The place was dark except for the glimmering light at the far end, and he was obliged to feel his way to avoid the mules, who had an evil trick of lashing out with their heels at anything in the vicinity.

At the foot of the steps he trod on a riding whip, which he recognised as one belonging to Vardri.

In the dim circle of light cast by the smoky lamp there was only a truss of hay disordered as if someone had lain upon it, and the manta, and other things belonging to Arithelli.

There was one thing more, a sheet of paper covered closely with an untidy scrawl.

The lynx eyes flashed, and Sobrenski bent eagerly forward.

Bad as the light was it had not taken him long to recognise the writing.

He held it close to the lamp, and smiled with satisfaction.

Nothing could be better from his point of view. In the first sentence there was all, even more, than he wanted.

He smoothed it out between his pointed fingers, folded it, and bestowed it carefully in an inside pocket.

It was just the kind of thing he would have expected from a girl of Arithelli's type,—to go about dropping letters. She had not method enough even to put on her clothes decently; they always looked as if they were falling off, and her hair as if it was coming down.

Sapristi! A fine agent for the Cause! and one fit to be trusted with important documents.

Poleski must have been quite mad when he suggested introducing her to the Brotherhood, and he himself deserved even more blame for having as much as listened to the suggestion.

A girl of that age, picked up from nowhere, and like the rest of her sex a mass of lies and vanity.

He held the lantern above his head, and peered round. Surely they had not been so utterly insane as to have attempted to escape to-night? All the horses and mules were there safe enough, and obviously they would not attempt to walk.

He strode towards the door, meeting them on the threshold, and in spite of himself could not help being impressed by the uncanny likeness between the two, in form and outline.

They had even the same trick of movement.

The thought of what he had found made him feel almost good-humoured, although he took good care that no one else should benefit by this unusual mood.

"You have found yourself a little distraction, hein?" he said, ignoring Arithelli's presence. "We are not up here for amusement all the same. There's nothing done. I supposed you had come down to see to the horses."

Vardri strolled across to a rack, and took down an armful of saddles and stirrups.

"I have," he answered laconically. "They'll be ready in five minutes."

Sobrenski turned to the girl, and spoke to her in an undertone. "What are you wasting time for? See to your work." Vardri raised his head from the adjustment of a girth.

"I'm doing Mademoiselle Arithelli's work. There is no need for her to trouble." His accents possessed both dignity and command. For an instant their positions were reversed. The leader smothered an oath; but said no more. He reflected that he could well afford to wait for his revenge. The game was absolutely in his own hands if only they had known it.

He could see that they were both perfectly unconscious of the fact that they had lost anything. When they discovered they would most likely conclude it had happened during the ride up.

When Arithelli had dragged herself up into her bedroom the sky was lighting with the dawn. They had mistaken the road and gone a mile or two out of the way, and one of the men had been thrown off and twisted his ankle, and made another halt and delay. She drew the curtains closely and lay down without undressing.

Before she slept she put her hand into her breast, and felt the rustle of the thin paper on which Vardri's letter had been written.

It was not until the landlady had nearly battered down her door that she stirred four hours later, and then she unfastened her blouse and drew out instead of the original two sheets, only one.

She did not feel particularly alarmed; supposing it had been put with the envelope that she had left about in the morning. Her things so often got lost, and it was Emile who generally found them.



CHAPTER XIX

"Must a man have hope to fight? Can a man not fight in despair?" "A Polish Insurgent," JAMES THOMPSON.

How he lived through his last day in Barcelona Emile never quite knew. A strong will, strong tobacco, and plenty of work were all aids in helping him to preserve his sanity.

He soon arranged things with Sobrenski, and found no difficulty in obtaining the post of messenger in the St. Petersburg affair.

He walked to the Hippodrome while the matinee performance was in progress, and left a message for Arithelli at the stage door.

Then he went back to his rooms in the Calle San Antonio, and began to make the few necessary preparations for departure. He was not encumbered with worldly goods, and his wardrobe was not extensive, so there remained only to look through and destroy all documents, books, or letters that could not be carried about or that might involve the safety of others.

Certain songs and pieces of music he put together in a pile, the rest he tore across and threw into a corner. He would have no need of these amusements now. Cultivation of the fine arts is not encouraged in the political prisons.

At five o'clock Arithelli entered the room, her clothes put on carelessly, the grey pallor of intense weariness upon her face. She had been working early and late during the past two days, and the thought of the missing letter worried her from time to time. Sometimes she felt almost certain that she had dropped it in changing from her circus clothes, and that it had been appropriated out of curiosity by one of the women who shared the dressing-room. As it was written in English, they would probably throw it away at once in disgust, annoyed at being deprived of the excitement of a romance or scandal.

She knew it would be useless to make enquiries. If it had been left there it had been done late at night, and the dressing-rooms were always cleaned early next morning, and it would have been swept away with the other rubbish.

She had not said anything about her loss to Vardri. It would make him even more anxious than herself, and she must bear the penalty of her own carelessness.

She hoped that after all it would come to light in some box or drawer among her clothes.

She came forward noiselessly across the polished, carpetless floor.

"Bon jour, Emile! You wanted me?"

He pointed to a chair.

"Sit down! Your hat is on crooked—as usual! Are you so little of a woman that you never use a mirror?"

A gleam of fun lit up her eyes.

"You covered mine up the other night with that horrible wreath and streamers. I can only see myself in little bits now."

"Well, sit down and I'll talk to you presently."

Emile returned to the sorting and destruction of his correspondence, and Arithelli lay back in her chair with a sigh of content, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again he was standing beside her with a glass of red wine in his hand.

"Drink this," he said, giving it to her.

"It isn't absinthe, is it?" she asked. "I can't see in this light, and I don't want—"

"It doesn't matter what it is or what you want. Don't argue, but finish it. How fond you women are of talking!" He waited till she had obeyed him.

