“If you cause an alarm,” muttered the Resurrection Man, in a low but hoarse and dogged tone, “I’ll cut your throat that minute. I want to speak to you; and if you tell me the truth I will do you no harm.”
The Rattlesnake clasped her hands together, and cast a glance of the most humble and earnest supplication up into the countenance of the demon whose sudden appearance—there—and at the still hour of night—leaning over her in so menacing a manner, and with dark resolve expressed in his foreboding face,—had struck such terror to her inmost soul.
“Now, mind,” added the Resurrection Man,—“one word to disturb the house—and you die!”
He then withdrew his hand from her mouth; but she scarcely breathed more freely. Her alarm would not have been of a more appalling character, had she awoke to find herself encircled in the horrible coils of a boa-constrictor.
“You see, Margaret,” continued Tidkins, “no one can escape me: sooner or later I fall in with those who thwart or injure me. But we have not much time for idle chattering. In one word, what have you done with the money you stole from me?”
“The gipsies have got it all,” answered the woman, scarcely able to articulate through intense terror; “but a part of it is mine whenever I choose to claim it.”
“Who has got it? Where is it kept?” demanded the Resurrection Man, speaking in a low and sullen whisper.
“The king of the gipsies.”
“What—the old fool with a white beard?”
“The same.”
“And where does he keep it, I say?”
“I have been told that the bag containing the gipsies’ treasure is always placed under his bolster.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the Resurrection Man.
“Certain,” was the reply: and now Margaret Flathers began to breathe more freely; for she thought that the object of the terrible individual present was not to kill her, but to obtain back his gold.
“Has any of it been spent?”
“No—no,” answered the Rattlesnake, eagerly; although she well knew that a third had been already divided between the royal family, the Traveller, and Skilligalee—those being the persons who had found her asleep beneath the tree, and possessed themselves of her treasure in the first instance.
“Do you know where the king, as you call him, sleeps?” proceeded the Resurrection Man.
“Yes—I am acquainted with every nook and corner of this place,” replied Margaret, her presence of mind gradually returning to her aid.
“But he does not sleep alone,” said the Resurrection Man: “I know all about that. How many men occupy the same room with him?”
“Only his son Morcar.”
“Are they armed?”
“No,” answered the Rattlesnake; “they have nothing—or fancy they have nothing—to fear: this house is so well guarded!”
“Now listen,” said the Resurrection Man, after a pause: “I have no time to waste in words. Will you conduct me to the room where this king of yours sleeps, and help me to get back my gold? or will you have your throat cut this minute?” And as he uttered these terrific words, he coolly drew his clasp-knife from his pocket.
“Oh! put away that horrid thing, and I will do all you tell me!” said the Rattlesnake, clasping her hands again together, while a cold shudder passed over her entire frame.
“Well—I don’t want to do you any harm,” returned Tidkins, with difficulty suppressing a sardonic smile. “But I warn you, that if you attempt any treachery, I will shoot you upon the spot without an instant’s hesitation, let the consequences be what they may.”
And this time he showed her the butt-ends of his pistols in the side-pocket of his rough coat.
“You need not threaten me, Tony,” said the woman, endeavouring to assume an insinuating tone; but the dark scowl with which the Resurrection Man surveyed her as she thus addressed him, instantly checked that partial overture towards reconciliation and confidence.
“None of that nonsense with me, Meg,” whispered Tidkins; “it has deceived me before. But I warn you! So now jump up and lead the way to the king’s room.”
The Resurrection Man rose from his kneeling posture over the bed, which, as our readers have been already informed, was made up on the floor; and Margaret Flathers got up.
“Shall I dress myself?” she said.
“What for? You don’t think that you’re going away with me—do you? No, no; I shall leave you in the excellent company which you have chosen for yourself, and with your friend Skilligalee.”
The Rattlesnake made no reply; but she marvelled how the Resurrection Man became acquainted with so many particulars concerning her companions.
“Take the light, and go first,” said the Resurrection Man; and, pulling off his heavy shoes, he prepared to follow her.
Margaret Flathers took the candle in her hand, and led the way cautiously to the room in which Zingary and Morcar slept.
The door was a-jar—and she entered, followed by the Resurrection Man.
The king and Morcar were fast asleep in their beds, which were also spread on the floor.
The Resurrection Man drew a pistol from his pocket, and advanced to the head of the king’s couch.
The Rattlesnake remained in the middle of the room, holding the candle.
Tidkins cautiously introduced his hand beneath the bolster; and, to his inexpressible joy, his fingers came in contact with a bag evidently containing no small quantity of coin.
By the sudden flash of delight which overspread his countenance, the Rattlesnake perceived that her words had not misled him; and she rejoiced in her turn—for she had dreaded the consequences of any disappointment experienced on his part.
