Chapter 16

“Oh,” she wailed to herself, in the impotence of anger, “they all love him, they all hate me! Why does he not mistreat me, insult me, taunt me--anything that will cost him their respect, their devotion! How bitterly they feel toward me for that remark! It will kill me to stay here and see them turn to him as if he were some god and I the defiler!”

That night there was a battle between the desire to escape and the reluctance she felt in exposing her captors to danger. In the end she admitted to herself that she would not have Philip Quentin seized by the officers: she would give them all an equal chance to escape, he with the others. Her heart softened when she saw him, in her imagination, alone and beaten, in the hands of the police, led away to ignominy and death, the others perhaps safe through his loyalty. She would refuse absolutely, irrevocably, to divulge the names of her captors and would go so far as to perjure herself to save them if need be. With that charitable resolution in her heart she went to sleep.

When she arose the next morning, Baker told her that Mr. Quentin was ill. His cold had settled on his lungs and he had a fever. Lady Saxondale seemed worried over the rather lugubrious report from Dickey Savage, who came downstairs early with Phil's apologies for not presenting himself at the breakfast table.

While Quentin cheerfully declared that he would be himself before night, Dickey was in a doleful state of mind and ventured the opinion that he was “in for a rough spell of sickness.” What distresed the Saxondales most was the dismal certainty that a doctor could not be called to the castle. If Quentin were to become seriously ill, the situation would develop into something extremely embarrassing.

He insisted on coming downstairs about noon, and laughed at the remonstrances of Lord Bob and Dickey, who urged him to remain in bed for a day or two, at least. His cough was a cruel one, and his eyes were bright with the fever that raced through his system. The medicine chest offered its quinine and its plasters for his benefit, and there was in the air the tense anxiety that is felt when a child is ill and the outcome is in doubt. The friends of this strong, stubborn and all-important sick man could not conceal the fact that they were nervous and that they dreaded the probability of disaster in the shape of serious illness. His croaking laugh, his tearing cough and that flushed face caused Dorothy more pain than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

As night drew near she quivered with excitement. Was she to leave the castle? Would the priest come for her? Above all, would he be accompanied by a force of officers large enough to storm the castle and overpower its inmates? What would the night bring forth? And what would be the stand, the course, taken by this defiant sick man, this man with two fevers in his blood?

She had not seen or spoken to him during the day, but she had frequently passed by the door of the library in which he sat and talked with the other men. An irresistible longing to speak to him, to tell him how much she regretted his illness, came over her. There was in her heart a strange tenderness, a hungry desire to comfort him just the least bit before she took the flight that was to destroy the hope his daring and skillfully executed scheme had inspired.

Three times she hesitated in front of the library door, but her courage was not as strong as her desire. Were he alone she could have gone in and told him frankly that she would not expose him to the law in the event that she ever had the opportunity. But the other men were with him. Besides, his cough was so distressing that natural pity for one suffering physical pain would have made it impossible to talk to him with the essential show of indifference.

At last, in despair, she left Lady Saxondale and her companion in the courtyard and started up the stairs, resolved to be as far as possible from the sound of that cough. Quentin met her at the foot of the steps.

“I'm going to lie down awhile,” he said, wearily. “They seem to be worried about this confounded cold, and I'll satisfy them by packing myself away in bed.”

“You should be very careful, Phil,” she said, a suffocating feeling in her throat. “Your cough is frightful, and they say you have a fever. Do be reasonable.”

“Dorothy,” he said, pausing before her at the steps, his voice full of entreaty, “tell me you don't despise me. Oh! I long to have you say one tender word to me, to have one gentle look from your eyes.”

“I am very sorry you are suffering, Philip,” she said, steeling her heart against the weakness that threatened.

“Won't you believe I have done all this because I love you and----” he was saying, passionately, but she interposed.

“Don't! Don't, Phil! I was forgetting a little--yes, I was forgetting a little, but you bring back all the ugly thoughts. I cannot forget and I will not forgive. You love me, I know, and you have been a kind jailer, but you must not expect to regain my respect and love--yes, it was love up to the morning I saw you in the dining-room of this castle.”