"You see that music? Well, you can take it back with you. I shall not have any more use for music when I leave here. And listen to me now, and don't go to sleep for the next five minutes if you can help it."

He kept full control of himself and his feelings. If anything his voice was a little more rasping than usual, and his dry words of counsel and advice were spoken in his ordinary hard, practical manner. An outsider would have found it difficult to say which was the more indifferent in appearance of these two who had been so strangely intimate for half a year, and who were now about to part.

The girl was apathetic from physical fatigue and past emotions.

She thought as she looked round the familiar room how impossible it was to believe that she would never be there again after to-day, and that Emile would never again come to her.

The wine cleared her brain and made her blood run more quickly. She roused herself to listen to what Emile was saying, and to answer the questions he was asking her about her own arrangements. She thought he seemed relieved when she told him of Vardri's scheme, and she restrained a strong desire to tell him also about the missing letter.

He gave her an address in the Russian capital to which she could write during the next month, warning her at the same time to be careful in what she said, to mention no names, and to avoid all references to politics, as his correspondence would run the risk of being edited by the police. Inside the envelope on which the address was written he had enclosed forty francs.

"You'll probably find a little money useful one of these days," he said. "Keep it till you really want it. You can't wear more than one pair of boots at once, and there are other things more important. I don't want you to thank me. You can go and sing something instead, and do your best as it's for the last time."

Arithelli rose at once and went to the piano, eager to do something that might give him pleasure.

She could play for herself now. Emile had succeeded in teaching her a few easy accompaniments, so that he could listen without distraction.

She hesitated for a minute, turning over his big music book, and then chose the popular song of the cafe-chantants and streets, the famous "La Colombe" with its lilting time, and mingled gaiety and sorrow. One heard it everywhere, sung in Spanish, in the local patois, and in French, by artistes in the theatres, by factory girls, and sailors, and market people. The gamins and beggars whistled and hummed it in the streets and squares.

Emile walked up and down the room as he listened. He had made her sing in the hope of lessening in a small degree the strain he was enduring, but what had possessed her to choose this song of all others? The words told of one who was about to set sail, and lingered bidding adieu to his Nina, the woman he loved.

"Le jour ou quittant la terre pour l'ocean, Je dis, priez Dieu, priez Dieu pour votre enfant. Avant que nous mettre en route je crus revoir, Nina! qui pleurait sans doute de desespoir."

One could hear the rocking of the boat at anchor, the rippling of the out-going tide.

In the second verse the time was changed, the words were hurried and insistent.

"Nina! si je succombe, el qu'un beau soir, Une blanche colombe vient te voir, Ouvre-lui ta fenetre car ce sera, Mon ame qui peut-etre te reviendra."

Her voice had grown weaker since her illness, and she sang with visible exertion and faulty breathing, but it was still the golden voice of the Israelitish woman, and there was the same timbre that had attracted him, and made him speak to her that afternoon in May at the station.

And all that had only happened six months ago! When she had finished he said nothing in approval, but he asked her to sing again, and she understood, and was pleased.

"You may thank the Fates for having given you a voice," he told her. "It's better than a face. It lasts longer. No man having once heard you would listen to another woman."

It was the first compliment he had ever made her, but Arithelli did not answer. Her back was turned towards him as she gathered together the music.

He could see that her whole body was trembling with repressed sobs. If he could only have been sure they were for him, he would have taken her in his arms. She was sorry he was going, perhaps, in a way, but not in the way he wanted. She had become dependent upon him, and he had filled a certain place in her life. If she made a scene it was entirely his own fault. Farewells were always a mistake, and he had been foolish enough to allow her to sing sentimental verses about doves and people's wandering souls. She was over-tired and over-wrought, and a woman's tears were more often due to physical than to mental reasons. So he argued, trying to convince himself, yet knowing all the time that Arithelli was not one of the women whose emotions are on the surface.

Once before he had seen her cry, and now as then he stood apart. It was for Vardri to dry her tears.

He glanced at the clock. Of course it was wrong, but he knew by the shadows that filled the room that it must be time for her to leave if she was to appear in public again to-night.

He must hurry the interview to a close, for he could not play his part much longer.

"You ought to be glad to get rid of me, Arithelli. Vous avez la chance! What have I given you but work and grumbles, eh?"

The soft, broken voice answered him:

"I shall feel afraid without you."

"You will have Vardri,—your lover." His tone was brutal as the blow of a knife. The natural animal jealousy of a man had risen in him again. When he was between stone walls, she would have the warmth of a lover's arms; every nerve in his own body would know it, and long for that which he had himself resigned.

He would have long hours to sit and think the thoughts that drive men to insanity or self-destruction.

"Yes, but one can care in different ways, and you have done so many things for me."

The man drew in his breath sharply. The knife was in her hand now, but she had stabbed unconsciously. He knew that she spoke quite simply, thinking only of his care for her physical well-being.

Truly he had done things, things that he would have given several years of life to undo.

Now he had that for which he craved,—the assurance that she cared, that she would miss him. Still he did not delude himself. He knew that what she felt towards him was not the love between a woman and her mate, but the affection of dependence, of habit. Yet for such as it was his soul uttered thanksgiving. Any other woman gifted with a less sweet nature would have felt for him nothing but hatred, but in Fatalite's mind neither spite nor malice ever found a place. The petty vices of womankind had never been hers. He knew now that he had been something to her, and that knowledge would make sunshine for him even in the shadow of a prison. It gave him courage also to play out the tragi-comedy to the end, to make a brave jest, to lie convincingly.

"We needn't make each other eternal adieux, mon enfant. You must not take all I said about Siberian dungeons au serieux. Russia isn't quite as dangerous as it's made out to be. Of course the police keep a watch more or less on the 'suspects,' but we know all their tricks, and how to avoid them. Plenty of us go to St. Petersburg and even to Kara and come back again. The Schlusselburg fortress is about the only place we haven't succeeded in getting out of yet. It's fairly easy to manage a false passport. You can write to me at the address I've given you."

