In the dark, among the terrible woods, Ronald stood. The two priests were to leave him here and wait for his return.
He stood naked, except for a cloth bound round his waist, in which he had concealed his knife — the gift of Radko.
He tried to concentrate his mind on the coming combat, but his thoughts were full of the strange things that were happening out yonder. All the afternoon people had been coming over the lake in barges. He had seen them from the temple. They came silently. There was no singing, no sound of music. There was something ominous in that silent crowd, a fixity of purpose he had not seen before. It was as though the people were moving of their own set purpose in a deadly resolve.
His hand wandered to his waist, where the cloth was bound with the cestus Diana had given him. Her honour was in his keeping. He shook himself, and strode forward, determined to end the matter. Even his stout heart quailed at the terrible ordeal, which meant not only his life but that of Diana who was more dear to him than the whole world.
He had hoped for a cloudy night, but the moon was full, and shining down on the great clearing and on the sacred oak.
Suddenly he paused in the shadow of a tree on the edge of the clearing. From the darkness beyond arose that awful howling he had heard before, but now deafening in its intensity. The sound vibrated among the trees. His feet were rooted to the ground and his hair rose at the horrible sound. While it continued he could not move. Trembling seized his limbs and he felt his strength ebbing away.
It ceased like the closing of a door, but from a distance another sound struck his ear — the sound of a people shouting, the dreaded sound of a mob gone mad — like the roar of an angry sea. Something was taking place, and he powerless to stay it.
It nerved him to action — this ominous sound.
Skirting the trees, he approached as near as he could to the oak, and then he saw the grim figure restlessly pacing round the mighty tree. His mind was cool now. He took careful stock of the position. The trunk of the oak rose straight for thirty feet perhaps without branches. Only bare scars showed where once they had been, but in the ages they had fallen off. At one place a dry stump projected about ten feet from the ground. He might reach that with a tremendous leap, but it would probably be rotten and break in his hands. It was indeed an unequal combat. He watched the figure in its ceaseless stride — round the tree, then back into the open, and again behind the mighty trunk.
There was only one chance. He counted the seconds which the creature took to pass behind the tree, and measured the distance with his eye. Moonlight is deceptive, and he mistrusted his judgment.
Several times he nerved himself to rush, and each time he hesitated. His hand fingered the handle of Radko’s knife, and his fingers touched a knob at the top. In a half-conscious way he pushed with his thumb and the handle opened like the butt trap of a pre-War rifle.
He pushed the knife into the moonlight. There was a hollow space in the handle, and within was a tinder-box and a piece of tow. The brigand had probably found this useful in the desolate mountains. Idle curiosity made him examine the thing, and then with a burst of anger he realised he was only trying to postpone the ordeal. It was sheer funk.
But was it? From somewhere in his brain an idea evolved itself. The woods were dry and parched with the drought. The next moment he was furiously active.
Hastily collecting bundles of the dry mast from the ground, he laid them in a pile against one of the broken branches which were scattered around, and silently and with infinite care he built up a pile. If it did nothing else, it would distract the monster’s attention. He knelt down and struck the flint, and a spark dropped on the tinder, which he blew to a glow and laid on the tow. At once a flame sprang up and the dry mast and twigs caught. Ronald dodged behind a tree and raced round a semi-circle of woods. The man was motionless now, gazing at the fire which was licking up the pile in a splendid blaze.
To his relief the man advanced slowly, holding his great sword ready to strike. Now was the chance. With a dash he sped across the open and leapt as he had never sprung in his life for the projecting branch. His fingers gripped it and, thank God! it held. With a mighty effort he drew himself up. A howl of fear and rage came from below, and the bark of the tree split as the giant slashed at the man above him, within an ace of his feet. Ronald reached oui for a branch above him and, shutting his ears to the demoniacal yells below, drew himself up to a branch on which a great bundle of mistletoe grew. Even at this critical moment, by some queer trick of the brain, he rejected this bunch, which was scraggy and withered, and sliding along the branch selected another, which he cut off with his knife. So far, good, but beneath, the raging beast was waiting, snarling and showing his great fangs in the moon’s rays.
It was a “Dilly-dilly, come and be killed” sort of game. Ronald had some idea of trying to break off a branch and fling it at him, but the oak was too tough. He did, however, scrape off bits of bark, which he hurled at the creature to annoy him. A pinkish glow was around him, and taking his gaze from the man below, he saw that the fire had spread and was fiercely attacking other trees. The whole grove was dry as a bone.
The cunning brute below would not approach the tree, but waited some few feet away. There was only one frail chance — the trick was old. Ronald shouted at the brute and pointed to the fire, as though in alarm. For the fraction of a second he turned to look. Ronald sprang. He was twenty feet from the ground, and his life hung on the spring. Full on the back of his grim opponent he lighted, with the weight of his thirteen stone, and both fell to the ground in a heap. Ronald twisted round like lightning, and struck with his knife again and again.