A difficult task yet remained for the Resurrection Man to perform: he had to draw the bag, as gently as he could, from beneath the king’s head. At one moment a horrible idea entered his imagination;—he thought of cutting the old man’s throat, in order to abstract the treasure without molestation. But then, there was the other man who might happen to awake! Accordingly he abandoned this horrible scheme, and commenced his task of slowly removing the bag.
But just at the moment when this difficulty seemed entirely overcome, Morcar started up in the next bed, and uttered a loud cry.
The candle fell from the hands of the Rattlesnake, and was extinguished. Availing himself of the darkness into which the room was thus suddenly plunged, the Resurrection Man seized the bag, and darted towards the door.
But scarcely had he set foot in the adjacent passage, when the deep tones of a bell suddenly boomed throughout the house; and the notes of the tocsin were instantly responded to by the clamour of voices and the rushing of many persons from the various rooms to know the cause of the alarm.
The entire house was now in confusion: the alarm, which Morcar rang, awoke every one throughout the establishment.
Meantime, the Resurrection Man had precipitated himself down stairs, and had already begun to unbolt the front door, when lights appeared, and in another moment he was surrounded by the gipsy chiefs, and pinioned by them.
“Villain!” cried Morcar, tearing the bag of gold from his grasp: “is this the reward of our hospitality?”
“It’s mine—and I can prove it,” thundered the Resurrection Man. “But let me go—I don’t want to hurt any of you—and you needn’t hurt me.”
“Ah! that voice!” ejaculated the Traveller, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs as Tidkins uttered those words: then, before a single arm could even be stretched out to restrain him, he rushed with the fury of a demon upon the Resurrection Man, and planted his long dagger in the miscreant’s breast.
Tidkins fell: a cry of horror broke from the gipsies; and the Traveller was instantly secured.
“He is not dead—but he is dying
,” exclaimed Morcar, raising the Resurrection Man in his arms.
“Tell him, then,” cried the Traveller, in a tone of mingled triumph and joy,—“tell him that the man who was transported four years ago by his infernal treachery has at length been avenged,—tell him that he dies by the hand of Crankey Jem!”
These words seemed to animate the Resurrection Man for a few moments: he made an effort to speak—but his tongue refused to articulate the curses which his imagination prompted; and, turning a glance of the most diabolical hatred upon the avenger, he sank back insensible in the arms of Morcar.
The gipsies conveyed him up stairs, and placed him on a bed, where Aischa, who, like many females of her race, possessed no inconsiderable amount of medical knowledge, immediately attended upon him.
CHAPTER CXXXVI.
THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
HALF an hour after the occurrences just related, a strange and terribly romantic scene took place at the Gipsies’ Palace in Saint Giles’s.
The principal room on the ground-floor was lighted up with numerous candles. At the head of the long table sate King Zingary, clad in a black robe or gown, and wearing a black cap upon his head.
The gipsies, who had all dressed themselves in the interval which had occurred since the alarm, were seated at the board,—the men on one side, the women on the other.
Aischa alone was absent.
At the lower end of the table sat Margaret Flathers,—her countenance deadly pale, and her eyes wildly glancing upon those around her, as if to inquire the meaning of this solemn conclave.
Skilligalee was also present; but his looks were downcast and sombre.
Such an assembly, in the middle of the night, and succeeding so rapidly upon the dread incidents which had already occurred, was enough to strike terror to the soul of Margaret Flathers; for she knew that this meeting, at which so much awful ceremony seemed to preside, bore some reference to herself.
At length Zingary spoke.
“Margaret,” he said, in a solemn tone, “you are now in the presence of the secret tribunal of the united races of Zingarees. Our association, existing by conventional rules and laws of its own making, and to a certain degree independent of those which govern the country wherein we dwell, has been compelled to frame severe statutes to meet extreme cases. One of our customs is hospitality; and you have seen enough of us to know that we ask but few questions of those who seek our charity or our protection. It necessarily happens that persons who so come amongst us, learn much of our mode of life and many of our proceedings. But the basest ingratitude alone could reward our generous hospitality with a treacherous betrayal of any matters, the communication of which might militate against our interests. Although we have no sympathy and no dealings with the thieves and rogues of this great metropolis, we never refuse them the security of this establishment, when accident or previous acquaintance with its existence leads them to seek the safety of its walls. This conduct on our part has been pursued upon grounds of generosity and policy;—generosity, because we believe that half the criminals in existence are rather the victims of bad laws than of their own perverse natures;—policy, because we wish to keep on good terms with all orders and classes who live in violation of the law. It, however, behoves us to adopt as much precaution as possible against treachery, and to punish treachery where we detect it, and when the perpetrator of it is in our power. With this view the secret tribunal was instituted at the same time that this establishment was first opened, more than a century ago. Margaret, you are now in the presence of that tribunal, and you are accused of treachery and ingratitude of the very blackest dye.”
This address was delivered with a solemnity which made a deep impression upon all present. No slang phrases, no low synonyms disfigured the language of King Zingary. He spoke in a manner becoming the chief of a vastly ramified association which had made laws for the protection of its own interests.