* * * * * *

It was all over now, and he was alone. He had taken both her hands for an instant, and felt the convulsive clinging of the thin fingers. He had longed to kiss them, but dared not trust himself. His words were only such as might have been used by anyone of the Brotherhood.

"Au revoir, camarade!"

"Au revoir!"

Her tears were falling still, though she answered him steadily enough.

Then she turned away, pulling down her veil, and he saw her grope blindly for the fastening of the door. It shut gently behind her, and he was alone. He sat down by the table with its litter of books and newspapers, and stared dully round the room which her passing had left more hopeless and ugly than ever.

Life itself would be more fade and ugly now. As well for him that after to-day he would have no time to sit and brood. It would be all stern reality soon, enough to cure him of lovesickness.

First the work and risks of a secret printing press in some cellar or sordid room behind a shop, and later on the inevitable police-raid, a trial that would be no trial with the condemnation signed before-hand, and afterwards the travaux forces, the long marches, the agonies of farewell at the Siberian boundary-post—not for him, for his were said, but for his companions in misery—the miseries of the sick and dying, the partial starvation, and the horrors of dirt and vermin. There were sure to be some women too among the "politicals," and he would be obliged to watch their sufferings.

There would be no imaginary grievances in that life at all events.

On the floor, as it had dropped from among the music there lay a photograph, face downwards.

He picked it up and looked back at the childish, smiling face, the tiny, rounded figure of Marie Roumanoff.

"Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse."

His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. She had been a true prophetess when she had written that.

He tore the picture across, and threw it upon the rest of the debris.

The Roumanoff would never haunt his dreams again.

Her portrait was easily destroyed. A flimsy thing of print and paper, as slight and fragile as herself.

Of Arithelli he possessed no tangible likeness, but he would have her always with him, for her image was seared deep upon both heart and brain.

The Witch sailed out of Barcelona harbour with the early morning tide. Besides Emile and Vladimir, and a small picked crew, she carried an assortment of strangely-shaped machines, things that looked like the inside of a clock, and were full of wheels and cogs, firearms, and ammunition, some copies of a revolutionist manual on street fighting tactics, and other inflammatory literature.

Their plan was to enter Russia by way of Finland, leaving all the things there to be smuggled through by degrees.

When they came to the frontier they would part company. Emile would make his way towards the city that holds its trembling autocrat as closely guarded in his palace as any convict in the mines, while Vladimir was to go back to Spain overland to report success or failure in the landing and disposal of their dangerous cargo.

All day the two men sat together, talking, plotting, preparing for all contingencies.

There were no feminine voices to be heard on board the yacht now, no singing on deck in the evenings, no hint of the presence of a woman, either as wife, mistress, or companion.

They neither discussed nor recalled these vanished days, though one had hours of memory and regret, and the other was consumed with a savage hunger for that which he had lost.

Both had taken upon themselves vows that put them outside the pale of human ties and affections.

The Goddess whom they both served had risen, claiming their allegiance, their service, and with the lives and ways of mortal women they had no concern. The Cause had triumphed.



CHAPTER XX

"Do you not know I am a woman?" AS YOU LIKE IT.

Sobrenski was a man who wasted no time in making up his mind. His success as a leader had depended upon his swiftness of action and unscrupulousness, and his latest manoeuvres had turned out an admirable success, upon which he might safely congratulate himself.

The day following the resolution of the Committee, he had written to Arithelli, telling her to come to his flat to receive instructions. She would arrive in due time, and then he would explain things.

He wondered whether she would faint or scream or perhaps refuse, but probably she would be easier to manage now that Poleski was safely out of the way. He had schemed that business well too, and could now spare all his attention for Vardri and the girl.

As to the amount of work they both did, they would be no great loss, for he could easily supply their places by other human machines who would carry out his desires without question. The majority of the men who composed the circle were completely dominated by him, and incapable of opposing his will or argument, and by some he was worshipped as a hero. Callous of suffering in others, he was equally indifferent to it for himself, and if he did not spare his tools he also slaved incessantly day and night.

The large bare room in which he sat possessed very little furniture and no signs of comfort. There were a quantity of books piled on the floor and mantelpiece, and the centre space was filled by an enormous bureau heaped with a mass of printed and written papers, for besides his extensive correspondence he was part-editor of one of the Anarchist journals, which he enlivened by daring and sarcastic contributions. The fragment of the letter that Arithelli had dropped, lay open in front of him. He read it through again and smiled to himself.

"I'll give up even the Cause for your sake," Vardri had written. "Seeing how these men have made you suffer has changed my views. There must be something wrong about our ideas if they produce this cruelty to women. Sobrenski and the others are killing you slowly. I wanted struggle and excitement at one time, and whether it meant Life or Death it was all the same. There was no one to care. Now I want Life and Love and You!"

Another madman like Gaston de Barres! How alike all these effusions were, all in the same strain. They had found a pile of ravings when they had searched among the property of the heroine of that affair. These were the people who did an incredible amount of harm, who were even more dangerous than the ordinary traitor.

He pushed the letter underneath some others, and Arithelli had knocked more than once, before he called "Entrez!"

He saluted her with a cold scrutiny, telling her to wait till he had finished. He invariably made a point of using no title in addressing her, and never even gave her the customary Anarchist greeting of camarade. He did not invite her to sit down, and she would have been surprised if he had done so. There was another chair at the far end of the room, and she did not trouble to fetch it. Her heart was still further weakened by her illness, and she was breathless after climbing two long flights of stairs. She leant up against the wall, breathing quickly, and thankful for a few moments' respite.

She supposed she was required to play "errand-boy" as usual, and to go through the well-known routine: A crumpled-up slip of paper, which she must hide in her hair or dress, a long walk, or a ride in the electric tram if she happened to have any money, and then perhaps at the end of it she would find the man for whom she was seeking absent, and then she would have to wait till he returned. It was never safe to leave a message. Everything had to be given directly into the hands of those for whom it was intended, and she had spent many weary hours in the rooms of Sobrenski's followers.

