upon the unfortunate gentleman, now committed to an irksome and most apprehensive solitude, fell a score of little demons of melancholy and alarm. to men of his fibre there is no chastening so bitter as confinement; and though with the master-rogue he had borne himself like the spirited knight of destiny he was, no sooner was he left alone than he found his indignation subordinated to reflections that were distracting to the last degree.
what would his companions think had become of him? and, failing his return, would they follow in his tracks and fall into that selfsame snare?
was miss royston, with her lordling cavalier, even now established a prisoner in his house? or had she failed to respond to her brother’s invitation?
who was it that had shut “delsrop” against the besieging rascals? and would his household, deprived of its legitimate head and in ignorance as to his fate, exhibit the nerve to conduct and sustain an effective resistance?
what member of his personnel had been shot that morning? a man, it appeared. then, if not dunlone——
he ran over in his mind the names of those in his service—two grooms, one of them a mere boy, and the imported jim. these, with betty, darda, possibly angela, and three maids, were the sum total of the defenders. half-a-dozen girls, two men and a boy; and one of the latter already accounted for.
he groaned, and set to tramping to and fro like a wild, caged beast. his impotence, the impossibility of resolving any one of these problems that tortured him, set his brain reeling. his hands had been corded behind him so tightly that the flesh swelled and lapped over the knots. yet it was not his personal discomfort that chiefly perturbed him, or any apprehension of the force of coercion his captors would be brutal enough to employ. that he was condemned, in the midst of a stirring episode in his career, to a pitiful inaction, was what galled him like a rowel.
almost simultaneously with his interlocutor’s withdrawal from the room, a sentry, of a villainous cast, had made his appearance outside the window, where he took his stand, flint-lock on shoulder. another (by token of his hard breathing and the intermittent click of a hammer against his coat-buttons as he shifted his position from time to time) was stationed outside the door.
from the room opposite came fitfully the sound of voices in low discussion. the fire upon the hearth died upon itself and consigned the stark little room to a perfect apathy of chilliness. frost gathered on the diamonds of the casement and turned the stolid sentry into a phantom of himself. and still the dull hours sped onwards and not a soul came to lighten his depression.
he had long before drawn the marrow, in his monotonous tramp hither and thither, from every object of slightest interest that the small ruined chamber could boast. here was the crazed girl’s museum, arranged on worm-eaten shelves—a medley of grotesque rubbish that superstition had thought fit to respect. it was a gruesome litter—skins, stones, and petrified vegetables; and he had cursed his own high precipitancy over the thought of how a little forbearance on his part might have saved to the collection its most notable item, and so rendered nugatory all the present evil that encompassed him.
once he had stooped to examine a certain object amongst the trash—a round pebble that seemed familiar to him. it was the scrawled stone that had been slung through a window for dennis’s behoof, and he peered at it with an emotion commingled of curiosity and remorse. so darda it was had secured the treasure—to her, no doubt, a veritable message from the shadows. and had the rascal that threw it recognized his handiwork amongst these other fetishes and chuckled to see it reserved for such high distinction? it was probable enough, for the room bore signs of late occupation by some very rough company. gnawed crusts, onion-skins, tobacco-ashes lay scattered about the hearth. in one corner was a litter of twigs and broken branches, hastily collected, it would appear, for fire-wood, and cast down beside them was an old canvas-bag, striped pink and drab, that had been stuffed with dead leaves for fuel. in another a greasy gridiron and a dinted tin pannikin or so were evidence of a certain commissariat foresight on the part of the besiegers; while an empty rundlet, thrown aside like a discharged cartridge-case, was earnest of that species of baggage without which no knight of fortune can be brought to take the road.
each and all of these objects the prisoner dwelt upon, and passed by, and reviewed again and again, till his brain learnt to loathe their inevitability at the turning-points of his wearisome sentry-go. and still the icy hours closed upon themselves and no soul came near him.
by and by, as an acute accent to his long trial of cold and anxiety, extreme hunger asserted itself the overpowering sensation. he had not touched food then for more than thirty hours, and his frame had been submitted during the whole of that time to severe and exhausting experiences. when at last, from thoughts otherwise preoccupying, he woke to an amazed realization of the fact that he was being starved into submission, he strode to the door and kicked at the panels in an excess of furious indignation. to the very thundering noise of his onset a low voice across the passage returned like an echo.
