Part 2

A week later, when he believed the effect of Jo's fright had worn off, Jonathan posted himself outside the mews and waited for the morning gong. He told himself that he was looking for Jock but his heart leaped when he saw the girl approaching before the harsh echoes of the "first bell" had died away. He noticed with delight that she was taking more care of her appearance than before. A white flower shone in her hair, which was newly washed and neatly combed. Her bare feet peeped from beneath the hem of a fresh robe.

"Good morning, Jo," he smiled at her. "Would you like to see my house? It's not far; you have time."

For a long moment she looked at him dubiously. Then her curiosity overcame her fear. "Ye-es. Jo will go. Must be back when second gong rings."

"Come then. We must hurry." This time she let him hold her arm. "I found some new flowers in the valley this morning," he continued softly.

"Flowers?" She glanced at him under fringed lashes.

"Yes.... Like the one you wear in your hair. What is it called?"

"It called.... It called...." She shook her head at last. "Jo ... forget."

"And this tree, all covered with blossoms. What is its name?"

"Jo think it called mim ... mimo ... mimosa?"

"Right. Well, here's the house. Come right in."

"Oh no. Law say...."

"The devil with the law. It's my house; come in."

After repeated urgings she crept through the big door. Her work completely forgotten for once, she marvelled at the lacy curtains, the waxed floors which made walking so difficult and the paintings on the walls.

While she was testing the softness of the big bed upstairs with open-mouthed astonishment, Jonathan slipped out of the room and locked the door.

Tom, his white head bobbing with worry, was watching him from the landing. "I wouldn't have done it, Mister Johnny," he muttered. "It would be better for you to get a girl in England or the States...."

"Damn you, shut your mouth," his master exploded. "There's no danger; she can't get out. This may jolt her out of her rut. Then she can help the others."

He was interrupted by the snarling clangor of the second gong, followed by a wild hammering on the upstairs door.

"You'd better let her out," Tom's head was shaking worse than before. "I know! Your father...."

A terrified scream cut him short.

Jonathan went up the stairs three at a time. Tearing open the door, he plunged inside, then halted, stunned. The room was empty!

But not quite! Jo's strained white hands were clinging to the window sill.

"Wait! Jo!" he shouted. "Hold on. I'm coming!"

Instead of waiting, she relaxed her hold. He reached the window to see her crash into the iron porch railing twenty feet below.

"She's dead, Tom." He looked up from Jo's still face a few minutes later. "Fractured her skull." His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was death in his heart. Now that it was too late, he realized that he had loved her. "Poor child. I treated her very badly, you know."

"I told you so, Mister Johnny. You can't do anything. They live in darkness." Suddenly losing his English stoicism, Tom dropped to his knees, threw his arms around his master's knees and sobbed: "Oh, Mister Johnny. I'm afraid!"

"There, there, Tom." Although his heart was breaking, it warmed to this display of humanness in the old man. "We'll lick this thing yet. Tell you what.... Tonight we'll go to the factory, barricade the doors and windows ... keep the fools out until they come to their senses."

"It won't be any use." Tom rose slowly, his fat old face drawn in stern lines. "Nevertheless, we'll fight it out together, if you wish."

"Very well, Tom." Jonathan stretched out his hand and grasped that of the other over the body of the dead girl. "Together it is, then."

* * * * *

That night, after they had said a simple prayer over Jo's grave, they hurried to the plant, repaired the doors and spent long hours barricading them and the windows from within. Often they felt eyes upon them, but no one interfered with their work. Dawn was breaking by the time they finished.

The morning gong soon was followed by scuffling sounds of the gathering crowd outside. Like a pack of hounds, the workers sniffed around the building, trying to find an entrance. When this was unsuccessful, there was a long silence. Then, when the pair inside had begun to take hope, they heard the crash of some heavy weapon against the doors.

"They're thinking a bit, anyway," said Jonathan; "they've hit on the idea of using a log for a battering ram."

The hammering gathered force and rhythm, and began to be accompanied by a grunting chant which sounded oddly familiar.

"They're remembering something else." Tom held his jaw to stop his chattering teeth. "I haven't heard them sing for a score of years."

"What is it they're chanting?"

"It's Luther's hymn, _A Mighty Fortress_, Mister Johnny."