She studied his face as he rapidly stamped his letters, flinging them on to a pile of others that lay ready. It crossed her mind how Emile had once likened a certain group of the conspirators to a pack of court cards, saying that they were alternately red and black.

Sobrenski's hair and small peaked beard were of a curiously unpleasant colour, and his thin lips, pointed teeth and long sloping jaw gave him a wolfish appearance. His eyes, deep-set and narrow, were too close together to satisfy a student of Lavater as to his capacity for truthfulness. The forehead alone was good, and showed reasoning and intellect. He was about fifty, and like all fair men looked less than his age. He was better dressed, and altogether more careful of his appearance than most of the other men, though he spent nothing on luxuries and never touched the absinthe, to which most of them were addicted. The sole luxuries in which he indulged were Work and Power.

"Probably you have heard a great deal of talk about spies lately," he began, addressing Arithelli in French. "For some time I have suspected one of our own number of treachery. However, one cannot condemn without proofs. For these I have been waiting and they have now come into my hands. I'm perfectly satisfied that the man I have all along suspected is a traitor, and there is no need to delay action any longer. I suppose Poleski has informed you of how we treat those who are unwise enough to betray us?"

"Yes."

She was on her guard now, and stood upright, all her languor gone. Why could he not say what he meant at once? She wondered why he had taken the trouble to seek for proofs of anyone's guilt. Enough for a man of his type to find an obstruction in his path. He would need no authority but his own for removing it. She hated him all the more for his parade of justice. It had not occurred to her that his speech was a prelude to anything that concerned Vardri. If anyone was implied she imagined it was herself. These men were never happy unless they were suspecting evil of someone. The Anarchist leader found in her incomprehension merely another sign of feminine stupidity. Her outward air of indifference was as irritating to him as it had been to the Hippodrome Manager. Sobrenski's blood had never stirred for any woman, however charming, and Arithelli's type of looks was repulsive to him. He loathed her thinness and pallor, her silence and immobility of expression. He vowed inwardly that she should look less indifferent before he had finished with her.

"You do not appear to have the least idea of the identity of the man to whom I am referring," he continued. "Your friend Vardri is not a very careful person. He is young, and shall we say, a little foolish. It is always risky to say or write anything against the Cause one is supposed to be serving."

"To say or write." It dawned upon her all at once. The piece of the letter she had missed, had been dropped in the stable up in the hills and found by Sobrenski. It was all her own fault, sheer rank carelessness. Emile had so often warned her against her fatal habit of leaving everything about. She never locked up anything, jewellery, clothes, money or papers.

Perhaps in the hurry of dressing that night, she had only taken with her the first page, and when she was out her rooms had been searched, and the rest stolen. Sobrenski would stop at nothing to get the evidence he wanted. If she accused him of having taken it he would simply deny the charge, and to seem anxious would be further evidence that the letter contained something that would compromise either Vardri or herself. In any case it appeared that the mischief was done. To expect either justice or mercy from her enemy was out of the question. She would try and fight him with his own weapon, feign ignorance, tell lies if necessary.

"Vardri? What has he done?"

The note of surprise in her voice was well assumed and she could control her face, but her hands betrayed her. Sobrenski had seen the blue veins stand out and the knuckles whiten unnaturally with the pressure on the black fan she carried to shield her eyes in the street.

"Done?" he echoed contemptuously. "Nothing so far. He has only talked and written. It is to provide against his doing anything important that the Committee have decided upon his removal. There was a meeting held last night and the voting was unanimous. Vardri has been condemned as a traitor to his vows, and a danger to everyone connected with our work."

"Condemned without a hearing!" the girl flamed out. "Mon Dieu! Your justice! What has he done?"

"Have you a right to question the judgment of the Committee?" The voice was like a scourge falling on bare flesh. Arithelli drew her shoulders together involuntarily.

"No!" she answered.

"Yet you do it! These womanly inconsistencies are a little fatiguing."

Sobrenski caressed his beard with a narrow, bloodless hand, on the middle finger of which was a curious ring of twisted gold wire.

He waited to see if she would make any further protest, but she set her lips firmly and refused to speak. There was nothing more to be said on her side. Evidently Sobrenski had found the letter, and when or where it had been found mattered not at all. He continued:

"The sentence has been passed and it falls upon you to execute it."

The answer came back swiftly:

"And if I refuse?"

For once in his life Sobrenski was taken aback, and experienced a new sensation, that of surprise. He looked at her with almost approval. If he was cruel he was also courageous, and able to appreciate the virtue in others.

"You know what your refusal implies?" he questioned, more gently than he had yet spoken. "You refused some time ago to carry a message. You will perhaps remember that I gave you the choice between doing as you were told, or—" he gesticulated expressively. "You were wise then. I hope you will be wise now."

Arithelli's thoughts were going at racing speed. No one could be long in a room alone with Sobrenski without being impressed by his overpowering personality. He affected her in a way that no one else ever did, in provoking her to futile outbursts of defiance and anger. She had never lost her head with anyone else, but he always made her incapable of reasoning, raging one minute, and cowed the next. Hitherto Emile had always been there to screen and protect her, to stand between her and her enemy. She knew now why he had so often hoped to see her in her coffin.

"I can't murder! I undertook to work for the Cause, but not that—Mon Dieu! not that!"

"We don't talk about murder," Sobrenski sneered. "We merely 'remove' those who have proved themselves untrustworthy. You undertook to obey orders, I believe. You may contradict me if I am incorrect."

He leant forward with the glittering eyes of the fanatic. "You talk of murder and forget that to us human life is nothing. Do you think you will save Vardri by refusing? Am I to suppose that he has infected you also with the taint of disloyalty? It is your business to loathe a traitor as we do. You wear your badge, but do you never read the words on it? Poleski used to tell me great things of your enthusiasm, your devotion. Now I am putting you to the test. You like to act a picturesque part, it seems, to wear boy's clothes, to sing, to be the only woman among us, to act the heroine. We do not want acting here. This is Life, not the stage. Now you are asked to give a practical proof of your loyalty!"

