opportunity to cut the thong that secured the blind-cloth about the animal's eyes. Woe now to him who was dull of eye or laggard of foot!

The object of the game was, of course, to strike the fatal blow; but, skilled as were the young Stockaders in the art of throwing the knife, it often happened that a bull would be bleeding from a hundred wounds and still keep his feet. Commonly, too, he would manage to score upon one or more of his adversaries before succumbing, for while it was permissible for a contestant to leave the ring, he could only do so after he had thrown his knife and as a last resort against the bull's charge. When the animal's attention had been diverted by an attack from another quarter, the disarmed contestant would vault again into the ring and recover his weapon. Here, indeed, was a game that might well stir the coldest blood, since life itself was the stake for which it was played.

The company had gathered about the bull-pen, pressing closely against the barrier, that they might lose no part of the show. It should be a spectacle worth more than ordinary attention, for the bull was an animal of exceptional size and of a temper to correspond; the knowing ones opined that the contest would be a protracted one, and expatiated gravely upon the animal's strong points to their less-informed brethren. Wagers were being booked; there were endless arguments, asseverations, questionings; the smoke from innumerable pipes hung like a blue haze above the heads of the throng, and here and there a fretful child lifted up complaining voice. Already the sun hung in the zenith, and it was time to begin if the sport were not to encroach upon the dinner hour.

At the north end of the enclosure a wooden gallery had been reared for the accommodation of the principal guests, and Constans, to his surprise, found himself included in this privileged number. Possibly the pretty Alexa could have explained the mystery of his invitation; certain it is that she favored him with a radiant smile when he made his appearance on the platform, a mark of encouragement which might have justified him in appropriating the vacant seat at the maiden's right hand. But Constans, being of a retiring disposition, and even a little indifferent to his opportunities, let the chance slip, and another who had been waiting anxiously upon the lady's nod was finally made happy.

A murmur of applause had greeted the entrance of the bull, and truly he was a magnificent creature, deep chested and of the true checkered marking in black and white. The customary baiting had been omitted, for the ugliness of his temper needed no external stimulus, and the young men were already in the ring when he appeared.

The preliminary encounter was a mortifying experience for the sextet of overconfident youth. One by one they launched their weapons and either missed outright or else scored but lightly; successively they had been forced to retreat beyond the barrier by the animal, whose agility in getting around the ring was marvellous. Unfortunately for the contestants, all the knives had fallen on virtually the same spot, and the bull proceeded to mount guard over them as though aware that their possession was the guarantee of his own immunity. The game was now indefinitely blocked, since it was certain death for a player to attempt the recovery of his throwing-knife, and the rules did not permit the substitution of fresh weapons. The crowd laughed ironically as the situation dawned upon them, and the discomfited players were compelled to submit to many a gibe. The bull remained master of the field, and the spectators, grown tired of waiting, began to express their disapproval audibly.

Piers Major pushed his way to Constans's side. "A chance for you and your fire-stick," he whispered. "I have been talking to Red Oxenford and the others about it, and they are curious to see for themselves. Think you that you can drop that fellow where he stands?" and he nodded at the bull, who still kept watch over his spoils.

"Yes," answered Constans, confidently. Here was the supreme moment at last arrived; the very thought of failure was impossible; he must and would succeed in the task imposed. Obeying the beckoning finger of his host, Constans advanced to the edge of the platform overhanging the enclosure.

An excited murmur rose from the crowd below, and even the dignitaries upon the gallery jostled one another to obtain a favorable vantage-point. Alexa stood immediately behind Constans, her eyes bright with excitement, and her slim hand hidden in her father's huge fist. Without attempting to take aim, Constans raised the revolver and fired.

The bullet struck the ground in front of the bull and threw up a spiteful puff of dust, at which the animal pawed disdainfully. But if the shot had missed its mark, the report of the explosion did full execution among the spectators. The women shrieked, and the men nearest the enclosure pushed back hastily among the crowd. For a moment a panic was imminent, but Constans quieted it with a word.

