To Valerie, beside the silent figure of her uncle, it seemed that this dream-like voyage had lasted since the beginning of time and would continue through all eternity. Utterly isolated from the world, and from their own kind, they glided on through the endless, blood-red gloom. Tony’s dim figure at the helm might have been that of a modern Charon, piloting them over the black, fathomless waters of Lethe itself. Indeed, the girl found herself wondering if the catastrophe had come, unseen and unheralded, and they were, in fact, all dead and in another world. A great weariness and desolation lay heavy on her soul. The boat crept on, its engine purring gently.
Tony spoke abruptly, shattering the illusion.
“We have missed it. We must be three miles out now.” His voice sounded muffled and hollow.
The rector lifted his head. He had been praying silently, desperately almost. For the little gleam of light which had come to him at the Mass had died out, leaving him alone in the darkness.
“We must not miss it, Tony,” he said simply. “Change your course and try again.”
Tony spun the wheel to port and the boat swung round obediently. Keeping its head southwards now, he slowed the engine still more.
Hamilton strained his eyes, peering in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen save the all-pervading mist.
Five minutes passed without incident, then Tony put the launch about unprompted and steered due north. Hamilton looked anxiously at his watch; it was half past ten. Time was getting desperately short. The rector’s lips moved ceaselessly.
All at once Valerie stiffened. Was it only imagination, or could she really hear the engine of another boat, somewhere away to the left? She called to Tony, and he cut out the motor. They drifted along silently, but there was no sound to be heard save their own quick breathing. Hamilton cupped his hands round his mouth and gave a hail. Almost immediately the echo was flung back. They were close under the cliffs of Kestrel, and, but for the girl’s sharp ears, would have passed it by unseen.
Hope springing up in his heart, Tony started the engine and they crept cautiously in. A great shadow loomed up out of the obscurity, and Hamilton swung the searchlight, picking up the rocks, dangerously close.
It was anxious work seeking the entrance to the harbour, but the fog seemed a little less dense close to the island, and they found it at last. Boat-hooks out, ready to fend off the rocky walls, they glided in. It was but a moment’s work to make fast and disembark, and together they climbed the stairway.
The fog was left behind the moment they set foot on land, and as they mounted the island presented a fantastic spectacle. On every side great cliffs of vapour shut it in, and it lay, as it were, at the bottom of a vast pit of lurid light. The rocks appeared black as coal, and the Abbey made a picture of horrifying splendour, towering monstrously above them. The effort of climbing in the terrific heat was terribly exhausting, and by the time they reached the platform before the great gateway their clothes were wringing with sweat.
After a moment’s pause to regain their breath they approached the gate, each with a nameless apprehension gnawing at his heart. Then they stopped dead and stood rooted in their tracks. Not only was the wicket in the great door shut, but some feet in front of it, barring every hope of entrance, the portcullis had been dropped.
Speechless with dismay, they crowded forward and examined it. Constructed of massive iron bars, it must have weighed many tons, and the force of its fall had driven the pointed ends of the vertical bars deep into the ground.
“No good,” said Hamilton at last. “We might have forced the door somehow, but that — never.”
“I’ve never seen it down before,” Tony said. “It must be centuries since it was last used — the windlasses in the gatehouse are rusted solid — they will have cut the chains.” With a gesture of despair he turned away.
“Is there no other way in?” asked the rector.
“None,” Tony answered. “The outer wall is only pierced at this point.”
Hamilton looked up at the top of the arch. It might be possible to climb the grating of the portcullis, but the wall of the gatehouse jutted out too far above it to permit further progress. He walked back a few paces and studied the great wall itself. It was fully thirty feet high, and though the granite blocks of which it was built had been much weathered by hundreds of years of wind and rain, they were too closely jointed to offer safe foothold. Moreover, the battlements overhung in such a way that it would have been impossible to negotiate them.
“Is there a rope in the launch?” he asked.
Tony followed the direction of his gaze, and his interest quickened.
“The mooring-ropes would be too short,” said he, “but there is the anchor chain.”
“Too heavy,” Hamilton decided. “We could never throw it up. Now, a light grappling-hook — if we had such a thing.”
“But we have!” cried Tony. “In the boat-house. I’ve wondered what it was for many a time. I’ll get it; there may be a rope as well.” He set off down the steps at a run.
The others said no word while he was gone, but in each heart hope was running high. At last he came back, panting, with a rusty iron grapnel in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.
“Fine!” Hamilton greeted him, and quickly they made the hook fast to the rope. Hamilton whirled it round his head and let go. The iron clattered against the wall, some feet from the top, and fell back. Again he tried, and yet again, and at the third throw caught the parapet.
Kicking off his shoes and digging his toes into the crevices of the wall, he began to climb hand over hand up the rope. Breathlessly they watched him, Valerie clinging nervously to Tony’s sleeve, her face white.
Hamilton had reached the top and was negotiating the overhanging battlement when the rope, rotten with age and frayed against the edge of the stone, broke, leaving him hanging by his hands. Tony swore under his breath, and the girl hid her face in his coat. But Hamilton did not fall. In perfect physical condition, he was able to draw himself up by sheer strength of arm and in a few seconds stood safely on the broad parapet. He looked down at their white faces and grinned cheerfully.