The pitiless tongue lashed, and Arithelli shrank against the wall, her hands over her eyes. There had been stories current among the younger members of the Barcelona Anarchists that Sobrenski possessed the power of hypnotism and did not scruple to use it. Some of the most daring and successful outrages of the past years had been carried out under his direction, and executed by these youths. He always made a point of choosing men who were highly strung and impressionable. He was known to boast that after three interviews with him he could make anyone, either man or woman, into a will-less automaton.

He exhorted, jeered, encouraged and derided, finally giving Arithelli five minutes in which to make her decision. She did not keep him waiting, though he could scarcely hear the murmured words of assent. Her nerve was broken at last. She would promise anything, do anything if only he would let her go. Dazed with fear and misery, she watched him get up, unlock a drawer of the bureau and come across to her holding out something.

"I shall arrange for you to be together one night up in the hut. I don't know whether you have any idea of shooting, but you can hardly miss at such close range."

The brutal words steadied her, and drove back the feeling of mental paralysis. She realised suddenly all that her promise meant. Vardri had given her love, and in return she was to give him Death! Her own dawning love had enabled her to see more clearly what his devotion meant. With the growth of a woman's soul she had also begun to experience womanly emotions, fear, anxiety, the need of sympathy and affection.

She snatched the pistol from Sobrenski's hand, and he stepped back a pace, throwing up his arm instinctively as she raised, levelled and fired.

The weapon clicked harmlessly, her hand dropped to her side, and she stood shivering, and wondering at her own madness. The whole thing had been done without thinking, as an animal driven into a corner turns, snarling and showing its teeth.

Sobrenski recovered himself first and laughed.

"So you thought it was loaded?" he said. "Do you take me for a fool? Allow me to congratulate you on your—failure!"

Then changing his tone of sarcasm to command: "You must hide that pistol carefully. Put it inside your dress or somewhere safe. I suppose you would like to march down the Paseo de Gracia, carrying it in your hand, and wearing a tragic expression,—and get locked up by the first agent de police you meet! You have pluck enough, but you should avoid these exhibitions of hysteria."

He gripped her by the shoulder, swung her round, and pointed to the door, "Allez!"



CHAPTER XXI

"My crown is without leaves, For she sits in the dust and grieves, Now we are come to our kingdom." "Anthony and Cleopatra," KIPLING.

Once more the procession of conspirators toiled on its way up the irregular mountain path. The horses slipped and stumbled under their unskilful riders, the mules climbed steadily upwards. No one spoke.

As usual Arithelli led the way.

Vardri, who had arrived last of all, rode forward to join her, but was curtly ordered to the rear by Sobrenski.

They should see enough of each other later on,—when it was time.

Before they started on their ride he spoke to Arithelli alone, and gave her his final instructions, and saw for himself that the pistol she wore at her belt was properly charged. He never left anything to chance, especially in important undertakings such as the present one.

"There will not be a long meeting to-night," he said. "You will have an hour free to do your work. You hear?"

His eyes were fixed on hers, compelling an answer. None came, though she bowed her head in token of acquiescence, and though he could hear no word Sobrenski was satisfied. He had seen that shrinking attitude, that mechanical gesture before. In the plot to assassinate General Morales there had been a young Spanish student who had given some trouble. He had developed a conscience at the last minute, and vowed that he could not kill an old and defenceless man, that he would rather die himself.

He had died, and so had Morales, and both by the explosion of the bomb that had been launched by the hand of the former.

Sobrenski held rightly that those who meddled with politics on either side must dispense with such useless things as scruples.

The night was still and sultry, with a full moon hanging low in the sky. The weather had been unnaturally warm for the time of year, all day, down in the city.

They were all glad when they had mounted above the sea-level.

There was a little breeze met them, and the tired and patiently plodding horses raised their heads.

Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle, and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.

The manta in which she was wrapped stifled her, and the weight of her own hair under the wig and sombrero made her head ache and throb violently.

As they rode she rehearsed her plans in her own mind, telling herself over and over again the things that she must say and do when she was alone with Vardri.

To-night would see Sobrenski's triumph, his grand coup, and when it was all over perhaps she would have peace.

How slowly they all seemed to ride, she thought. She wondered how many of the other men knew that she was chosen to act the part of murderess. Some of them had been kind to her in a rough way, especially the older ones.

But even if they did pity her a little, not one among them but would expect her to do the thing that they would consider obviously her duty.

No one would raise a voice on her behalf, whatever their private sentiments.

The majority of them would probably look upon her as a heroine, for she would have rid them of a spy, a traitor.

She could only hope that she might keep her brain clear, her courage firm till the supreme moment.

Once in the course of that awful day her nerves had given out in physical collapse, and her shaking hands had let fall the mirror of Agnes Sorel.

It lay on the floor in her bedroom, broken in three places.

Her early days in Ireland had given her a belief in the omens of good and evil, for in the "emerald gem of the Western world" superstition runs riot.

The faith in it was in her blood, though it needed no broken mirror to tell her what dread thing awaited her, towards which she must advance, urged by fate.

She had only written one letter, and that one was to Emile. Now that he was gone there was no one else who cared.

Something told her now that his last words had only been an attempt to comfort her, to ease her mind, and that she would wait in vain for his return.

Estelle would weep for a little while, and drink a great deal to drown her tears, and then forget. They were nearly at the hut now. She could see it, a grotesque shadow thrown across the silvered earth.

She slipped off and walked, leading her mule by the bridle.

Behind her were subdued curses, the rattle of slipping hoofs and falling stones, as the animals climbed the last and steepest piece of road, which ended in the plateau on which the building stood.

In front of it was a single large tree, but most of the ground close by bore nothing higher than dwarf shrubs and long grass.