"It is only the bark of the dog," he said, smilingly, and his hearers somewhat shamefacedly resumed their places, but this time leaving a dear space in which he might stand and handle his weapon.

Constans took steady aim, and, to his surprise, missed again, the bullet flying wide. The failure nettled him. He made his preparations for the third essay with care, raising and lowering the pistol several times, until he was sure that he could not miss the mark. A third failure—the bullet clipping a splinter from a fence-post on the opposite side of the ring. A mist rose before Constans's eyes; what did it mean? Could he have deceived himself in thinking that he had mastered this secret of the ancients? Was it to fail him now, when all depended upon success? His hand trembled so that he could hardly draw the trigger. The hammer fell for the fourth time, but no explosion followed, the cartridge having missed fire. He had now but one shot left, and the whispers of disapproval and disappointment among the crowd were plainly audible.

Without stopping to reflect, Constans leaped over the rail of the gallery to the arena below. As he jumped, the girl, Alexa, started, and a cry escaped her parted lips; it was a sigh rather than an exclamation, the voice of a crushed flower suspiring its last vital breath. And Constans did not hear.

For perhaps half a dozen seconds man and beast stood motionless, waiting upon each other. The bull tossed his head savagely, his tail twitching, and a cloud of dust and gravel rising under his impatient hoof. Constans, with finger on trigger, moved a step to the right so as to face him fairly. Suddenly the great horns came down with a vindictive sweep, the shoulders heaved in the first impulse of the coming charge. Like the snap of a whip the report rang out clean and sharp, and the bullet went home at just the one vulnerable point in the thick skull—that at which the butcher aims his pole-axe. The bull pulled up short, the glaring eyes softened as though in wonder at this strange performance that had been enacted before him; then, as the people still held their breath, the brute sank quietly to his knees and rolled over dead.

A woman started in to laugh hysterically, but her voice was drowned in a mighty shout; like a wave the crowd passed over the barrier, and Constans grasped helplessly at half a hundred out-stretched hands. A babel of voices arose; the arena, filled to overflowing with excited men and women, was comparable only to some gigantic ant-hill.

Fifty yards outside of the main palisade stood an oak-tree. Under the Stockader law no standing timber should have been permitted at a less distance than one hundred paces, but the oak was such a fine specimen that Red Oxenford had allowed it to remain—a fatal error.

A bowstring twanged; the arrow sped to its mark—the fair young breast of Oxenford's daughter—and in her father's arms the maiden gasped and died; all this in the space of time in which a cloud of the bigness of a man's hand might pass across the sun. Down from the lower branches of that accursed oak dropped the lithe figure of a man garbed all in gray. "Stop him!" called a weak, uncertain voice, but no one moved. The man in gray waved his hand derisively and disappeared into the bush. An inarticulate sound arose from the closely packed throng in the enclosure, the exhalation of a universal sigh.

Red Oxenford had made neither sound nor sign. He stood motionless, his daughter's head cradled in the hollow of his arm; he stared stupidly at the girl's face, so pitifully white and small it seemed, with its virginal coronal of flaxen hair—then he fell in a heap, like to a collapsing wall.

Piers Major gently withdrew the bolt from the wound and held it up to view. Its message was plain to all, for none save the Doomsmen feathered their arrows with the plume of the gray goose. Only now the quills were stained to a darker hue.

"It is her blood," he said, and the shaft of polished hickory snapped like a straw between his fingers. "Her blood! and of Doom shall we require it." And at that all the people shouted and then stood with uncovered heads, while the young men bore away the body of Oxenford's daughter on their locked shields and gave it to her mother.



That night Constans rode out from Deepdene at the head of twenty picked men, leading them to the secret place where he had stored the guns and ammunition which he had brought from Doom. Two days of practice with the unfamiliar weapons, and on the morning of the third the little squad, reinforced by a company of two hundred men-at-arms, set out upon the northern road.