“I'll create a new love in your heart, Dorothy,” he cried. “The old love may be dead, but a new one shall grow up in its place. You do not feel toward me to-day as you did a week ago. I have made some headway against the force of your hatred. It will take time to win completely; I would not have you succumb too soon. But, just as sure as there is a God, you will love me some day for the love that made me a criminal in the eyes of the world. I love you, Dorothy; I love you!”

“It is too late. You have destroyed the power to love. Phil, I cannot forgive you. Could I love you unless full forgiveness paved the way?”

“There is nothing to forgive, as you will some day confess. You will thank and forgive me for what I have done.” A fit of coughing caused him to lean against the stair rail, a paroxysm of pain crossing his face as he sought to temper the violence of the spell.

“You should have a doctor,” she cried, in alarm. He smiled cheerlessly.

“Send for the court physician,” he said, derisively, “The king of evil-doers has the chills and fever, they say. Is my face hot Dorothy?”

She hesitated for a moment, then impulsively placed her cool hand against his flushed forehead. Despite her will, there was a caress in the simple act, and his bright eyes gleamed with gladness. His hand met hers as it was lowered from the hot brow, and his lips touched the fingers softly.

“Ah, the fever, the fever!” he exclaimed, passionately.

“You should have a doctor,” she muttered, as if powerless to frame other words.

XXVII. THE FLIGHT WITH THE PRIEST

Eleven o'clock that night found Castle Craneycrow wrapped in the stillness of death. Its inmates were awake, but they were petrified, paralyzed by the discovery that Dorothy Garrison was gone. Scared eyes looked upon white faces, and there was upon the heart of each the clutch of an icy hand. So appalling was the sensation that the five conspirators breathed not nor spoke, but listened for the heartbeats that had stopped when fears finally gave way to complete conviction. They were as if recovering from the fright of seeing a ghost; spirits seemed to have swept past them with cold wings, carrying off the prisoner they thought secure; only supernatural forces could be charged with the penetration of their impregnable wall.

The discovery of the prisoner's flight was not made until Baker knocked on Lady Saxondale's door and inquired for Miss Garrison at bedtime. Then it was recalled that she had left the others at nine o'clock, pleading a headache, but she did not go to her room. Investigation revealed the fact that her jewelry, a cape and a traveling hat were missing. Remembering her first attempt to escape and recalling the very apparent nervousness that marked her demeanor during the day, Lady Saxondale alarmed the house.

Ten minutes later the conspirators and a knot of sleepy servants stood in the courtyard, staring at the great gate. It was closed but unlocked. There were but two known keys to the big lock, and since the arrival of the party at the castle they had not been out of Lord Saxondale's possession. The girl could not have used either of them and the lock had not been forced; what wonder, then, that in the first moments of bewilderment they shrank back as if opposed by the supernatural?

No one present had seen her leave the castle, and there was no way of telling how long she had been gone, except that it was not longer than two hours. After the first shock of realization, however, the men came to the conclusion that assistance had come from the outside, or that there was a traitor on the inside. They were excitedly questioning the long-trusted servants when Lady Jane made a second discovery.

“Where is Turk?” she cried, and every eye swept through the group.

“Gone, by God!” exclaimed Quentin, in helpless amazement. No one had given thought to his illness in the excitement of the moment. He had been called forth with the rest, and when he coughed not even he took note of the fact. This was no time to think of colds and fevers and such a trifling thing as death. He shivered, but it was not with the chill of a sick man; it was the shiver of fear.

“Good Lord, he can't be the one! Turk would die for me!” he cried, almost piteously.

“He is gone, and so is she,” grated Lord Bob. “What are we to infer? He has sold us out, Quentin; that's the truth of it.”

“I'm damned!” almost wept Dickey Savage. “They'll have a pack of officers here before morning. I don't give a hoot for myself, but Lady Saxondale and--”

“Great heaven! what have I brought you to in my folly?” groaned Quentin, covering his face with his hands.