“Acrobatic performance number one!” he remarked. “Now, Tony, have a look at that rope.”
Obediently Tony went to the foot of the wall and picked up the fallen coil. He ran it through his hands and shook his head. It had stretched badly and several strands were broken. It would be madness to trust to it again.
“All right,” said Hamilton, when this intelligence was conveyed to him. “I’ll go down and see what I can find. If I see another rope I’ll come back and haul you up; if not — well, I’ll carry on and see what I can do alone.”
Feverishly they tried to persuade him not to venture into the Abbey unaccompanied, but for answer he flourished his pistol in the air and disappeared behind the parapet.
“He’ll not come back,” said Tony; “the dear fool means to go through with it by himself.”
They looked helplessly at one another.
“We must do something, Tony,” exclaimed Valerie.
The young man cast out his hands in a gesture of despair.
“What can we do?” he demanded.
The rector spoke.
“I don’t think we should worry overmuch about his safety. He may be the chosen one, you know. But at the same time I do not think we should stay here and make no effort to help. You are quite certain, Tony, that there is absolutely no other way in? No secret entrance or anything of that sort?”
Tony stared. Like a flash the memory of his visit to the caves with his two former associates came back to him.
“Yes!” he cried. “Why didn’t I think of it before? There is another way. Down on the other side of the island — a cave leading up into the crypt.”
“The crypt,” echoed Valerie; “he will be there. Come quickly.”
There was need for haste, for as they piled into the launch the hands of Tony’s watch stood at five minutes past eleven.
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The voyage round the island was a hair-raising experience, and time after time they avoided the razor-edged rocks by inches. They dared not venture far from the cliffs into the denser fog lest they lose the island altogether.
Eventually they reached the sheer cliff on the western side, and by the merest stroke of luck found the entrance to the cave almost at once. Tony made the boat fast to a projecting knob of rock and drew himself up the four or five feet into the yawning mouth of the cavern. He then lay down and, stretching out his arms, helped first Valerie and then the rector. The calmness of the sea made the task less hazardous, and presently all three were walking over the sandy floor into the innermost recesses of the cave. Tony had taken a torch from the locker of the boat, and after a little searching found the crevice which led into the low tunnel beyond.
Bending double, they crawled along. The air was stifling, and the very rock felt warm to the touch. Soon they found the way barred by the iron-bound door. This was fastened on the inside, so Tony picked up a piece of fallen rock and battered a hole in the ancient, decaying wood, through which he was able to reach the bar.
As they passed through the torrid heat was exchanged for cold so intense that their sweat-damp clothes clung clammily to their shivering bodies. There was a vile smell in the air, and wreaths of yellowish vapour hung in the beam of the torch. The sense of some monstrous spiritual evil close at hand was so great that the rector crossed himself involuntarily, and Valerie clung, half fainting, to her lover. The rest of the journey through the passages was a nightmare to her, at least, for her mind was full of the memory of her dreadful experience in this same spot.
The rector and Tony did not spare her, but hurried forward, one on either side, almost dragging her along. They hardly noticed her distress, so oppressed were they by the double anxiety for their comrade Hamilton and for the whole world, which every second brought nearer to inconceivable disaster.
At the triple fork Tony, who by some odd trick of the memory had overlooked the significance of the great cavern, led them straight on without a pause. Soon they were climbing the steps up to the crypt.
Chapter XXI
I
Hamilton hurried down the stairway in the gatehouse turret, shutting his ears to the shouts of his friends. As Tony had surmised, he had no intention whatever of attempting to get them over the wall; the broken rope had been an admirable excuse. His motives in undertaking this forlorn hope by himself were twofold. In the first place he desperately wanted to shield both Valerie and Tony, since she loved him, or seemed to, from all harm. If anyone had to be hurt he would far rather it were he, even if death should be his reward. And secondly, in spite of everything, he still thought that the others rated Gaunt’s powers too high. He wanted to prove to his own satisfaction that the man was but mortal after all, and would prove as amenable to force as anyone else.
Sprinting across the courtyard, he cocked his pistol, and the tiny click of the bolt sent a furious joy flooding through his veins. Let Gaunt give him but half a chance and he would see who was the stronger.
The doors were all locked and the ground-floor windows shuttered, but he had anticipated this and laid his plans accordingly. One of those precious bullets was sufficient to shatter the fastening of the shutter on one of the kitchen windows, and the butt of the pistol did the rest. The noise seemed shockingly loud in the silence, and Hamilton stood waiting for several minutes before climbing in, but nothing stirred.
He found the cool interior a welcome change from the oppressive heat outside, and lit a cigarette before proceeding farther. He surveyed the disorder of the kitchen with a disdainful smile. Why, the two alleged wizards had lived like pigs, and very human pigs at that!
The ashes on the hearth were still smoking, and the glass of the table-lamp was warm. They could not have been gone long. He set off along the corridor to the great hall.
