He was right. When at last they reached the narrow passage through which they were to glide into broad, open waters, they saw an endless field of black and white, a stormy sea.
Pulling in behind a small island where the wind could not reach them and the water was at rest, they dropped anchor and at once the gypsy band were engaged in a merry and quite innocent revel of wild music.
Jeanne did not join them. Had one asked her why, she perhaps could not have told. She thought of Florence and Greta, wondered if they were at the wreck or on land, wondered, too, how the wreck would stand the storm. She thought of friends in Chicago and her castle in France where her great-aunt saw to it that she lived up to her position as a great young lady.
“Life,” she whispered, “is strange. We long for the past. And when we find it again, we are not sure that we want it. Life, it seems, goes on and on, but never truly backward. We must go on and on with it to the end. And then—
“Oh, but life is truly wonderful!” she cried, springing to her feet and doing a wild fling across the deck. “Who would not love to live on and on and on forever!
“And perhaps—” her voice dropped as if in a prayer. “Perhaps we shall.”
Jeanne’s soul was like a day of clouds and sunshine, a change with every tick of the clock.
Next instant she had caught sight of a tall, narrow tower rising above a low building.
“The abandoned lighthouse!” she cried. “That is where our good friend the fisher boy, Swen, lives. He told me he had his home with his father and mother in that tower. What an odd home it must be! No corners in the rooms at all. Oh, I must see it and our good friend Swen!”
Next instant she sprang into a boat bumping at the side of the schooner, untied the rope, seized the oars and rowed away alone. Even as she did this there came over her again that sense of impending danger.
* * * *
Greenstone Ridge, like the backbone of a very lean horse, runs the entire length of Isle Royale. The crest of that ridge may be reached only by climbing a very steep slope. This climb is broken by narrow plateaus. When Florence and Greta had reached the first plateau they turned their backs upon that end of the island that was known to them and headed straight on into the great unknown.
They came at once upon a well-trodden moose trail. Hundreds of moose wander from end to end of this strange island. This trail made travel easy. Moss soft as carpet, bits of soft wood beaten into pulp, with here and there a stretch of black earth or gray rock, offered pleasant footing for their patiently plodding feet.
“We’ll stop at noon,” Florence said. “Have a cold lunch and a good rest. We’ll travel some more after that. When we’re tired we’ll find a big flat rock, build a fire, make hot chocolate, fry bacon, have a real feast. Then the tent and blankets. We’ll be living where no one has lived, explorers. Won’t it be grand?”
Greta had thought it might be. She did not feel quite sure. Pictures of her own safe bed, of a table spread with snowy linen and shining silver, floated before her eyes. “If mother could see me now!” she whispered.
“But, oh, it is good to breathe—just breathe!” Throwing back her shoulders, she drank in a breath of air that was like water, clear and cold from a deep well.
On this long tramp Florence led the way. Never a person who would waste breath with idle talk on such an occasion, she plodded along in silence. For all that, her active brain was busy. She was thinking through a very special and private interview she had had with Swen the fisher boy only three days before.
“So you are going way back up yonder?” He had waved a sun-browned arm toward the distant ridge.
“Yes.” Florence had caught her breath. “Yes, we are going up there. Won’t it be gr-a-a-nd! They say no one goes up there—that perhaps no one has ever been up there. It must be lonely, silent, beautiful!”
“It’s all of that.” The fisherman’s blue eyes were frank and kind. “But I thought I’d ought to tell you, just in case you don’t know, there’s someone waiting for you up there.”
“No.” The girl spoke quickly. “No, there is no one at all. We are going by ourselves, just Greta and I. We sent no one ahead.”
“I believe you,” Swen replied. “All the same, there’s someone up there. I’ll tell you how I know.”
As if to collect his thoughts, he had paused, looking away at Greenstone Ridge. Florence recalled that now.
It was worth looking at, that ridge. In truth, every little corner of this large island was worth looking at.
Just then the setting sun had transformed the far-away green of spruce and balsam into a crown of green and gold.
“I’ll tell you why I know there’s someone up there,” Swen went on presently. “I’ve got a little store down by the end of the harbor. Four times that store has been entered. Things have been taken. Not stolen; just taken and the money left to pay for them. The first three times it was food they took. The last time it was a grinding stone for polishing greenstone. Cost me five dollars. The five was there. Can you beat that?”
“But your store is on the other side of the island,” Florence had protested. “That’s another place entirely. We’re not going there.”
“It’s all the same ridge,” Swen explained, patiently. “When you come to the tip-top of the ridge and if you go far enough toward the center of the island—not so far, either—you can look down on Duncan’s Bay on your side and upon our harbor on the other.
“And up there somewhere,” he added with conviction, “there’s someone. I know it! He took things from our store.”
Florence had thought of Greta’s phantom. Could it be that there truly was someone living on this ridge? And would they discover that person?
“He pays for things he takes. He is honest,” she argued to herself. “He loves music. No true musician could be unkind or brutal.”
“But, after all,” she had insisted, turning her face to Swen, “after all, there is no one. A boat came along at night. The people in the boat took the things from your store.”
