Presently he went on, in a dreary way: “It’s been the same all through. If we’d been in a novel — one of those thrillers you were so fond of — we should have found clues and things and been very smart, and all that. Instead of which, we’ve been fooled up to the hilt by thinking ourselves so mighty clever. Sinclair was right all through; now we’ve boxed up everything. I’ve led you into this hell.”
“Don’t get downhearted, Ronald. Only I was thinking of Doris.”
“What a selfish brute I am. Sorry. But I hope they, at any rate, are all right. Smart has a head on his shoulders, and they will either go back, or our friend Radko will turn them back. He’s no more anxious for them to go on than for us.”
He spoke to comfort Ralph, but his heart was heavy for the others. The only chance he could see was that Smart would take Doris back before the search parties found them. Then they might come back with help. After all, they were not far from a civilised country.
“If ever I get hold of that damned Italian!” Ronald muttered, clenching his fists.
A monk, who had entered silently, stood before them. He wore an old filthy robe girdled with a rope, and with the bashlik thrown back from his shoulders. His face was lined, and fierce eyes, deeply set in his head, flashed above an aquiline Semitic nose. A black straggling beard, flecked with grey, hid his mouth, but the whole aspect of the man denoted relentless energy.
He spoke in a harsh, grating voice, in ancient Greek.
“You are rested, strangers? I am Father Varinoff, Prior of the monastery. We do not take strangers here; it is forbidden by our laws. But you would have died — so we took you in — in the name of Christ.” He crossed himself in the Greek fashion, from right to left, across his breast.
He called to two monks who were waiting outside, two very old, dirty-looking fellows, who brought in food, plentiful though plain, and laid it on the table.
When they had departed, the Prior resumed: “Tonight you will come to our refectory, with the Abbot, and to-morrow you will take the solemn oath of secrecy which is demanded of all monks, and you will be sworn in as lay-brothers — ”
“And if we refuse? We are grateful for your kindness and will willingly swear secrecy; but you cannot keep us here.”
The Prior smiled, his lips curling back, showing the yellow teeth, which gave him a vulpine look. “There will be no refusal,” he said, and, bowing stiffly to them, he left.
There was no suggestion of washing materials, such being apparently non-existent among these holy men. By using a little wine on a handkerchief, some sort of ablutions were possible, but they had little heart for food.
Ronald rose and leant his arm on the stone of the window-frame, if such it could be called. The view was magnificent. The storm of the night before had spent itself out, and the winter sun shone and sparkled over a great stretch of valley below. He drew in great draughts of fresh, cool air. Beneath was a sheer precipice of rock, and one glance was enough to show why the place had remained inviolate from Turkish attacks all these centuries, for nothing but heavy artillery could reduce this mountain stronghold.
Ralph joined him, and suddenly gave a sharp exclamation.
“Look there!” he cried, gripping Ronald’s arm.
Far down the valley, and clear in the sunlight, the figures of four men, riding slowly, were just disappearing round a bend. They turned the corner and disappeared.
“Radko and three men. The other is either here, or — he died in the night. That’s our last hope gone.” Ralph sighed deeply.
“I wonder what Radko’s after? It looks as though he is going right away, not worrying about Smart and Doris.”
“Do you take that as a good sign?” Ralph questioned.
“It may be either. Perhaps he doesn’t care a rap what happens to them, or he may know what’s happened. We’ve got to face that.”
Hours after, when the inactivity was getting on the nerves of both, a monk entered and beckoned them to follow. They were led into a splendidly proportioned hall, very ancient and built in the Byzantine style, with a doomed roof. On two sides were rough tables, at which sat rows of monks, silent, in their long black gowns. The table at the end was slightly raised, and here sat the Abbot and his staff.
He was very old and wrinkled, and bleared at the strangers through watery eyes, a black skull-cap on his head giving him an owlish appearance.
They were conducted to a place of honour by his side, and to the disgust of the two men, the old man rose, and kissed them on both cheeks, smelling horribly of dirt and oil.