Until now he had noticed nothing unusual in the atmosphere of the place, perhaps because he was full of disdain and self-confidence, but with each step he took towards the crypt he felt his courage draining away. This place was not as it should be. The loaded gun simile, which had occurred to him before, now came back with redoubled force. But this was no gun, he thought; it was a powder-mine, and the train was already lit — he could almost see the fatal spark creeping along the fuse.
He entered the great hall and made for the open trap. Then he stopped short, his heart hammering in his throat. He could have sworn that something had moved in the yawning hole. No, there was nothing. He took another step. Yes, there was! He blinked, and it was gone. Then, as he watched, it came again, a thin coil of yellow vapour drifting up out of the depths.
H’m, more devilry, he supposed, but nothing very substantial. He looked sharply round. Was that a mocking chuckle he had heard in the shadows? God! The very shadows were moving, creeping up behind him!
He told himself that he was being foolish, but he would have given worlds for a light, as with faltering steps he went on to the trap.
He did not turn his head again, but forced himself to descend into the thick darkness, yet the last memory he bore with him of the great hall of Kestrel was of a place full of mocking whispers and creeping shadows that crowded after him.
The descent down that long spiral was an experience that Hamilton did not care to think about afterwards. More than once he felt something cold and damp brush across his face — he hoped it was a cobweb, but he feared it was not. Once he despaired of ever reaching the bottom — there was that true nightmare quality about it — but after what seemed an eternity he came down into the crypt.
It was lit, ever so faintly, with a pale light which came from somewhere in the midst of the wilderness of pillars, and he made for the radiance like a benighted traveler lost in a forest.
The light was a vapour-lamp hissing away beside the open altar. Near by lay the misshapen body of Simon Vaughan. There was a scorched smell about his clothing, and looking closer Hamilton saw the burns upon his face.
Wondering vaguely what had happened, he looked round, and his eye fell upon something which drove all speculation upon the dead Satanist out of his mind: an electric torch lying on the altar steps. He seized it thankfully and switched on the powerful beam. With this in one hand and his gun in the other he felt more of a match for creeping shadows!
There was no sign of Gaunt, but the open altar told its own story, and Hamilton remembered Tony’s description of the great cave where the curse-monstrosity dwelt. Hoping he would be able to find his way through the labyrinth, he scrambled over the altar-side and went down the steps.
Then began a bitter struggle, for no sooner had he started along the tunnel than the same feeling he had encountered with Lorrimer in the crypt above swept over him. A crushing horror that turned his limbs to water and his heart to ice; a great despair, as an inward voice whispered continually: “It’s no use going on. You can’t stop him — nothing can. The game is lost.”
And out of the darkness ahead crept great coils of thick yellow vapour, seeming actually to impede Hamilton’s progress as they writhed serpent-like about his feet and crawled clammily over his face.
Almost vomiting with disgust and terror, he beat frantically at them with his arms and broke into a shambling run. Had he not done so he must have either sunk down helpless or turned and fled. It speaks volumes for the sheer grit of the man that he ever reached the division of the passage, but reach it he did, and recalling Tony’s description took the left-hand tunnel.
From that moment the attack lessened, and he went on unhindered, but with growing conviction in his mind that he was going to fail. He could sense the frightful power which awaited him, and he went to meet it with no hope of victory but simply because it was the only thing to do. He could not have turned back now and faced the crawling mist again, so on he went, with his pitifully inadequate weapons clutched tightly in his hands.
At the turn of the passage he stepped into a blaze of greenish light, and there, f
acing him on the narrow platform above the great cave, his arms folded, stood Nicholas Gaunt.
Hamilton stopped. The doctor smiled sardonically.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamilton,” he announced. “We meet again. I have watched your progress with interest. May I compliment you upon your courage? Few men could have passed my sentinels and kept their reason. Now that you are here you will have the opportunity of witnessing a most interesting experiment. Please step forward.”
The mocking voice was more than Hamilton could endure. Blind rage sweeping through him, he lifted his pistol and pressed the trigger.
But the hammer never fell. Instead, a violent shock ran through Hamilton’s arm and the weapon fell with a clatter to the rock.
“You are a very rash young man,” remarked Gaunt. “I doubt if the bullet would have harmed me, but I think it best not to take any risks just now. Come here, and let us have no more foolery.”
Like a man in a dream Hamilton felt his legs move automatically, carrying him to the spot at which the doctor’s long forefinger was pointing. He struggled frantically to stand still, to disobey, but he was helpless in the grip of that awful will.
A circle had been carefully drawn on the rocky platform with some white substance, and when he was inside this Hamilton came to a standstill. The doctor nodded approvingly.
“That’s better,” he said. “You will not move again.”
Instantly Hamilton felt as if he were encased in iron bands. He could not stir so much as a finger, though the sweat broke out all over him with the effort. Dumbly he watched the Satanist continue his interrupted preparations.
Round the edge of the circle he was placing seven bronze lamps. When he had them arranged to his satisfaction he lit them and then proceeded to ignite the charcoal in a brazier which stood in the middle. He took up his wand and laid it across the glowing coals. Finally he drew out his watch and consulted it.
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