“Open the gate!” called a hoarse voice outside the wall, and every heart stopped beating, every face went white. A heavy boot crashed against the gate.

“The officers!” whispered Lady Jane, in terror. Dickey Savage's arm went round her.

“Let me in! Git a move on!'

“It's Turk!” roared Quentin, springing toward the gate. An instant later Turk was sprawling inside the circle of light shed by the lantern, and a half-dozen voices were hurling questions at him.

The little man was in a sorry plight. He was dirt-covered and bloody, and he was so full of blasphemy that he choked in suppressing it.

“Where is she? Where have you been?” cried Quentin, shaking him violently in his agitation.

“Gimme time, gimme time!” panted Turk. “I've got to git my breath, ain't I? She's flew th' coop, an' I couldn't head her off. Say, has a priest been loafin' aroun' here lately?”

“A priest!” cried Lord Bob. “There hasn't been one here since Father Bivot came three years ago to--”

“I mean this week, not t'ree years ago. She's gone with a priest, an' I'm nex' to who he is, too. He ain't no more priest 'n I am. It's that French detective, Courant, an' he's worked us to a fare-you-well. He's th' boy!”

This startling news threw the party into deeper consternation than before. The little ex-burglar was not a fluent talker at best, but he now excelled himself in brevity. In three minutes he had concluded his story, and preparations were well under way for the pursuit.

He was, according to his narrative, sitting in the lower end of the courtyard about nine o'clock, calmly smoking his pipe, when his attention was caught by the long, shrill call of a night bird. No such sound had come to his ears during his stay at the castle, and his curiosity was aroused. Not dreaming of what was to follow, he slowly walked toward the front of the castle. A woman stood in the shadow of the wall near the gate. Hardly had his eyes made out the dim figure when the whistle was repeated. Before he fully grasped the situation, the big gate swung slowly inward and another figure, at first glance that of a woman, stood inside the wall. He heard the woman call softly: “Is that you, Father?” A man's voice replied, but the words were too low to be distinguished. The woman drew back as if to return to the house, but the newcomer was at her side, and his hand was on her arm.

There was a moment of indecision, then resistance, two or three sharp words from the man, and then the two seemed to fade through the wall. The ponderous gate was closing before the dumbfounded watcher could collect his wits. Like a shot he was across the stones, now alive to the meaning of the strange proceeding. With desperate hands he grasped the bar of the gate and pulled, uttering a loud shout of alarm at the same time. Surprised by the sudden interference, the man on the other side gave way and Turk was through the opening and upon him. A stunning blow on the head met him as he hurled himself forward, and he plunged headlong to the ground. As he struggled to his feet another blow fell, and then all was darkness.

When he opened his eyes again two figures were careening down the steep path, a hundred yards away. They were running, and were plainly distinguishable in the moonlight. Turk knew that the woman was Dorothy Garrison. He had heard her cry, after the first blow, “Don't! Don't kill him, Father! It is Turk!” Crazed with anger and determined to recapture her single-handed, Turk neglected to call for help. With the blood streaming down his face, he dashed off in pursuit. There was in his heart the desire to kill the man who had struck him down. Near the foot of the hill he came up with them and he was like a wildcat.

Miss Garrison had fallen to her knees and was moaning as if in pain. The priest crouched behind her, protecting his person from a possible shot from the pursuer. “For God's sake, don't shoot him!” screamed the girl, but a moment later there was a flash of light, a report, and a pistol ball whizzed by Turk's ear. He was unarmed, but he did not stop. Throwing himself forward, he stretched out his arms to grasp the crouching priest, hoping to prevent the firing of another shot. But he had not reckoned on the cleverness of the man at bay. The priest dropped flat to the ground and Turk plunged over his body, wildly clutching for the prostrate man as he went. With the cunning of a fox, the priest, on realizing that he could not avoid a personal conflict, had looked about for means to end the pursuit effectually.