When the cavalcade drew up and dismounted, Vardri was discovered to be missing.

He had been late in starting, lagged behind the others and dropped out of sight before they were scarcely clear of the town. Being the last of the file his disappearance had not at first been remarked.

Sobrenski refused to allow of time being wasted in a search.

He ordered the rest of the men up into the loft, and Arithelli to her work of unharnessing.

He himself remained standing in the shadow of the doorway, his eyes narrowed with anger, his thin lips compressed till they were merely a line.

Here was a complication that he had not foreseen. For the first time in his life his wit and cunning had been at fault.

He must have been mad not to have kept a sharper lookout on Vardri, but he had reckoned he was secure with Arithelli as decoy.

Could it be possible that she had been mad enough to warn Vardri? If so, then why was she here herself?

Either she had more courage or else she was more foolish even than he could have believed it possible for a female creature to be. Women took good care of their own skins in general!

If Vardri meant to try and escape, surely they would have gone together.

Perhaps his, Sobrenski's, detailed descriptions of the fate of others who had attempted flight had made her decide that it would be safer to remain and throw herself on the mercy of himself and his companions.

He might have miscalculated the force of her attraction for Vardri, but he felt perfectly certain that she was reduced to a state of mechanical imbecility. She could not escape now at all events, even if she suddenly changed her mind.

He would give them both five minutes, and then if Vardri did not appear—!

He began to walk up and down outside, like some prowling animal awaiting its prey.

At regular intervals his shadow crossed and recrossed the patch of light from the open door.

Meanwhile Vardri was riding leisurely up the slope, reining back his horse, and stopping at intervals to put a fair distance between himself and the others. He intended to make a chance of seeing Arithelli alone again, so he meant to wait till the whole crew, and especially Sobrenski, were safely embarked on their eternal discussions. Then he would slip in and help her with the animals, and live in Paradise again for a little space of time.

He had been to her rooms earlier in the day but she had sent down a message to beg him to excuse her. She had a headache, and was lying down, so he had been obliged to go away unsolaced, and longing for the evening.

Now that she had given him her promise to go with him to Austria, there was only to arrange the day and the hour of their departure. For once he was alive to the necessity for prompt action. There was her safety to be considered now. When he had been alone it had not mattered how anything was done or not done, but now everything was different. The world itself was another place. He had already actually written and posted a tentative letter to his father, such a letter as he could never have written if only his interests had been concerned, but he found any sacrifice an easy one now, even the sacrifice of pride.

There was no reason why they should not start to-morrow. It would be safer to get out of the place by going round by the Mediterranean and thence across by way of Italy.

Water-travelling was cheaper, too. He laughed to himself to think how practical he was becoming. How strange it would seem to live in a civilised fashion again, to not be obliged to look at every sou before it was spent, to have servants to wait upon one; enough to eat and drink, and the luxury of cleanliness.

Yet the vagabond life had had its charm, too. He had encountered kindness often, generally from those in more evil plight than his own, and there had been flowers and music and sunshine. True, he had felt horribly ill and dejected on some days, and his wretched cough was an annoyance to himself and to other people, but at times he felt ready for anything, and more energetic than any three of those lazy Spaniards.

Love and Arithelli would be a sure antidote for any misery or disease. For her he had created a House of Dreams, and now the dreams were on the verge of becoming realities. Instead of the sand and stones of that desert that men call Life, a rainbow-coloured future lay stretched out before him. Sunshine and the summertime of love, all that he had ever hoped for, were coming nearer. And joy was hovering near at hand, till he could almost touch her flying robe. Soon he would hold her in his arms, would possess her entirely.

How different Arithelli was from all other women! With her there was never caprice or fickleness. Whatever she said was his law, whatever she wished to do was the right thing.

Now he had abjured the Revolution, his father would be only too glad to have him back, to see him married to a woman of Arithelli's charm and breeding. There had never been any quarrel with his family, except when he had joined the Red Flag party, and it was only natural that they should quarrel over that. Love or the Revolution? There would never be any more doubt now as to which he would choose.

In the old days he had preferred starvation, and the freedom to act, and think as he liked. He had gloried in being an outcast, in suffering for the Cause. Life had been hard at times, but he had known men of ideals and enthusiasms and there had been a certain fascination in the excitement of being hunted. But now that was all over and a new day was dawning for them both, for himself and for Arithelli.

He spoke to his horse and stirred it into a quicker pace.

They must be well out of the way and she would think he was never coming.

Inside the stable Arithelli, tall and straight in her scarlet shirt, moved to and fro at her work, hanging up saddles and bridles, carrying pails of water, ranging on either side of the hut the horses and the mules. Tortured as she was with anxiety, she did not forget the wants of her friends the animals. It came across her mind how once when she had said to Vardri, "Let us see to the horses first," he had said half in jest, "If I were a Spaniard I should be jealous. You always think of the animals before everything else."

One by one the rest of the conspirators tramped heavily up the ladder, leaving her alone with Sobrenski, who stood with his back to the doorway, following her with his eyes as she moved to and fro in the shadows cast by the solitary lamps.

Before he mounted the ladder in his turn, he came across the hut, took her by the shoulder and spoke to her. "Be careful how you do your work, for if it is not well done others will do it for you."

She could not answer; she shuddered at his touch; her hands went up and covered her face.

Sobrenski turned and mounted the worn rungs of the narrow ladder with a lithe, active step. He was quite sure of her now. She would not fail to carry out his will.



CHAPTER XXII

"Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."

For a few minutes after he had gone, Arithelli stood motionless, still with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, trying to command her brain to work clearly. Her will and her limbs seemed paralysed. She could only wait for Vardri's approach. Once she prayed an inarticulate wordless prayer, that inspiration might be sent her to find a way out of this impasse in which there seemed neither light nor opening.

