Eleven Possible Cases
Page 13
CHAPTER IV.
When Hepworth Coleman suddenly found himself a prisoner in that close,dark room, he did not at first suspect any treachery on the part ofJudge Favart de Caumartin. He expected that gentleman to return in thecourse of a few minutes, but this favorable impression was soon removedby certain startling events that crowded one upon another.
First a low, rumbling, clanging sound, like the beating of metallicgongs in the distance, came through the walls and filled the cell. Thenas this died away to utter silence he heard tumultuous whispering allaround, above, below. The thousand voices all seemed to be saying thesame thing, which presently he made out to be the words: "The Krewe iscoming; make ready for the Krewe!" When the whispering ended littlepurple lights began to flash here and there, but so mysteriously glintedthat he could not locate them, and these were followed by phantom faces,wan, waxen, faintly luminous, appearing and fading instantly, succeededby intense darkness.
Now, Hepworth Coleman was a man of iron nerve, an athlete in body andspirit, who, although full of romantic and poetic impulses, was at thebase of his character as brave and steadfast as a lion. Still, even thebest courage has its moment of faltering, and just at the point when onewhole wall of his cell was withdrawn, so that he stood in the full glareof twenty brilliant chandeliers that lighted a large, gorgeouslydecorated hall, he felt the blood grow stiflingly heavy on his heart.Before him stood a file of fantastic figures, men oddly clad andstrangely armed, who clashed their brazen shields together and pointedtheir swords at his breast. On the walls of the spacious room hungweird-looking trophies, skulls, pictures of dead men, ghastly and livid,pistols, swords, and strange banners. The floor was carpeted with heavyPersian tapestry, thickly padded underneath.
Coleman stood gazing while the file of armed men--perhaps platoon wouldbe more correct--went through some silent but intricate evolutions afterbeating their shields together and threatening him with their swords.When the movements were ended one of the masters came up to him andstruck him lightly with the flat of his weapon across the cheek, sayingin a loud whisper:
"Beware! you are in imminent danger."
Coleman took him at his word and instantly let go a blow from theshoulder. His close-set fist met the masker's jaw with a sound ofcrushing pasteboard, and down went the man outstretched at full lengthon the floor, his shield and sword giving forth a muffled clang as theycrossed upon the soft carpet.
Quick as a cat Coleman leaped forward and picked up the sword, abeautiful rapier, and, assuming a defensive attitude, cried out boldly:
"Come one at a time and I will fight you all!"
The fantastic figures looked at one another with evident questioning,though not a word was said.
Meantime the fallen one scrambled to his feet and swore two or threebitter French oaths. The leader rebuked him with gestures.
"Come one at a time, you cowardly villains," repeated Coleman, "and I'llsoon finish you all. Come on, the first one, if you dare meet a man!"
He was terribly angry, but his voice was steady and even.
There was a space of silence. Then the leader said something to one ofthe men, who immediately cast aside his shield and advanced with hisrapier.
It was a short conflict. Coleman disarmed his antagonist with ease inless than a minute.
Another man came on and shared the same fate, with the addition of aprick through the wrist of the sword-arm.
This was exhilarating to Coleman in his exasperation at being made thebutt of some mysterious trick.
"Come next," he cried; "I want the best of you--and the best is acoward. Come on!"
Evidently the mystic band now felt the gravity that the occasion wasassuming. The maskers looked to their leader.
"Don't stand there afraid," sneered Coleman; "come on and get your turn.Who's next?"
One after another responded, only to fare badly. As yet, however, allhad escaped without deadly hurt, when the leader himself made ready tofight. Those who had come to grief were quietly cared for by others, andall seemed to treat the proceedings as by no means startling or evenunusual.
When the leader threw aside his shield and took off his tallplume-covered hat, Coleman was able to recognize Judge Favart deCaumartin, more by his form and bearing than by any disclosure of hisfeatures.