Retarded in his progress by the tired, trembling girl, he saw that a stand against the oncomer was unavoidable. He cleverly selected the spot for this stand, and braced himself as for the onslaught. Scarcely a yard beyond his position there was a sharp declivity among the rocks, with a clear drop of a dozen feet or more to the bottom of a wide crevasse. His shot went wild and he could not repeat it, for Dorothy was frantically clutching his arm. The strategem worked well, and he had the satisfaction of hearing a mighty oath as Turk, unable to check himself, slipped from the edge and went crashing to the rocks below.

With the speed of a hunted animal, the priest leaped to his feet, dragging the girl after him, and a harsh laugh came from his throat as they dashed onward. A quick glance behind showed there had been but one pursuer, and the man in the robes of holiness chuckled exultantly. But, if Dorothy Garrison believed him to be the priest his robes declared, the moonlight told the fallen Turk the truth. Indeed, it was the intentness with which the little ex-burglar gazed upon the white face of Courant that prevented him from seeing the ledge as he dashed up to the couple.

How long it was afterward that Turk came to his senses and crawled back to the roadway, dizzy, weak and defeated, he knew not. He could only groan and gnash his teeth when he stood erect again and saw that he was utterly alone. Courant and the girl were gone. In shame and humiliation he climbed the hill to call for help.

Just as the searching party was about to rush recklessly from the courtyard, servants having been instructed to bring out the horses, Lady Jane espied a white piece of paper on the ground near the gate. And then it was that they read the parting message from the girl who was gone. With a trembling voice Lady Saxondale read:

“I have found a way, and I am going, if nothing prevents. With the help of my good angel I shall soon be far from this place. A holy man in passing saw my signal of distress and promised rescue. You have been good to me, and I can only repay you by refusing to expose you. This priest does not know who you are. I shall not tell him or any who may be with him. No one shall ever know from me that you were my abductors. God grant that you may never have to pay the penalty. Go, while you may, for the truth may become known without my help, and I may not be able to save you. Save yourselves, all of you. I mean Philip Quentin, too, because I know he loves me.

“Dorothy.”

Philip Quentin took the forlorn, even distressed, message from the hands of Lady Saxondale, kissed it devoutly, and placed it in his pocket.

“Philip is too ill to go out on this desperate chase,” cried Lady Saxondale.

“Ill! I'll die if I am not gone from here in five minutes! Great Lord, Bob, those fools have been an hour getting the horses!” groaned Quentin, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

“Don't get excited, Phil; keep your head. You're not fit to be running about in a business like this, but all Christendom couldn't stop you. It may be a wild goose chase, after all,” said Lord Bob.

“She's been carried back to the accursed villain who employs Courant, and I'll die before I'll let him have her. Oh, what fools we've been!”

“Here's a puzzler, old man,” said Dickey. “Why was not Ugo here to help Courant if he knew anything about the fellow's actions? By cracky, I don't believe Ugo knows anything about the Frenchman's find.”

“He owns Courant, body and soul!”

“That jacky is out for the hundred thousand francs, and he's working on his own hook this time, my boy. He's after the reward, and he's the only one that has been keen enough to find us out. Mark me, he is working alone.

“Sure, he is,” added Turk. “He's got no pardners in th' job, er he'd a' had em along to-night. S'pose he'd run into a gang like this alone if he had anybody t' fall back on? Not on your life. We're a mighty tough gang, an' he takes no chances with us if he's workin' fer anybody else.”

“We're not a tough gang!” wailed Lady Jane, in tears. “Oh, what will become of us!”

“The Lord only knows, if we fail to get both Dorothy and Courant,” said Quentin, in real anguish.

“They may be in Luxemburg by this time,” said Saxondale. “Gad, this is working in the dark!”

“That road down there don't go t' Luxemburg direct, m' lord,” quickly interposed Turk. “It goes off into th' hills, don't you remember? An' then out th' valley some place 'way to th' north. If he'd been goin' to th' city he'd 'a' taken th' road back here an' kep' from goin' down th' hill.”

“You're right, Turk,” exclaimed Lord Bob. “He has gone up the valley, headed for one of the little towns, and will steer clear of the Luxemburg officers for fear they may demand a part of the reward.”