Towards noon they passed through Croye. It had been their intention to stop here for the mid-day meal, but none cared to propose a halt after entering this strange city of silence. Ordinarily the central square would have been filled with a voluble, chaffering crowd, it being a market-day; now there was not a living thing to be seen, not even a hog wallowing in the kennel nor a buzzard about the butcher-stalls. Yet there were no traces of fire and sword, the houses had suffered no violence, and stood there barred and shuttered as though it were still the middle watch of the night.

"What think you?" said Piers Major to Constans. "Is it the plague?"

"No, or there would be fires burning in the streets and yellow crosses chalked upon the door-lintels. Those who keep so close behind their bolts and bars are living people, hale and strong as ourselves. But, assuredly, some great fear has been put upon them. Perhaps we shall know more as we go on."

The answer to the riddle was given as they turned the corner by Messer Hugolin's house. The strong-room on the ground-floor stood empty and despoiled of its treasures, yet the gold and silver had not been carried away, but lay scattered about in the filth of the street, as though utterly contemned by the marauders.

And there, hanging from a cross-bar of the broken window, was the body of Messer Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, dressed in his scarlet robes of office, and with a great gold chain about his neck. His head was bowed upon his breast, so that the face was not visible, and for this indulgence Constans gave inward thanks.

"Ride on," commanded Piers Major, shortly, and the cavalcade clattered forward. It is not worth while to linger where once Dom Gillian's tax-gatherers have passed.



XXII

YET THREE DAYS

Esmay sat in the gardens at Arcadia House. It was the loveliest of spring days, and there were blossoms everywhere—the vivid pink of the Judas-tree, the white glory of the dogwood, and each Forsythia bush a cascade of golden foam. It was all so beautiful, and in that same measure it hurt so keenly. The girl flung herself face downward in the grass, seeking to shut out from sight and hearing the world that mocked her.

That same night Esmay went to Nanna and announced her intention of paying another visit to the "House of Power."

"Our lord cannot be wholly unmindful of his children," she said, "and light may come to us from the Shining One. Besides," and here her color deepened, "it is where he lived, he who was my friend. If I could but find some little thing that had been his—a glove or one of his books! Now do be a good Nanna and help me in this."

But the practical Nanna shook her head. "That mad, old graybeard, who considers it a contamination to even look upon a woman, is it likely that he will invite you into his sanctuary and set himself to answer your foolish questions? It is supposed to be sufficient grace for a woman if the Shining One deigns to accept the gifts that she lays upon his altar."

"Then we will go dressed as men. There is everything we can want in the presses up-stairs, and I can steal the key of the wicket gate from out of Kurt's very pocket. Now, Nanna, dear——"

And of course Nanna yielded, for she saw that her darling's heart was set upon this thing. Quinton Edge was still absent in the Black Swan, and it would be an easy matter to hoodwink old Kurt; he was always fuddled with ale nowadays. To-morrow would be Friday, the day of the weekly sacrifice; they could make the trial then.

It was hard upon noon of the following day when the two women drew near to the temple of the Shining One. Nanna, clad in doublet and small-clothes, swung jauntily along, one hand on dagger-hilt and careless challenge in her snapping, black eyes, the picture of a swaggering younker. But Esmay, at the last moment, could not bring herself to don habiliments exclusively masculine. So she compromised by wearing a round jacket with a rolling collar and tucking away her hair under a boy's cap. A long rain-coat, for which the showery morning was an excuse, completed her outward attire and concealed her petticoats from casual view. Yet in any case her blushes had been spared, for they met nobody on their way, and the open space in front of the temple was deserted. Not a single worshiper had come to pay honor and tithe to the Shining One; the altar was empty of offerings, and the priest himself was absent from his accustomed post. Yet upon the ear fell the rumble and clang of moving machinery, and the eye, piercing through the half-lights of the archway, caught indefinite glimpses of the pulsing mysteries of wheel and piston-rod that lay within the shadows.

"He must be within," said Nanna, leading the way. "Don't stumble around like that. Here, take my hand."