On the other side sat the Prior.
The food was generous and excellent — steaming ragout covered with savoury sauces, and the inevitable pilaff, followed by apples, olives, and cheese.
The Abbot gave an order, and the silent monks lifted their heads as a sign of pleasure. Presently great flagons of wine were set before them. It had been made in the monastery, and was beyond price: a very generous wine which had lain long in the cellars in the rock, and rejoiced to see the light. It was kept for special occasions, and ran through their veins like an elixir.
At any rate, it released the old Abbot’s tongue. He asked innumerable questions about the world outside, and the reason for their journey, all of which Ronald parried as best he could, with the keen, searching eyes of the Prior upon him.
Then the Abbot, who was evidently approaching senility, and was lifted up with the wine he had drunk freely, spoke out.
“This is the oldest monastery in the world. We have here documents of priceless value.” A growl came from the saturnine Prior, who plucked at his robe, and whispered fiercely in his ear. The old Abbot shook him off, and smiled with his toothless mouth at Ronald. He was growing drowsy. The flickering lights from the torches, the silent figures round the walls, and the black vault of the roof overhead all combined to produce a weird picture. Cigarettes in great earthenware bowls were passed round — such cigarettes as are not known in England, for the monks grew the finest tobacco in the world, which is only used for blending in the cigarettes of commerce. The Abbot was speaking.
“My son, you understand our ancient tongue, and my heart goes out to you, for I love strong, brave men, and that Bulgarian brigand told me of your courage and endurance. You will soon be one of us, and will grow in time, perhaps, to such learning that I can recommend you for the higher degree — you may at last become a monk yourself.”
All this was disturbing, but worse was to follow.
The Abbot absorbed more wine, rolling it round his tongue with infinite pleasure.
He leant towards Ronald, and laid a bony ringer on his arm.
“We have here the original Gospel — that from which the others were taken. It was smuggled from Jerusalem during the siege, and taken to Ephesus, and from there to Stamboul, which you call Constantinople. When the Turks took and sacked the city, it was brought here. What would your people give to have it! Come. I will show you. It is good to talk to an educated man.”
The Prior gripped his arm in horror, but the old Abbot waved him aside, and gave an order. All the monks rose and slowly filed out of the room, leaving them alone in the great empty place.
They were conducted down a stone stair hollowed out of the rock, escorted by two monks bearing torches, to a great chamber which was the library of the monastery. Here were countless rolls of parchment, dimly seen in the uncertain light. The Abbot went from one to another, bringing out yellow volumes for their inspection.
But when Ronald unguardedly put out his hand to take one, the Prior held out an arm like a bar of iron in front of him, glaring at him, his matted black beard seeming to bristle with anger.
The Abbot was fumbling at a sort of cupboard. The monks gave an exclamation of horror as he tottered forward with an ancient roll, carrying it reverently and with infinite care, as though be bore the Host itself. It was sewn in places and patched, and there were several others in the recess. The Prior sprang forward with a snarl, snatched the roll from the s
haking hands of the old man, and, putting it back in the cupboard, slammed the door. He turned, his eyes blazing, and shook his fist in a passion of frenzy at the Abbot, who shrank back in alarm.
The two Englishmen were seized by the monks and roughly pushed out of the place. They stumbled up the stone stairs, hastily urged on by their guards, and were thrust into their cell; and the door was locked.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE HORROR IN THE ROCKS
Hours passed in anxious waiting. It was obvious that some terrible act of sacrilege had been committed by the Abbot, but what would be the consequence to themselves they could not guess.
Ralph had at last given way to despair. He had not Ronald’s grit, and his training had not led to mental stability. He sat on the bed, his head held between his hands, while Ronald paced the floor like a caged tiger.
Ages seemed to have passed — they had no light but Ronald’s torch, which had to be used sparingly. A slight sound of the door opening, a chink of light, showed that someone was stealthily entering.