“God, Saxondale, are those horses never coming?” fumed Quentin. “I won't wait!” and he was off like a madman through the gate and down the steep. Behind him tore Turk, the faithful.

XXVIII. THE GAME OF THE PRIEST

When Turk pitched over the crouching form of the priest and into the dark chasm beyond Dorothy for the first time began to appreciate the character of her cowled rescuer. Panting and terrified, she looked into his hideously exultant face as he rose and peered over the ledge after the luckless pursuer. It was not the face of a holy man of God, but that of a creature who could laugh in the taking of a human life.

“Come on!” he cried, grasping her by the wrist with no gentle regard. “He's out of the way, but we have no time to lose. The others may miss you at any moment, and we must be in the wood if we hope to fool them.”

“I have changed my mind--” she began, holding back as he dragged her after him down the slope.

“It is too late,” he said, harshly. “You will soon be with your friends, my child. Do not lose heart, but trust to me.”

“Who are you? You are not a priest. Why have you disguised yourself--”

“Not so loud, my child, not so loud! They may have guards even here. If I am not a priest, then may heaven shut its gates on me forever. Because I am a man and have undone one of your enemies, you should not question my calling. It is no time for prayer. When we are safe from pursuit, you will regret the doubt you have just expressed. Trust to me, my child. But run, for God's sake, run! Don't hang back when all depends on our speed in the next half-hour.”

“Where are you taking me? Answer, or I shall refuse to go another step with you!” she exclaimed, now thoroughly aroused and determined.

“My wagon is hitched in the wood over there. In it we will go to a town up the valley, where I have the promise of help. I could have brought a big force of men with me, but don't you see what a mistake it would have been? Rather than surrender you to a force they would have killed you and secreted your body in the passages under the castle. It is commonly known that the cellars are paved with skeletons.” Here Dorothy shuddered in recollection. “Strategy was the only means of getting you out safely.”

“They would not have killed me,” she cried, breathlessly. They were moving rapidly along the level roadway now, and his grip on her wrist was like a clasp of iron.

“To save themselves? Of course, they would--as they would a dog!” he said.

“They are my friends, and they are the best, the truest in the world,” she gasped, eager to keep the promise of protection made in the farewell note.

“You think they are, madam, but how could they treat you as they have if they are friends?” He had turned into the wood, and it was necessary to proceed more cautiously on account of the darkness. She realized that she had erred in saying they were friends, and turned cold with apprehension.

“I mean, they treated me well--for criminals,” she managed to say.

“Criminals!” he snarled. “Bah! Of course they are criminals of the worst kind, but they will never be punished.”

“I'm afraid they are so clever that no one will ever find out who they really are.”

He stopped with a lurch, and she could feel that he was looking at her in amazement.

“I know who they are, and you know them, too,” he said, slowly. “Perhaps nobody else knows, but we know that my Lord and Lady Saxondale and the two Americans were your abductors. The man I dumped into the ravine was that little villain Turk.”

Her heart almost stopped beating with the shock of knowing that nothing could now shield her captors from exposure.

“But--but it will be very hard to prove,” she said, hoarsely, almost defiantly.

“You have only to take oath,” he said, meaningly.

“I don't know the name or face of a person in that castle,” she said, deliberately. He was silent for a full minute.

“You intend to shield them?” he demanded. There was no answer to the question. Now she was positive that the man was no priest, but some one who knew the world and who had made it his business to trace her and her captors to the very gates of the castle. If he knew, then others must also be in possession of the secret.

“Who are you?” she demanded, as he drew her deeper into the wood. There was now the wild desire to escape from her rescuer and to fly back to the kindly jailers on the hill.

“A poor priest, by the grace of God,” he said, and she heard him chuckle.

“Take me back to the road, sir!” she commanded.

“I will take you to your mother,” he said, “and to no one else.”

“But I am afraid of you,” she exclaimed, her courage going. “I don't know you--I don't know where you are taking me.”

“We will not go far to-night. I know a place where you can hide until I secure help from the city.”

“But you said you had a wagon.”