With a roar of anger and pain the horrible, bleeding thing hurled himself upon him, the sword luckily having been dropped with the fall. Ronald was strong beyond most men, but in that mighty grasp he was powerless. The giant arms were round him, and he felt his ribs cracking beneath the strain. He twisted his neck to avoid the terrible fangs which were seeking his throat, and pushed with all his strength against the monster’s hairy throat. With his other hand he plunged the knife again and again into the brute’s side. His strength was oozing away. The foaming jaws were coming nearer. The muscles were cracking under the strain. Suddenly the brute shifted his grip and seized Ronald’s arm in his hands, and broke it like a stick.
Ronald drove his knife to the hilt into the vast carcase, and darkness closed round him.
A heavy mass fell upon him, nearly suffocating him. Collecting his remaining strength, he writhed free and lay panting on the grass, his broken arm bent beneath him and the white bones protruding through the skin.
The fight was over. The monster lay dead, or dying, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Sick and trembling, Ronald staggered to his feet, keeping his senses only by a sheer effort of will.
His task was not yet done. He found the huge sword in the thick grass where it had fallen. Lifting it with his left hand, he hacked at the sinewy neck again and again, till the gory thing lay headless on the ground. He could not carry sword and head and mistletoe, so flung the sword away and tying the bunch to Diana’s girdle, he lifted the head by the hair and staggered from the clearing.
It was only just in time. The forest was ablaze, and sparks flew upwards in showers. There was only one side of the grove where exit was possible. To this he turned, and with faltering steps picked his way through the trees, his legs moving involuntarily and the pain of his arm giving him agony. But in his heart a feeling of exultant pride and hope rose. He had won his battle for Diana.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE END OF NEMI
In the Temple of Diana a scene unprecedented in the annals of the country was taking place. The people were out of hand.
The angry crowd had crossed the lake, seizing the barges from the priests, who had lost all control. It was mob law. Maddened with wine and the sudden sense of freedom, they swarmed up the broad stairway, no longer docile and obedient. The priests ran hither and thither, trying
to control the excited people, but for once their power was gone.
None seemed to know how it had begun or what sudden uprush of fear and anger had brought this change. Strange rumours had been afloat. The strangers had not yet been sacrificed. They came from a mighty country beyond the mountains — spies who would bring destruction on the land and people of Isemi, and destroy the ancient worship. So the rumours ran from house to house.
The priests came to Virbius. He had brought the strangers — he must propitiate the people, or they would tear him limb from limb. They waited in expectant dread till the populace burst into the temple with shouts, waving their knives.
There was no singing now, or sound of music, no solemn procession.
Something in the quiet majesty of the temple awed them for a moment. They paused at the platform, not daring to rush beyond the stone of sacrifice. Virbius faced them, calm and immovable. Whatever sins lay on the conscience of this man, his courage was beyond estimate, and his indomitable will at this crisis shone out above the shrinking priests.
“What seek ye?” he asked, casting a look of scorn at the men and women beneath him, surging round the platform.
“Sacrifice the strangers! Kill the spies!” The shouts burst from the crowd.
“All things must be done in order. What means this tumult?”
There was no answer, each man pushing forward the man before him to act as spokesman.
Virbius spoke again.
“Go; request the sacred Diana to appear before her people.”
Night had fallen and the lamps had been lit, but outside torches were tossing, and those who could not gain admittance we’re tearing at the curtain walls. Soon the outer curtains of green were torn down, and the inner walls of white and gold were wrenched from their fastenings and fell to the ground.
The temple was open to the clear air; except at the hidden shrine at the back, which even the mob dare not attack — as yet.
Diana came, pale but with calm dignity.
The tumult ceased as if by magic, and all heads were bowed.
She must gain time.
“The strangers whom ye seek are in my charge,” she said in clear accents. “The great warrior who has challenged, in accordance with our ancient custom, the King of the Woods, has even now gone, with all proper rites, to do battle. If he conquers, he will be your King.”
There was a low murmur from the people, but a voice shouted:
“The others! The woman and the man. Slay her on the altar. The virgin tribute which is promised.”
“Wait till the appointed time, as is right, lest a curse rest on you.”
“No. Slay her on the altar,” they shouted, mad with bloodlust.
Virbius whispered to Diana, “It must be so; we cannot hold them.”
“Never — you coward!” she replied angrily.
Virbius turned from her and issued an order to the priests.
“No, I will not have it so!” Diana shouted above the din. “You shall not do this thing!”
There was madness in the eyes of Virbius. “Are you turning traitor? Take care lest you become the victim.”
“I care not!” She raised her head proudly.
The priests had slipped through the curtain. They brought forth Ralph, strongly bound, and placed him on a stone seat, while two priests stood over him. Then came a hush. The crowd were silenced now — their will had prevailed. The attendant maidens, frightened but from long practice obedient to orders, filed in, singing in tremulous voices, and looking fearfully at the savage faces crowding the building.
The curtains parted again, and two murderous-looking priests led in Doris, bound and naked, and laid her on the black stone, where her hands and feet were fastened to sockets in the stone. A deep depression in the stone mercifully hid her from the eyes which craned forward to see the victim killed.
Virbius approached Diana with a knife, which he handed to her.
“You must! It is the custom,” he whispered in her ear.