“rudland, if the prisoner shows himself outside, shoot him at once.”
“you hound!” he shouted at that—“bring me food! d’ye hear? bring me food, or i’ll burn the house down!”
a little answer of laughter was clipt in the bud. the threat was to be considered. a moment later brander’s step crossed the passage, and the man himself entered the room. his eye sought the fire-place, found its relief in the dead coldness there, and came back with a twinkle of mockery to the prisoner.
“you are hungry?” he said.
“what would you suppose, fellow?”
“that you are, of course. ’tis a pitiful sensation. i’ve suffered it, believe me.”
“d’you think to starve me into tameness?”
“what!—a high-spirited gentleman like you? i believe—as i have advised elsewhere—that far more caustic measures will be necessary to prevail with you. still, hunger is a very good ground-bait to precede the angler and his hook.”
“and you think to subdue me by such means? ’tis a protecting clause of humanity that scoundrels cut their cloth according to the measure of their own cowardice.”
“according to the features of their hostages, by your leave, sir.”
“i’m not going to ask you what you mean.”
“you shall have the explanation gratis. you’ve twitted me, vulgarly enough on the loss of these——”
he signified with a fierce gesture his flapless earholes.
“twitted?” said tuke. “where is the reason to twit a docked curt?”
“you’ll find they left me my teeth, by god—my teeth and my nails.”
he almost shouted—“you shall grow a love-lock—you shall grow a love-lock, sir, to hide the place that your lady mayn’t know when she whispers there!”
“what! are you going to cut off my ears?”
“aye, you may grin your fill. you’ll grin to suffer that on an empty belly. you shall feel the hook before we land you, and grin like a sole!”
there was something so horribly relishing in the man’s tone that the listener’s heart went sick.
“mutilation!” said he. “beware what you say, fellow.”
“’tis what we’ll do, man. we’ll lop your fine heroics toe by toe, till there remain nought but stumps to foot it on. why—d’ye suppose we’ve pushed the matter so far to shrink at a shadow? i give you warning. we’ve neither time nor mood for palaver. to-night you shall have for reflection—the devils of cold and hunger to counsel you; and so be you’re in a like frame of obstinacy after that test to-morrow you shall be pruned for token to your friends over there, and again and yet again till you or they are convinced of the wisdom of an exchange. i’ve learnt the right art of clipping in calabria, sir, and will shave you that ’twill be a pleasure to you to feel the razor.”
he stopped, with a dark and malignant look on his face—backed a step, opened the door and disappeared.
for a minute after his exit tuke stood too astounded for speech or action. that here, on his own land, in the heart of orderly england, he should be held by blackguard outlaws for ransom, and menaced with outrage like any victim of continental brigandage, seemed too preposterous for belief. coming to his senses, in a paroxysm of rage he flung himself against the door and hurled curses on his invisible enemies till he was hoarse. not a murmur in response was vouchsafed him. spent and agitated, though still boiling with anger, he resumed his monotonous tramp to and fro, till, utterly worn out, he let himself drop upon a heap of sticks, and, leaning his shoulder against the wall-corner, fell into a sort of stupor of exhaustion.
night closed upon him lying thus—a night of sleeplessness and torture. his furious struggles to release his hands had only riveted their bonds the closer, and his inflamed and swollen wrists gave him exquisite anguish. the position of his arms was one long cramping torment. the worm of hunger writhed in his vitals, while fever glowed in the marrow of his bones; and all the long dark through, the bitter frost smote his limbs into numbness and seemed to hammer at his heart.
now and again to his deadened senses would come a little appeal like a memory—the smell of roasting meat, the crackle of a fire, the sound of reckless voices passing discordant toasts. he only connected these with the processes of a conscious delirium, and was concerned simply that they would not cease and leave him to his miserable loneliness.
sometimes, in lucid intervals, as it seemed, and that before the rising tide of darkness had drowned the last glimmering streaks of light, he would find himself on his feet insanely inspired for the twentieth time to break his prison by one swift and silent effort; and there always, a blurred phantom outside the window, was the inexorable presentment of the guard.