Prostrate in front of the switch-board they found the priest, a mere anatomy of a man, with his checks shrunken to the jaw, and his wasted limbs no larger than those of a child. Yet he was alive and conscious, the deep-set eyes glowing with suspicious fire as they turned upon his unexpected guests.

"Starving," said Nanna, briefly, and proceeded to force a few drops of wine from a pocket-flask between his lips, while Esmay ran for the basket of food which had been brought along as an offertory in their assumed character of worshippers. The stimulant acted powerfully, and within the hour Prosper was so far restored as to be able to partake of some solid food. Then he insisted upon getting to his feet, a gaunt and terrible figure in his rusty cassock.

"I have my work to do," he reiterated, stubbornly. "I must be preparing the harvest field for my lord's sickle, and already the time is ripe for his appearing. Behold and believe!"

With a firm step he approached the switch-board and turned one of the controlling levers. A flash of light, succeeded by a stream of crackling sparks, leaped from the free end of a broken wire at the other end of the building, and a pile of straw lying near it burst into flame. An expert in electrical engineering would have understood that the broken wire must be in proximity to a mass of metal, and that the powerful current was being visibly hurled across the gap. Esmay uttered a cry, and even Nanna shrank back. Prosper smiled.

"Who can abide the displeasure of the Shining One? Who can stand before the flame of his wrath? A mighty and a terrible god, yet he would have left his servant to starve before his altar—you have seen that for yourselves. It is ten days now since even a woman has condescended to kneel at his shrine and make her offerings of meat and drink. I, his high-priest, may eat no common food, but how should the lord of heaven and earth keep such trivial circumstances in mind? He had forgotten, and so I must have died but for your opportune coming and pious gifts.

"One might argue that our lord employed you as the instruments of my deliverance," continued the priest, musingly. "I might think it, but that I know the Shining One of old. It is his pleasure to punish, not to help; to slay and not to make alive. Never has he given aught of grace to me who have served him faithfully for these threescore years. And to-day, if I should sit with him upon the death-chair, he would consume me as utterly as though I were the foulest-mouthed blasphemer in all Doom. What think ye, in all honesty, of the Shining One? Is he a god to be propitiated by sacrifice and offering, to be worshipped and adored—supreme, almighty, everlasting? Or are we but blind fools, trembling before a blind force that knows and sees and is nothing, except as we, its lords and masters, may compel it to work our will?"

The muttering of thunder broke in upon the priest's last words. A storm-cloud was driving in from the west, low-hanging and menacing. The priest's face changed.

"He comes! he comes!" he continued, with fanatic intensity. "This is our lord, in very truth, who now stands before us, calling upon his people to turn to him ere it be too late. Yet three days, and Doom, Doom the Mighty, is fallen, is fallen! He has said it—yet three days."

The two women stayed neither to see nor to listen further. Hand-in-hand they gained the street and ran in the direction of the Citadel Square, heedless of the rain that was now beginning to fall. Several blocks away they paused, exhausted, compelled to seek shelter in a doorway from the fury of the storm. Some one was already there—a man. He turned as they entered, and Esmay saw that it was Ulick.

For several moments they stood side by side without exchanging a word, and, indeed, no speech would have been audible amid the almost continuous crashing of the thunder-peals. Then, as the first violence of the storm expended itself, Esmay heard her name uttered, and realized that Ulick was holding her hand in both his own.

"Don't!" she pleaded, and drew her hand away.

Ulick's face hardened. "I might have known it," he said, bitterly. "Yet he who has been false to friendship may betray love as well."

"He is dead," she said, and Ulick started.

"Constans—dead!" he stammered.

"Hanged at the yard-arm of the Black Swan. But Quinton Edge still lives."

"You loved him?" persisted Ulick, the sense of his injury still strong within him.

The girl drew herself up proudly. "Yes, I loved him—that is for you and all the world to know. But be comforted; he cared not a whit for me. That, in the end, was made plain enough."

Ulick's fare was pale. "But he still stands between us?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, simply.

The rain had almost ceased; Esmay made a movement to depart.

"There is nothing—no way in which I can serve you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. I am going back to Arcadia House, but I shall have Nanna with me. There is nothing to fear."