As the Judge handled his rapier, all the company of maskers, even thesorely-wounded ones, came forward to look on with eager expectation. Hiswas steel that never yet had failed to find the vitals of his opponent.But, on the other hand, there stood Coleman, steadfast and alert, thevery picture of strength and will, and the embodiment of quickness andcertainty, his sword bearing at its point a tiny red clot of blood.
They looked with straining eyes and did not feel sure of the result evenwith their captain as their champion.
"Come on, sir, and take your punishment, you cowardly leader ofcowards!" exclaimed Coleman in a most exasperating tone. "Don't standthere dreading it. Pluck up a little nerve and come on!"
It is useless to say that Judge Favart de Caumartin needed no bullyingof this sort to urge him into combat. With beautiful swiftness and gracehe sprang forward and at once took the offensive. Then followed swordplay that was amazing to look at. Each combatant showed that mastery ofthe fencing art which makes the weapon appear to be a part of the man.So swiftly leaped the shining shafts of steel that the eye saw only finesymmetrical figures shimmering between the fighters, while spangles offire leaped from the crossing edges. Coleman felt at once that he hadmet his match; the Judge tingled with the discovery that here at lastwas a master.
From the first it was a fight to the death if possible. Neither couldhope to disarm the other, nor was there probability of any meredisablement ending the contest. The watchers, looking on in breathlesssuspense, heard with intensely straining ears the almost magically rapidclinking of the blades.
Coleman fought as if with the energy of all the accumulated romance ofhis recent experiences, half recognizing, as he parried and thrust andfeinted and recovered guard, the vivid picturesqueness, the melodramaticunreality, and yet the deadly intensity of the situation. He did notknow where he was or why he had been brought there. The whole affair hadmystery enough in it to have destroyed the will power of any weaker man;but to him, while the strangeness affected his imagination, there wasnothing in the matter to make him falter or to weaken the force of hisarm. A fine glow of enthusiasm flashed indeed into his blood, and withit an access of cunning grace and swift certainty of hand and eye. Thefeeling prevailed that he had in some strange way stepped out of thereal world into the world of romance, and as he fought, the charm ofheroism fell upon him, and, like the knights of old, he felt thestrength of a glorious desperation. All round him the vague spirit ofdreamland seemed to hover, though the hideous pictures of skeletons andcadavers gleamed real enough in the glare of the chandeliers. Whatinspired him most, however, was the knowledge that he was trying hisforce with that of the greatest duellist in the world, and one who hadalways killed his man.
There was something more that gave spirit and courage to Coleman: he wasin some indirect way remembering the beautiful girl who had appeared atthe door of his room, and he half imagined that he was doing battle forthe right to know more of her. Youth is a mystery in itself, and loveknows no law of origin or of progress. By some cerebral slight, sometrick of thinking under a thought, so to say, Coleman was making a lovedream keep time to the ringing strokes of his sword. A girl whose namehe did not know, whose voice he had never heard, was inspiring him as hestrained every nerve.
As the combat proceeded, the lookers-on saw that Coleman's play was newto the Judge, who found great difficulty in meeting and parrying certaineccentric movements that invariably ended in a thrust of lightningquickness. Presently the Judge tore off his mask with his left hand. Hehad to do this at the risk of his life, for he could not breath freelywith it on. But his great skill saved him even then; nay, more, it camenear giving him the victory. As Coleman lunged, the agile creole leapedaside and re
turned quickly with a wicked thrust that barely reached hisadversary's breast, piercing it to the depth of a half inch.
Now the fight took on more of passion and less of grace, as if the menfelt that it was to be a test of strength at last. Round and round, backand forth, this way and that, they leaped, and recoiled, and advanced;their faces--one dark and beautiful as a southern night, the other fairand magnetic as a New England June day--fixed and staring, the whitefroth gathering on their lips.
When the end came it was like nothing ever before witnessed in a NewOrleans duel. How it happened not one of the observers could tell; butthe two men appeared to rush into each other's arms, and then it wasseen that each had run the other through.
That broke the charm. The masked men sprang forward and separated thecombatants, and all began to speak at once.