Time was passing, and every moment was bringing her nearer the most appalling destiny that could ever be meted out to any woman. If she did Sobrenski's bidding she would be not only a murderess, but the murderess of the being she loved most in the world. Vardri, who was so different from all the other men; Vardri, who could never bear anything to be hurt, or even to be made uncomfortable. She knew that it was perfectly useless for both of them to attempt to escape. Someone was most likely posted at the window of the loft, they would get no distance on foot without being overtaken, and if she attempted to lead out any of the horses or mules, the noise would probably attract attention.

Her hands fell to her side, and her head went up as she listened intently. So he was coming, after all. In that undisturbed space and clear dry air, sound travelled quickly, and she could hear the approaching hoof-beats while he was still some way off. With the knowledge of his approach the blood flowed again warmly in her veins and courage and decision came back to her. Her senses, unnaturally acute, told her that Vardri had now dismounted and was leading his horse. She could distinguish his footsteps, and then the monotonous regular footfalls of his mount. She ran out into the patch of moonlight, casting a hurried backward glance at the side of the hut. Thank God! the window was on the other side!

Vardri was coming slowly towards her, his horse's bridle over his arm. Before she covered the distance between them she made a gesture that enjoined silence and stopped his greeting. "Don't bring your horse in," she whispered. "Tie him up out of the way over there, a good way off the hut. I'll explain presently."

In another moment Vardri was beside her in the hut and had her in his arms.

"What is it, mon petit? There must be something wrong. Has Sobrenski—?"

"No, no, he has done nothing. It's just that I don't want you to be up here too long to-night. I want you to do something for me. Will you, Vardri?"

"Do you think you'll need to ask me twice to do anything for you, dear?"

He stood with his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes gazing down at her hungrily. "Did you think I was never coming? I stayed behind on purpose. I felt that Sobrenski intended to prevent our talking together." Arithelli snatched eagerly at his words. They had given her the clue she wanted.

"Yes, that's it. It's dangerous for me if we are seen often together. I've done something so mad and foolish, Vardri, you must help me to put it right,—you can. Those letters you have written me saying all sorts of things against the Cause,—I left a piece of one about somewhere,—I don't know where,—and Sobrenski found it. He has just told me that in about half an hour's time before all the rest of them leave, he is going to send on one of the men in advance. He will get down to the town before us, go to my rooms and yours and collect all the letters that have passed between us; and use them, as then he will have what he has always wanted,—the proofs that we are what he would call traitors. And when he has these proofs, neither of us will be safe for an instant. It will mean death to both of us sooner or later. But even Sobrenski can't murder us without sufficient evidence. He will be obliged to make some formal parade of justice to put it all before the rest of the society. If he doesn't get our letters he will not have sufficient evidence."

"But if we go away together to-night, as we intended? We've got a start. We can take the best horses. That is the best plan."

Arithelli shook her head. "Listen to me, dear, and believe in a woman's wisdom for once. If we go to-night and together, we are bound to be recaptured before we are out of Barcelona. By doing what I suggest we avoid suspicion, we give ourselves breathing-space, time to arrange a disguise, to think of all sorts of things that we have overlooked. We have everything in our favour to-night, Sobrenski does not know you are here yet. If you go soon you will get away without his having seen you at all. Here is the key of my room. Go there first, and you will find all your own letters in a wooden box in my big trunk. That isn't locked. Open it and burn them all. Then go on to your own room, do the same with yours and stay there. If they raid my room, they will find nothing suspicious. You could pretend you were ill, and that's the only reason you haven't come tonight, and I am here doing my work as usual. Nothing could be less suspicious. Then when they are off their guard we can escape."

The minutes were flying. Death thrusting his lean face before the rosy face of Love. Sobrenski's phrase sounded in her ears like the tolling of a bell. "You have an hour free to do your work." An hour, only an hour! How long had they been there already? Time and all else alike seemed blurred. All her will must be concentrated upon one thing—to make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible. Yet she dare not show a sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and refuse to go.

"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying. "But how can I leave you here alone with these devils? It makes me cold to think of it."

"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone. You must see that, mon ami." She clung to him, putting up her face towards his. Every art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and to save him. "Will you not do as I ask you?"

"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly; "I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."

"I know, mon ami. And this is such a little thing, and so much depends upon its being done quickly."

What was that? A step on the ladder? She could not control a violent start. No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.

"But you haven't broken your promise to me. You swear to come away with me soon?"

"To-morrow if you will. Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe. Only one day more. It doesn't make any difference."

"It does to me, mon petit. Every moment, every hour without you is time wasted."

"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"

"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go. You're right about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them. As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting off. I'll go, darling. I'll get down the hills in no time. It's the best horse of the lot, that one outside. But before I go give me yourself for a few minutes."

Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut, and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a cloak. She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes together. Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the child, were all crying out for him. How gentle he had been, how he had always cared for her. No one had ever touched her like this before, spoken to her in this caressing voice. Emile had been kind in his way, but he had been always rough. Her own emotions had always lain buried deeply, and now they had been called to life she longed for the natural expression of her love through the medium of physical things, by word and touch.

"Now for my reward," Vardri said. "I want to take your hair down."

Arithelli bent her head towards him without speaking and he drew the pins, and undid the braid with deft fingers, spreading it out till it covered her as with a veil.

"If only I could paint you! How beautiful you are to-night, but how still and cold! Fatalite, tell me you love me a little, mon coeur!"

She put her arms round his neck, laying her cheek against his. "Mon ami, I love you!"

He held her in his arms as one holds a child, rocking her to and fro. "Voila cherie!" he whispered. "After to-morrow I shall have you always, I shall never let you go again. My dream is coming true."

Arithelli listened with dry eyes and an aching heart. She was past crying, and her brain felt curiously reasonable and alert. She could not send him from her at once, yet with every passing second Death drew stealthily nearer and nearer. Time swept on relentless and inflexible.

"Perhaps you will be disappointed in me one of these days, find me depressing and full of moods. I've always been so lonely, you know, till I met you. Je suis une ame detachee."