“I cannot — I will never do that.” She flung the knife from her, and a shout of anger burst from the herded crowd,
“Then I will.” Virbius picked up the knife and went forward.
A shout of horror and anger burst from Ralph, who strained at the strong cords which held him, while a despairing cry, “Save me, Ralph!” came from the girl stretched on the stone.
Virbius raised the knife, but his wrist was seized by Diana.
“You shall not, you shall not! Am I not Diana?” She turned to the people.
For a moment her beauty and the reverence of the name prevailed, but the same voice shouted out:
“How do we know? You were not born here. Virbius brought you. You are an impostor. To the altar with her!”
There was a movement at the end of the hall: men and women were thrust aside, and two priests rushed into the temple, shouting and waving their arms. “Way! — way!” They pushed themselves forward, the crowd making room for them to pass and closing behind them.
The diversion stayed the hand of Virbius.
The priests stood before the altar and panted out their news.
“The stranger has been slain by the King of the Woods. We saw him in his mighty grip. By now he is dead.”
A shout of joy went up from the mob. Diana reeled and leant on the shoulder of one of her maids. She put her hand inside the folds of her vestments and drew out a tiny box. No one saw the movement. She glanced at Doris in doubt, holding a tiny pill between finger and thumb. There was enough for two — it would be more merciful.
But the priests had not done. “The sacred grove is on fire. Even while you linger here, it is burning. See!”
They pointed through the bare pillars. If the people had not been so intent on the terrible scene within, they would have seen the red glare which nickered and trembled over the dark trees. Even as they looked, flame shot up above the wood.
A yell of fear swept over the multitude.
“The sacrifice! The virgin tribute!”
And then the curtains at the back parted, and a gruesome figure staggered in. He was covered in blood from head to foot, and naked but for a cloth round his waist. One arm was limp by his side, and in the other he held up the ghastly head. A bunch of the Golden Bough hung from his girdle.
Diana’s quick wit saw the chance.
“Behold the Priest-King who has slain the slayer. Bow down, ye people.”
Ronald could only lean against the stone, too utterly exhausted to speak. But his eye, glancing down at the demon faces below him, saw one there leaning cynically against a pillar, watching the scene — Dr. Smart.
Diana came to him. “Your arm is broken, my darling,” she whispered; and then eagerly: “Speak to them — you are their King now. Hold them somehow. It’s our only chance.”
On Carstairs’ face was a look of baffled fury and fierce hate. His reign was over while this man lived. He dashed forward, holding the knife of sacrifice.
Diana swiftly stepped between, shielding the man she loved from the deadly weapon.
The people swayed backwards and forwards — some shouted for the sacrifice, some that the new King should decide, and others that the grove was burning and the old gods had gone.
There was a deafening report; the temple was filled with smoke, and Virbius spun round, and fell.
In the doorway a band of Bulgarian brigands stood, grim and threatening, with smoking rifles, on which the terrible Bulgar bayonet — Na Noche — was fixed. Dead and dying men lay stretched on the floor, and the sobered mob gazed at the bloody pools which spread along the tessellated pavement round their feet. There was a panic rush through the open pillars.
“Clear the temple!” The sharp word of command resounded through the place.
Ronald sank to the ground in utter weariness. Diana gave one glance at him, then, plucking the knife which had fallen from her brother’s murderous hand, she hastily released Doris, and covered her with the mantle of a dead priest.
The poor girl had mercifully fainted. Diana cut the ropes which bound Ralph, who sprang to his sister’s aid, while Diana knelt beside Ronald, casting never a glance at her dead brother.
The brigands had made short work of the crowd. A few prods with the bayonet and the last of them had fled from the building.
Sinclair came forward, cool and unmoved.
“It seems that I was just in time. I’m glad I got Mr. Carstairs. It was a good shot.”
“You saved us,” said Ronald weakly.
“Hullo! What’s all this — a broken arm?” Sinclair would not listen to praise. “Come, that won’t do.”
“Dr. Smart is here somewhere — better send for him to set it,” Ronald spoke with gasps of pain.
“Yes, I think Dr. Smart is here,” Sinclair said grimly. “Fetch the prisoner here.”
Two Bulgarians advanced up the bloodstained empty temple, and between them they held Smart firmly by each arm.
They halted before the dais.
Sinclair faced the man, who would have collapsed but for the support of his guards. His eyes were sullenly cast on the ground.
“I accuse you of the murder of George Shepherd, father of Ronald. I accuse you of the murder of Reginald Shepherd, his uncle. I accuse you of attempting to bring my friends to a shameful death. I accuse you, lastly, of inciting these people to rebellion, and bringing about the deaths of Carstairs and these others.”
Diana gasped in horror.
“Yes,” Sinclair said sternly. “There is the man to whom you owe all your sufferings — a callous murderer — the worst type of all, the poisoner, who for sordid gain in cold blood struck down all in his way. He will receive a proper trial at the right time. Take him away.”
Smart never uttered a word — his face was a dull green — and he was dragged from the place.
A well-remembered figure approached the group on the platform. “You remember me — your friend Radko?” he said. “I have discharged the debt, Gospodin. Allow me — I am not unversed in setting bones.”
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