Ronald breathed a sigh — anything was better than this waiting in the dark. Two monks entered silently and beckoned them to follow. They led them down a rough stone stairway, which echoed to their tread. Down it went, till it seemed they would never reach the bottom. The air grew thick and heavy; a green slime was trickling down the walls, and a damp, tainted smell came from the depths below. At last they halted before an ominous-looking iron-studded door.
“This is a dungeon,” Ralph whispered.
The door was opened, and they stood in a great vaulted chamber, dimly lighted.
A clean dungeon would have been heaven to this horror. When their eyes became accustomed to the light, they saw the monks assembled there, standing with heads bowed, their faces concealed by the pointed cape of the Eastern monk. There was no sign of the Abbot, but the Prior was seated in the centre. He spoke in calm, level tones, each word cutting like a whip.
“We have carefully considered your case,” he said. “You have become possessed of our secret — unwittingly, it is true, but through the folly of him who was Abbot. We do not commit murder here, but your punishment shall be such that you will never forget it. It shall be a lesson which shall keep you to secrecy more than any oath. As for the traitor — behold!”
The monks moved aside, and they saw. A sort of niche in the wall, rather higher than a man, was closed by a door of thick wood, leaving the top and bottom open. Above, the head of the old Abbot showed, and his feet stuck out beneath. He was bolt upright in the niche, which barely gave him room to stand.
With a thrill of terror they saw similar niches round the walls, with grinning skulls above and skeleton feet protruding below.
Something of the awful meaning of the place dawned on Ronald. He had, of course, heard of people being bricked up in walls, but that was a more merciful death, by suffocation, or at the worst, of hunger and thirst. Here was a more cruel and dreadful punishment.
For a moment Ronald’s stout heart failed him, and he laid hold on the knife which Radko had left him. But he could not leave Ralph to face the horror alone. No word was spoken, but at a sign from the Prior, the monks passed out silently, like flitting ghosts, and the door was slammed-to. At any rate, they were not to be caged up. That was a momentary relief. A light was left burning, and by it they saw the old man’s worn face, hanging at an angle; he was either sleeping or drugged.
The awful time which followed! Every morning and evening the monks came in and said Mass for the soul of the Abbot, that he might be purged of his sin, and find forgiveness. Food and water were brought for the two captives, and the Abbot, who was fed by the monks. The old man seemed dazed at first, and uttered not a word. Only, such is the clinging to life, he drank wine and water, and took sparingly of food. The agony of his position must have been fearful. He appeared to be going mad. Then he roused himself, and fixed his eyes on Ronald, and cursed them both in an awful stream, never stopping till exhaustion overcame him. He foamed at the lips, his eyes glassy and staring. The stream of abuse never stayed, and nearly drove them mad. Ralph was fast losing his reason. He rushed at the wall and would have beaten out his brains had not Ronald held him back. They put their fingers to their ears to keep out the dreadful sound.
In this hour of trial Ronald’s strong generous character shone out in the dark like a star.
“Come, Ralph, remember the Prior said they did not murder.” He clung to this one hope. “In any case, if the worst come, let’s die like Englishmen, not break down and whine for mercy.”
To distract Ralph’s mind, they examined the other “exhibits.” The inscriptions told their own doleful tale. The names were given and the nature of the offence. One had tried to betray the place to the Turks, and deserved all he got. Another had smuggled a woman into the monastery, where she had been undiscovered for years, till they tried to escape together. They were both fastened in. And so the story could be read through the centuries. The older inscriptions were obliterated by time and damp. The place was bitterly cold, and the silence, when the Abbot was quiet with a dead silence, was more terrible than any noise on earth.
The fierce railing of the Abbot grew more incoherent and weaker as his strength failed, and when the monks came for one of their visits, they found him dead. They said prayers for the dead with all solemnity, and left them alone. Then the worst came. They were kept in that charnel-house till the flesh was dropping from the Abbot’s bones, and the head was turning into an unsightly skull. Ralph lay on the bare floor, weeping and crying for death. It was a marvel that he kept his reason. It could not have lasted much longer. The smell and the awful sight from which they could not keep their eyes.