Margaret surveyed the aged individual who thus addressed her, with wild astonishment and vague alarm. But so confused were her ideas that she could not make any reply.
“What are the facts of this case?” continued King Zingary, after a pause: “you, Margaret, are discovered by us one morning, sleeping in the open air, and nearly dead with the cold. You have a treasure with you, which we might have appropriated altogether to ourselves, but a third of which has been held at your disposal—yours at any time you might choose to demand it. You come amongst us; you are treated by us with even more than usual attention and kindness; and you are allowed to associate with our wives and daughters without the least restraint. A fortnight scarcely elapses, when you conduct a robber into my room, and point to him the place where he may find the treasure belonging to the association.”
“Hear me—hear me!” ejaculated Margaret, now recovering the power of speech; “hear me—and I will explain all.”
“Speak,” said the king.
“I am not guilty of premeditated ingratitude,” continued the Rattlesnake: “I awoke in the middle of the night, and found a fiend in human shape hanging over me. That man was the one whom I had been so anxious to avoid—of whom I was so afraid. I admit that I had robbed him of the gold which you found with me; but I was not bound to tell you that before now. Well—I awoke, and he was hanging over me! How he came into the house, you best know; how he knew that I was an inmate of it, I cannot explain; how he discovered my room is also a mystery. Nevertheless—he did find me out; and with dreadful threats of instant death he made me lead him to your apartment to get back his gold. That is the whole truth.”
A smile of incredulity played upon the lips of Zingary.
“Why did you not give the alarm, when once you were in my chamber?” he demanded. “Even if I am old and feeble, was not Morcar there? and could you not in one moment have summoned the others to your aid, by touching the bell-rope within your reach?”
“And, had I done so, that instant would have been my last. The fearful man, whom I obeyed, would have shot me dead on the spot,” answered the Rattlesnake.
“And do you not know how to die rather than betray your companions?” asked the king.
“I am but a woman—a weak woman,” exclaimed Margaret; “and—oh! no—no—I could not die so horrible a death!”
“Our women would die in such a cause,” said Zingary; “and those who join us and live with us must learn our customs and our habits.”
“Remember how sudden was the appearance of that man—how awful were his threats—in the middle of the night—and a knife, I may say, at my very throat——”
“It is a most extraordinary thing, that the very man whom you so much dreaded should have happened to seek our hospitality within a fortnight after you had joined us. Am I wrong if I entertain a suspicion in that respect? You knew that the bag, which every night was deposited beneath my head, contained not only the greater part of the gold which you brought us, but also the year’s contributions from the tribes and districts: you knew all this, because we had no secrets from you. Then, perhaps, you were tired of our company; and you imagined that it would be an easy thing to make your peace with that man whom you so much feared, by putting him in possession of a larger treasure than the one you plundered from him,—a treasure, too, which you might hope to share with him.”
“As I live, that was not the case!” cried the Rattlesnake, energetically. “You know that I have never stirred out of this house once since I first crossed the threshold: how, then, could I communicate with that man?”
“Where there is a will, there generally is a way, Margaret,” answered the king. “Have you any thing further to urge in your defence?”
“I have told the truth,” replied the woman; “what more can I say?”
“Then you may retire,” said Zingary.
Two gipsy-men led her from the room; and those who remained behind proceeded to delibera
te upon the case.
The whole affair was viewed in an aspect most unfavourable to the Rattlesnake; and when Skilligalee volunteered an argument in her defence, he was reminded that he only sate at that board by sufferance, because he was known to be faithfully attached to the Zingarees, but that he was not one of either race.
When the question had been duly discussed by the Secret Tribunal, the king put the point at issue to the vote—Guilty, or Not Guilty.
The decision of the majority was “Guilty.”
The Rattlesnake was then ordered to be brought back to the room.
When she again stood in the presence of her judges, Zingary addressed her in the following manner:—
“This tribunal, Margaret, has duly deliberated upon the case in which you are so especially interested. The result of that deliberation is, that you are found guilty of the blackest treachery and ingratitude. The founders of this tribunal wisely ordained that it should only pronounce one penalty in all cases which terminated in convictions, and that penalty is one which does not enable the criminal to return to the world to seek at the hands of the country’s tribunals redress for what such criminal might deem to be an injustice practised by this court. That penalty is death!”
“Death!” wildly screamed Margaret Flathers: “oh, no—you would not, could not murder me in cold blood!”
“Death,” solemnly repeated Zingary;—“death in the usual manner, according to the laws which this Tribunal was instituted to dispense.”
“Death!” again cried the unhappy woman, scarcely believing what she heard: “no—it is impossible! You will not kill me—you cannot cut me off so soon! I am not prepared to die—I have led a wicked life, and must have time to repent. Spare me! But—do not keep me in this dreadful suspense! Oh! I can understand that you wish to strike me with terror—to read me a terrible lesson. Well—you have succeeded! Expel me from your society—thrust me out of your house; but——”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 139