no least balm of sleep could he woo to his aching eyelids; only presently, into his other sufferings was dropped that keystone of anguish, a raging thirst.
racked, body and mind, burnt and frozen and twisted, he fell at last into a torpor of the senses that must do duty for rest, and so triumphed over the hours and was aware all at once of daylight in the room. the very sight was life. a haggard ghost of himself, he scrambled painfully to his feet, and, lurching to the window, stood drinking in the weak wine of sunlight.
suddenly it came to him that the sentry was withdrawn. a wild hope tingled in his veins, only to as swiftly die away. these dogs could take the right measure of cruelty. yesterday, bound as he was, it would have needed all his vigour and resourcefulness to escape by way of that little aperture; now, weakened and nerveless, he must find the task impossible. and, even while assuring himself on this point, he heard the room-door opened, and, turning, saw a stealthy face look in, take stock of him, and vanish.
presently, finding a little of the spirit of strength and defiance returning to him, he set to tramping the room again, feebly at first, but by and by with an increase of vigour. for an hour he may have walked, when, without forespeech or warning, the door was flung open and there quickly entered fern and brander, who shut themselves in and stood by the threshold, facing the prisoner.
both men were braced and accoutred as if for some immediate business of violence. into belts drawn about their waists were stuck murderous-looking knives; pistol-butts stood from their skirt-pockets, and each had a flint-lock slung across his shoulders. for the rest they were the suave and the brutal, and a couple of as soulless ruffians as ever fouled the sunlight.
there was to be no more temporizing, it seemed; and the white-haired leader spoke up at once.
“we would ask your decision, mr. tuke,” he said.
the gentleman, his eyes blazing contempt, had paused opposite the two, as if he questioned a very daring intrusion.
“what do you want of me?” said he.
“the answer is simple. we demand our own—a ruby that goes by the name of the ‘lake of wine.’”
“i have no such ruby in my possession.”
“tut, sir, tut; the prevarication is unworthy of you. let us say, then, the skull that contains it.”
“the skull!”
“mr. tuke, mr. tuke, this will not serve your purpose. we have direct evidence of the truth, sir, and that from more than one source.”
“you have, have you?”
“—and i am free to advise you, sir, to refrain for the future from discussing with your friends such very private affairs on the public road.”
to the unfortunate prisoner all in a moment came a clap of revelation.
“we were overheard?”
“ah-ha! you give yourself away.”
“there was more said—and ’twas that evening the ‘first inn’ was fired.”
some conscious sign passed between the rogues at his words. tuke sprang at them, actually gnashing his teeth.
“i guessed it, you foul-blooded dogs! and may god burn your hearts for that wanton ruin of a poor maid!”
they had seized him and forced him back struggling and helpless. the beast was awake in fern. his eyes opened bloodshot, his lip was lifted; he snapped out his knife and held it like a butcher.
“you jack-a-dandy!” he screamed in a woman’s voice—“for a word i’d rip you like a pig!”
he stamped on the floor.
“take your choice, or go piecemeal to hell. an ear and a nose and a lip for the stone, and if they don’t serve, every member of your cursed carcass for token to the fat wench i gave you for mistress.”
tuke wrenched himself free, and, butting with his shoulder, flung himself at the scoundrel with all his force. he felt himself spun round—a fiery tooth crossed his wrist, and he stumbled and went his length on the floor. looking up as he lay, momentarily expecting to feel the deadlier plunge of the blade that had already slashed at him, he saw to his surprise fern raving and struggling in the grasp of his more powerful fellow-rogue.
“let go!” he was shrieking—“you fool, d’you think to baulk me in my blood-lust!”
“yes!” cried brander fiercely. “you kill the goose—you kill the goose, you madman! come out—by god, you shall! i’ve another test to propose!”
his own face was white with fury as he held back the dribbling and snarling animal, and had his better strength failed to master it, it is likely he would have driven his knife into the swollen throat under him. but he prevailed in a moment, and dragged the other in a patter of curses from the room.
as the key turned in the lock, tuke collapsed upon himself in a half-faint.