They were dragged out at last — Ralph mercifully unconscious, and Ronald in little better condition.
Once in their cell, the monks nursed them back to health with care and a gentleness which ill-contrasted with the savage punishment they had received.
When they were able to act and think coherently, they were taken before the Prior, now appointed Abbot, who greeted them sternly, but not unkindly.
“The ordeal through which you have passed was necessary. You will now work with the monks in their tasks, but remember that any attempt to escape will mean that you will receive the same punishment you have seen meted out to traitors. The monks have orders to watch you.”
Ronald translated this to Ralph, who received it with a stony apathy which had taken hold of him since their ordeal. They were dismissed, and a monk took them în charge. Spades were given them, and they were ordered to join a working-party to tend the vines.
The monk was taciturn, and would answer no questions. How long that dreadful time had lasted they had no idea. Their minds were blunted, and they had no sense of the passing of time. The great doors were opened, and they staggered out into the light.
The air was sweet and fragrant after the monastery with its stone and slimy rock and dreadful secrets. The monks went armed to their work, for though they traded with the brigand bands, they had no cause to trust them. Each had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a great knife in his belt.
“I wish I knew how time had passed,” Ronald said, as they trudged along, blessing the free air and the sunlight. “It must be spring by now. If only we can escape!”
“I have no doubt the prisoners at Dartmoor say the same thing,” Ralph replied. “We’ve about as much chance as they.”
“Don’t despair.” Ronald looked anxiously at his companion. His hair was matted and grey, and a beard straggled in grey wisps from his chin. His eyes had a wild, roving look. Ronald was in little better case, but had no means of examining his own personal appearance.
The vineyard clung to the rocky side of a valley sheltered from the wind, and the vines already were showing signs of leaf. Their task was to dig round the roots in the rocky ground, and pour in some liquid which kept away the dreaded Phylloxera which destroys the vines.
Ralph remained silent till the sun and
the work had restored him.
“Ronald,” he said, laying down his spade at a sign from the foreman monk, “I’ve been a beast and a coward. You have saved my life — or, what is more important — my reason. I should have gone dippy in that place.” He shuddered.
“That’s all right,” Ronald answered cheerily. “I felt like that myself. But for you I should have used my knife on myself.”
The days passed in dreary monotony; the same round of work.
The monks were friendly and helpful, but would answer no questions, and were continually on the watch. Two monks always kept near them, and they were locked up each night.
“If this goes on much longer, we shall grow into vegetables, without sense or will-power. “ Ronald flung himself down. “I’ll tell you what is our only chance. One of us must rush the guard with my knife and seize his rifle. He must hold the others at bay while the other bolts for it. We must watch for a favourable chance. Do you agree?”
Ralph hesitated; the thought of that black charnel-house far below still freezing his mind.
“I’ll make the attempt,” Ronald said, mistaking his hesitation. “You make a dash for it and try and get away. Go right down the valley where you saw Radko and the escort go off . . . Only I’ll keep one shot for myself,” he added grimly.
“No; certainly not. We’ll either go together or I will stay. You are fretting to find Diana, I know.”
They argued the matter, but neither would give way, and it was still under discussion when the unexpected happened. They were working as usual in a scattered group among the rocky vineyards perched on a hillside. The day was hot and the monks were off their guard.
The rocks above them were suddenly alive with savage-looking brigands, who had started up from behind the great boulders, and a dozen rifles covered them. It was all done in a moment. At a sharp command the monks laid their rifles on the ground and stood impassively waiting. A villainous brigand advanced to the foreman and conversed with him in low tones, glancing from time to time at the Englishmen. The Bulgar was quiet and stern, the other voluble and frightened. He shook his head violently again and again, and the Bulgar only shrugged his great shoulders with insistence.
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