"Rather appropriate, what? We'd better get some more work benches against those doors. They're sagging."

As the unintelligible hymn reached its climax the doors caved inward despite Jonathan's best efforts. The benches were pushed aside. The mob poured in.

It might have ended there, with the creatures going quietly to work, except for the fact that the whole place was in disorder. For a moment the workers milled sullenly about, looking for their accustomed tools. Then Jock spotted the two intruders.

"He!" shouted the man-monster, pointing wildly and shaking his matted hair. "He kill Jo. He shut doors. He laugh at law."

The ragged men and women shifted their bare feet uncertainly. For a few seconds Jock seemed at a loss, groping for words. Then a look of cunning overspread his hideous face.

"He shut doors again," yelled the mad overseer. "He burn down plant. We no can work. Kill him. Kill! Kill!"

This time Jock got the response he had been seeking. The workers--more than 500 of them--surged forward, snarling deep in their throats.

Jonathan took a step toward the mob but Tom pulled him back. "Wait, Mister Johnny. They know me. If anybody can check them, I can."

The old man clambered onto one of the few upright benches and shouted for silence. For a moment he got it. Then Jock hurled a chisel. The blade slashed Tom's cheek. At the sight of blood the crowd went wild and charged.

Before Jonathan could make a move to save him, Tom was dragged from the bench. A scream rang out. A black arm reached upward. Then there was only a sound such as pigs make at a trough.

Life, which before had seemed so bitter and worthless, became suddenly sweet to Jonathan. The factory had turned into a howling madhouse, but behind him was the entrance to the mine! He leaped through it and sprinted down the black tunnel.

* * * * *

When he recovered from his hysteria, Jonathan found himself hopelessly lost in a maze of parallels. Controlling his nerves by sheer will power, he crouched in the pitch darkness and waited. Would they forget him? The blood-lust he had seen on those half-animal faces did not reassure him.

He listened ... and could hear nothing but the blood drumming in his ears. Now that it was too late, he realized that he had gone about the whole thing clumsily ... in the outmoded swashbuckling, Empire building fashion. He had tried to do, in a few weeks, a job which required years ... decades ... perhaps a lifetime. He should have started by winning Jock's confidence ... or, if that couldn't be done, he should have killed the monster outright. Without Jock's influence the others might well return to sanity in a short time.

Might what? He shook his head to clear his wandering thoughts. The heavy, gaseous air was choking him. His mouth had become dry and gluey. Red spots danced before his eyes.

What was that? He leaped to his feet, remembering that the miners needed light. A pebble, dislodged by his movement, rattled down the wall with a sound like thunder. Then he laughed shakily. The sound he had heard was the far distant flapping of the factory belt. They had turned on the machinery.

A long time later he thought he heard another sound. Nearer this time! He pressed his knuckles against his lips to keep from screaming. He turned to run. But where? The sound had come again. On the other side now, it seemed.

He picked up a piece of rock and hurled it with all his force.

Nothing! Or was that the echo of a maniac laugh.

"Get away, you hairy devil," he yelled. "I have a gun here."

No answer. Yet the blackness was peopled with horrors. Was he going crazy? He mustn't give 'way. Britishers have been in more ticklish spots than his and come out on top; England expects every man to ... to pull himself together in an emergency. There must be some way out of this maze.

"Tom," he whispered, "hand me your flashlight."

"Sorry, Mister Johnny," the answer came; "it was broken when they killed me."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot you were dead, Tom. Can you help me out of this mess?"

"Sorry, Mister Johnny. But dying isn't so bad though, honestly--"

"England expects ... England expects...." Jonathan Robertson 7th was fighting hard to retain _his_ sanity.

There came a chuckling sound ... not ten feet away now.

Light! Light! His shaking hands sought his pockets. Ah! Matches!

"Mind the gas, Mister Johnny." Good old Tom.... A shame he's dead.

"I'll have to chance it!" His voice was quite calm now.

The match scratched against the sandpaper.

"The devil! It didn't light. Steady now.... (Keep your paws off me just a moment longer, you scum).... One.... Two.... Three!"

This time the flame caught, flickered, was reflected for a split second in the eyes of a gaunt, stoop-shouldered young man at the other side of the tunnel, then burst into the searing glory of a thousand suns....