"Never again while I'm alive! I think of you and with you. When you are happy I know it, and when you are miserable I know it too. Fatalite! Fatalite! believe that I don't want anything in return. I'll wait on you, work for you, lie, starve, steal, do anything. I only want to know you're there, to have the right to serve you, to feel you don't hate me. I couldn't go on living it I lost you. Since the first day I saw you at the Hippodrome you've haunted me. I led Don Juan down to the entrance to the ring. You don't remember? How should you? I've never forgotten! You smiled and thanked me. You looked so strange beside Estelle and those other women."

He was kneeling beside her, his lips pressed against the hollow of her arm, from which the loose red sleeve had slipped back to above the elbow. Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being entranced, unseeing, unhearing. The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.

"Fatalite! Fatalite!"

The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance. She roused herself, and tried to smile. "Mon ami, I'm a little tired to-night, a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters! I shall feel so much safer when they're burnt."

"I'll go at once—just one moment. Arithelli, you do believe that I love you, and that I want nothing? See, I'll not even touch your hand if it doesn't please you."

The soft hand was laid gently on his. "But if it does please me, mon camarade—"

"Dieu! How sweet you are! But don't call me 'Camarade,' mon petit. Those wolves above call each other that!"

"I won't, if you hate it. Yes, that's really love to give all and take nothing." Arithelli spoke dreamily. "Emile made me sing to him before he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert? He loved it.

"La mort est une amie, Qui rend la liberte."

"C'est bien vrai ca! I used to sing it without thinking at one time. How alike all those songs are. Always Death;—Death and Liberty!"

"Don't talk of those things, dear. It's going to be Life for both of us—after to-morrow."

"I was thinking of poor Emile."

"He was always fond of you. He'll be glad when he hears you're married and safe."

"Yes, he'll be glad. Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just say au revoir to me and go as quickly as you can. I want to be quiet. It's good to be loved. How gentle you are! Emile was always so rough when he touched me."

Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness. Of all men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen. He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her forehead.

A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she was Eastern in her love of perfumes. The stifling, dirty hut became a Paradise while she lay thus in his arms.

Once again they kissed and clung together. Though Arithelli's lips burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those of passion.

In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to the door.

"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arithelli said.

"To-morrow we shall be safe. We'll be out of this hell altogether in another day or two, a la bonne heure! You're not afraid, Fatalite?"

"I shan't be—when the letters are safe. Take care of yourself, mon ami, et a bientot!"

"Mon Dieu! what pluck you have! How I love you for it! Go back and rest, dear, till those brutes come down. Give me your hand again, Fatalite, bien aimee! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous!"

She answered him steadily. "A demain. Adieu, mon ami. Ride as quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."



CHAPTER XXIII

"Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"

He was gone, and Arithelli was back in the hut again, and now the worst of it all was still to come. If Vardri was to have a fair start she must wait out the hour alone, realising every moment of the time what awaited her at the end of it.

A mad impulse seized her to rush up the steps to the loft, interrupt the meeting, defy them all and boast how she had schemed her lover's escape, and laugh at them and their plots, goad them into shooting her at once and finishing it all quickly. She felt that she could not endure any more suspense and strain. Anything would be better than this interminable, awful waiting in the semi-darkness and loneliness, with neither friend nor lover at hand, no single human to take her part or defend her. Emile had gone and now Vardri, and she must face everything alone. If she waited Vardri would have perhaps half an hour's grace and while they were dealing with her it would give him still another few minutes, and every minute counted.

She fought down the temptation, and began to move about, speaking to the mules and, horses, taking down saddles and bridles. She must not be too quiet, or they might suspect something, and come down sooner to see if she were still there. She must pretend to be busy, play out the play to the end.

She unhooked the lantern from its nail and placed it on the ground, and then stood still again to listen.

The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead. It stopped suddenly, and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones. No doubt they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his gospel of destruction. Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had bidden her outrage her sex.

She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers a charm.

Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else? Had it been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these months in Spain? Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome" who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her belief in herself and her career? She had known an hour of love and passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her that people were not meant to be happy long ici-bas. She must pay now for her hour. The gods were angry and must have a sacrifice.

After she had been out in Barcelona only a week, Emile had taken her to one of the gambling-hells of the place, where the lights and mirrors and gilding hurt her tired eyes, and the croupiers called incessantly through the strained silence, "Le jeu est fait. Rien ne vas plus!"

It was like that with her now, "Le jeu est fait." How that sentence heat in her brain! She wondered if she were becoming delirious. Then she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her belt. Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder. He was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom. Only one of them there! The girl or Vardri, which was it?

Then the whole place was in darkness, for Arithelli had overturned and extinguished the solitary lamp. The excited whinny of a horse mingled with the sound of two shots fired in rapid succession, a rustling noise among the hay, a groan, and silence. Before he set foot on the ladder Sobrenski shouted to the rest of the conspirators to bring a light. He did not wait to look at the prone figure, but made straight for the door. His business it was first to see whether his quarry were still in sight.

All the other men were hustling each other in a hasty descent. "Que diable!" one of them said. "What is it now? A spy?"

The man who had lowered Arithelli from the window of the house in the Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arithelli lay and stood beside her. He could only see dimly the outline of a figure which might have been either that of a man or woman. "Bring a light here," Valdez called impatiently. "Which of them is it?" Though he was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it was not the girl. Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed the light on what rested motionless at their feet. Arithelli lay on her face as she had fallen. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and mingled with the dark folds of the cloak. The hand that still held the pistol was flung wide.

"It's not Vardri," the other man said. "Is it—?" Sobrenski cut across the question. "A traitor," he said. "What does it matter about the name? Get back all of you and see to the horses. There should be two of them and there's only one here. We've got to find the other one."

With a sudden brusque movement Valdez knelt down, turned the limp body over, and rested the head upon his knee. "Pardieu!" he ejaculated as he let it fall gently back. "It's Fatalite!"

THE END