“Came in a boat, that’s what I thought at first.” The light of mystery shone in the fisherman’s eye. “But the last time, that time he took the grinding wheel and left the five dollars in gold, there was a storm on old Superior, a terrible nor-easter. No one could have lived in that sea. And there wasn’t so much as a rowboat in the harbor.
“And that person don’t live on the shore, either,” he went on after a moment. “Know every boat of the shore, I do. Naturally, then, they’re up there on Greenstone Ridge somewhere, someone is, that’s certain.”
“How—how long ago?” The words had stuck in Florence’s throat.
“First time was all of a year ago. Last time, early this spring.”
“Then—then perhaps he’s gone. This is August, you know.”
“Maybe, miss. Somehow I don’t think so.”
“Why would anyone stay a whole year in such a place? Think what it would mean!” Her eyes had opened wide. “No companions! No food except what you have taken up. All alone!”
“You’re assuming there’s only one. I don’t know. There might be more. Articles have been found missing from cottages closed for the winter, food and clothing. Always paid for, though. One fisherman, who was very poor, found the price of three pairs of boots left for one pair; well-worn ones they were, too.
“But why do they stay up there?” he went on. “It’s your question. Perhaps you will find the answer.”
“Wh—why haven’t you been up there to see?” Florence asked.
“Me? See here, miss, I’m a fisherman—belong to the water. No land lubberin’ for mine! And besides, I’ve a father and mother to look after. I got my money for the things he took, didn’t I? Then what call do I have looking into places like that?”
Once again the girl had looked away to the place where the ridge must be. It was gone, swallowed up in the night. Not a light had shone up there. Not a campfire gleamed.
“There is no one up there,”
she had whispered to herself as she stood alone on the deck of the wrecked ship, straining her eyes for even a very small gleam against the sky. “There can’t be. They’d have a lamp of some sort, even if it were only a pine knot torch.”
Then of a sudden she had thought of the curious green light Greta had seen at a distance on that very ridge.
“What could have caused that light?” she had asked herself.
She asked it all over again as she trudged away over the moose trail.
“Of course,” she thought, “there’s the head hunter. But he’s out. Such men don’t climb ridges unless they’re obliged to—too lazy for that! And they don’t make divine music nor light green lamps at night.
“I suppose,” she whispered to herself after a time, “suppose I should have told Greta what Swen said, but—”
Well, she just hadn’t wanted to, that was all. Perhaps she had been selfish, she had wanted this trip so much. She had wanted company too. And too much talk about the secrets of Greenstone Ridge might have frightened Greta out altogether.
“Do you know why they call this Greenstone Ridge?” she said aloud to Greta.
“No. Why?”
“Because there is a kind of quartz embedded in some of the rocks. They call these greenstones. They are about the seventh most valuable stone in the world.”
“Shall we find some?” Greta’s tone was eager.
“We’ll hope so.” Florence shifted her pack. “They make grand settings for rings, things like that. You chip them from the rocks with a chisel or hatchet.”
“Green stones,” Greta whispered to herself. “Green stone and a green light on this very ridge. Of course, there’s no connection; but then, it’s sort of strange.”
CHAPTER XV
A LEAP IN THE DARK
Jeanne’s row from the Ship of Joy to the small dock before the ancient lighthouse was a short one. Her boat tied up, she hurried along the dock, then over the winding path leading up the gentle slope.
Darkness was falling. Even now, from the schooner’s cabin she caught a yellow gleam of light. She cast a hurried glance toward the tall stone tower.
“They live up there somewhere,” she murmured. “But there’s no light.”
She quickened her step. “Soon be dark.”
Hesitating before a door, she took a grip on herself, then seized the doorknob and gave it a quick turn. The door flew open. Silence, the faint smell of smoked fish and half darkness greeted her. She was at the foot of a winding stairway. She sprang forward and up. At the top of that stairway was a second door. It stood ajar. She rapped on it. No answer. A louder rap. Still no answer.
“Just make sure.” She pushed the door open. “Yes,” she told herself, “someone lives here, some old people who love comfort, chairs and soft, home-made cushions and all that. Dear old people they must be. And there, there’s a rag doll! Must be children, too. Swen never spoke of them. Perhaps—”
She was beginning to think she had come to the wrong lighthouse when a sound from the stairs caused her to start violently.
“Who—who’s there?” Her voice shook ever so slightly.
There came no answer. Instinctively the girl sprang toward the center of this tower room.
Perhaps this movement saved her. As she whirled about she saw to her horror that there, standing in the doorway, was the head hunter. She had not seen him before, but from Florence’s description she knew she could not be mistaken. There was the same short, stout body, the dark, evil face, the blood-shot eyes. That he recognized her as Florence’s friend she could not doubt. There was a look of savage glee in his eyes. His yellow teeth showed like fangs.
For a space of seconds the little French girl stood paralyzed with fear. Then as her eyes circled the room they caught sight of a second door. She sprang toward this.
The door swung open and banged shut. Like a flash she was away up a second flight of stairs.
“This leads to the top of the tower,” she told herself. “And when I’m out there?”
A bat, frightened from the beams, flashed by her, another, and still another. She hated and feared bats. But a greater terror lay behind. There came the sound of heavy steps.