He regarded her fixedly. "What can you do against Quinton Edge? He is the master—our master."

"I do not know; I have not thought. But I can watch and I can wait."

"Waiting! If that were all——"

"No, no! it could not be." She colored hotly, and he stopped, abashed.

"You must go now," she went on, gently. "Ulick, dear Ulick, I am sending you away, but, indeed, it is better so. And I shall remember—always."

He would have spoken again, but something in her face restrained him. He bent and kissed her reverently, as a brother might, and went out. And she, watching him go, found her vision suddenly blurred by a mist of tears. For there is something in every woman's heart that pleads a true man's cause, for all that she may not accept the gift he proffers.

Nanna had disappeared into the house some few minutes before; now she returned from her journey of discovery, wearing an expression of gravity quite new to her. "Come," she said, "I want to show you something."

She drew Esmay after her down the draughty passage that led to the offices of the long-since-deserted dwelling-house. There was a large apartment at the end of the passage—the kitchen, to judge from the character of the fittings. The room had been formerly lighted by electricity, and Nanna pointed out a lampwire whose free end was dangling in close proximity to a lead water-pipe. Underneath was a small heap of oil-soaked rags.

"You remember what we saw at the House of Power?" said Nanna, significantly.

Esmay examined the wire carefully. At the broken end the insulating fabric had been stripped off and the copper scraped clean and bright with a knife-blade.

"I found this on a nail in the passage," went on Nanna, and held out a bit of cloth that had been torn from a garment. It was of that peculiar weave worn only by the priests of the Shining One.

Esmay looked at it with troubled eyes. "What does it mean?" she asked, but Nanna only shook her head.

"Of course, I remember what happened at the temple," said Esmay, hesitatingly. "We saw him turn a handle, and the wire a hundred feet away spouted fire. If a hundred feet, why not half a mile?"

"It is a trap," asserted Nanna.

"But for what purpose?"

Nanna was not to be moved. "A trap," she persisted. "I do not understand, but I can feel what it is just as do the wolverine and the fox. Come away."

They walked down the street.

"What could Prosper hope to catch in such a snare—for whom could he have set it?" asked Esmay, putting into audible language the question over which both were puzzling. "Unless," she went on, thoughtfully—"unless this is only one of many."

Nanna nodded. "Dozens, hundreds of them, and scattered all over the city. It is the harvest-field of which he spoke."

As they passed a street corner that commanded a view of the Palace Road, Nanna caught Esmay by the arm and bade her look. Towering head and shoulders above the throng of idle men and gossiping women strode Prosper, the priest, and as he went he proclaimed the woe that must shortly come upon the city, a message to which none gave heed. But for all their mocking he would not forbear, and long after he had passed out of sight Esmay could distinguish the accents of his powerful voice rising above the din that strove to drown it:

"Yet three days, and Doom the Mighty—is fallen, is fallen!"



XXIII

THE RED LIGHT IN THE NORTH

It had been Constans's original plan to cross the river some miles above Croye, and so avoid attracting the attention of the Doomsmen should any of their parties be afield. The expedition would then move cautiously down the east bank in the hope of surprising the guard at the High Bridge, and so gain entrance to the city. But Piers Major, at the council of war that first evening, brought about a reconsideration.

"Against the citadel," he said, shrewdly, "we should rather choose to direct an unexpected blow. The bridge may be carried by a rush, but not so the stone walls that guard the heart of Doom. In that assault a man's life must be paid for each rung gained on the scaling-ladders. We have no batteries with which to hammer at the gate-hinges, and as for a siege—well, it is weary work starving out rats whose fortress is a granary in itself. Let us move, indeed, but cautiously, prudently.

"Splendor of God!" shouted Red Oxenford, and he sprang to his feet. A man of full habit and ruddy face he had been in his day, but since the death of the young Alexa he seemed to have aged and whitened visibly. His eyes were bright, as though with fever, and he went on with growing vehemence:

"Are we, then, chapmen of Croye, calling to collect an overdue account—prepared to sit down in humble expectancy at Dom Gillian's door until it may pleasure him to open it? Caution, expediency! he is no friend to Oxenford who would utter such words as these."