Darkness lay before her. “A trap door.” Her frightened mind recorded these words. “What if it is locked?”
It was not locked. She was through it. It slammed behind her. There was no lock on that side. What was to be done?
Two heavy stones on the ledge beside her seemed loose. They were loose. Pushing more than lifting, she banged one down upon the door, then the other. She caught the sound of muttered curses as the second stone banged down.
Safe for the moment, she considered her next move. That the man would, in time, be able to wreck that door she did not doubt. “Sure to be an axe down there,” she told herself.
Wildly her eyes searched the circular platform. In an obscure spot she saw a coil of rope.
“Stout,” she told herself, “but too short. Never reach the ground.” Dizzily she surveyed the scene below. Beneath her for the most part were rocks. Between these were narrow patches of grass. “Nice place to land!” she grumbled.
To the right and some twenty feet from the tower was a huge fir tree. In her distress she fancied that its branches reached out to her, offering aid.
“If only I could!” she murmured.
Seizing the rope, she tied one end to a beam, then leaning far out, watched the other end drop as it unfolded coil by coil. This came to an end at last. “Still thirty feet,” she thought with fresh panic. “Be killed sure.”
Standing quite still, she listened. There came no sound. “Gone down. May not come back.” She uttered a low prayer.
She was thinking now, wondering how this man had come here, all the way across the ridge from Duncan’s Bay. “Probably someone was after him. Should be,” she told herself. “Came here to escape. He—”
Breaking in upon her thoughts came a terrific crash. A blow had been aimed at the trap door.
“Got an axe. Door won’t last.” She was half way over the ledge. Ten seconds later, bracing her feet against the wall, she was going down the rope hand over hand.
The end? She reached that soon enough. Still thirty feet above the earth, she clung there motionless.
Then of a sudden, taking a strong grip on the rope, she began working her way back, round the tower. When she had gone as far as she dared, she gave a quick, strong push and set herself swinging wide.
With a sort of pumping motion, aided by an occasional kick at the wall, she was able to get herself into a wide swing. Then of a sudden, with a quick intake of breath, she let go.
She fell, as she had hoped to do, squarely into the arms of the friendly fir tree. She caught at its branches, swayed forward, held her grip, shifted her feet, then sank to a deep, dark corner where, for the moment, she might rest and gain control of her wildly beating heart.
Ten seconds later there came a low swish. That was the falling rope. The head hunter had cut it. At thought of what might have happened, the girl all but lost her balance.
A moment later, after a hasty scramble, she reached earth and went swiftly away.
With hands scratched, dress torn and heart beating wildly, she reached the dock, raced along on tip-toe, dragged the tie rope free, dropped into her boat, then rowed rapidly and silently away.
Arrived at the side of the Ship of Joy, she drew her boat into its protective shadows to sit there watching, listening, waiting motionless.
From the shore there came a sound. It was strange. She could not interpret it. In time it died away.
“Perhaps I should tell Bihari all about it,” she thought soberly. Still she did not move. She respected and loved the gallant gypsy chief; but most of all she feared his terrible anger.
“This,” she thought with a shudder, “is no time for battle and bloodshed.” Her eyes were fixed upon the dark masses of Greenstone Ridge. The moon in all its golden glory had just risen over that ridge.
> On that ridge at this moment, had she but known it, sat two silent watchers, Florence and Greta. Had they been possessed of a powerful searchlight and an equally powerful telescope, they might have looked down from their lofty throne upon the little French girl seated there in the boat.
As Jeanne sat there a curious sound struck her ear. “Like someone swimming,” she told herself. “Surely that terrible man would not think of attempting that! He knows Bihari’s power.”
She sat motionless, listening, ready to spring up and flee, while the sound grew louder. Then of a sudden she gave vent to a low laugh.
“The bear!” she exclaimed in a whisper.
“The bear.” Her tone was suddenly sober. “He has been on shore. What has he seen? What has he done?
“Well!” She rose as, without seeing her, the bear tumbled clumsily over the schooner’s rail. “Whatever he knows, he never will tell. That’s where a bear makes one fine friend.”
CHAPTER XVI
GRETA’S SECRET
That night the dark-eyed Greta found herself in the midst of a nature lover’s paradise. Yet she was not at that moment thinking of any paradise. She was listening with all her ears, listening to the sounds of the night, waiting, too, for some other sound that she hoped might come.
“Will it play tonight,” she whispered to herself, “the phantom violin?”
That her ear might catch the faintest sound, she was sitting up in bed. And such a sweet-scented bed as it was! Blankets spread over nature’s thick mattress of dry moss and balsam tips.
“Why can’t I forget and fall asleep,” she asked herself.
Once again she leaned forward to listen. “How sweet!” she murmured as she caught the night call of some small bird, a single long-drawn note. “Just a call in the night.”
And then, muscles tense, ears strained, she sat erect.
“There it is again!”
No bird this time, no single note, but many notes. Yet it was all so indistinct.
“The phantom violin!” Her lips trembled. “Like the singing of angels!” she told herself.
“There, now it has faded away.” Regret was registered in her tone.
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