But Piers Major was not to be daunted. He put his hands on the shoulders of the angry man and forced him backward into his seat.

"Nay, but you have not heard me out," continued Piers Major. "It is a debt, indeed, for which we are pressing payment—only one of blood rather than of gold. All the more reason, then, that the settlement should be in full and the cost of collection kept small. Now, Dom Gillian has shut his door in our faces, and it is a strong one. If we so elect we may butt out our brains against it, and be none the better off.

"A fortress and a woman, there is always more than one way in which they may be taken. Let us find that back door, and some of us may quietly enter there while the others are parleying at the front. Once within the walls, the fire-sticks should quickly clear the house for us."

"Ay, man," broke in Oxenford, impatiently, "but all this is words, not deeds. What can we do so that Dom Gillian hangs from his own door-post before a second rising of the sun?"

"I propose, then," answered Piers Major, "that the score of men who are armed with the new weapons shall take boat down the river and make a landing to the south of the Citadel Square, remaining in hiding until the rising of the moon to-morrow night. The main body will force the High Bridge at the coming dawn, and should be able to drive the Doomsmen to cover within the next twelve hours. Then the frontal attack in force and the gun-fire from behind. If they follow each other at the proper interval, our victory is assured."

"It is your idea that I should go with the flanking-party?" asked Constans.

"Naturally, since you alone know the city. We can reach the Citadel Square from our side without difficulty, for it is a simple matter of hewing our way thither. But with your party it must be the progress of the snake through the grass."

Without further parley the plan proposed was adopted. Piers Major would command the main body in person—about one hundred and fifty men in all. Constans selected Piers Minor, son of Piers Major, as his lieutenant, and, somewhat to his surprise, Oxenford elected to join the smaller command. "It is the better chance," he explained, grimly, "for my getting a face-to-face look at the old, gray wolf."

Fortunately, the question of transportation for the river party was quickly settled. One of Messer Hugolin's flat-boats, coming down from the upper river with a cargo of hides, had anchored for the night a half-mile up-stream; it was an easy matter to impress crew and vessel into service. The hides were tossed ashore, and by midnight the expedition was ready to start. The scow was fitted with two masts, carrying square sails, and, as the wind was directly astern and blowing strongly, the clumsy craft swept away from her moorings with imposing animation, leaving a full half-acre of bubbles to mark her wake.

"For the third time," said Constans to himself as he sat in the bow with his back to the squat foremast and watched the river flowing darkly by. Twice now had he measured strength with Doom the Forbidden, and twice had the battle been drawn, the issue left undecided. This time one or the other must fall.

The long night wore away, and presently the sky was streaked with the pink and saffron of the coming dawn. A landing was made without difficulty, and Constans was soon leading his little band through the rubbish-encumbered thoroughfares to the appointed station. The men marched along in sulky silence, for their night's rest on the open boat-deck had been an uncomfortable one, and they wanted their breakfast.

Constans had determined to make use of his old quarters in the "Flat-iron" building, on the south side of the Citadel Square, and his relief was great when the last man passed within the shelter of its walls. Once mustered in one of the large rooms on the fourth floor, the haversacks and canteens were quickly requisitioned, and the men feasted gloriously upon oat-cake and cold coffee, brewed from parched grain, with a pipe for dessert. After this agreeable interlude, there was nothing to do but to wait, and the majority curled themselves up in some convenient corner and resumed their interrupted slumbers. Constans posted himself at a window overlooking the square, with the intention of keeping close watch on all that passed below. But, in spite of all his efforts, Nature insisted upon her rights, and he, too, slept.

Over at Arcadia House, Nanna, being wakeful with the torture of an aching tooth, happened to glance through the north windows of the room occupied by the sisters and saw a dull-red glow on the horizon—a conflagration. She aroused Esmay, and the two girls watched it, wondering.