But the pinnacle held, and in a few seconds I gained wit and courage. One step, then another, and then a third, taken warily, along the pipe, as I have seen rope-walkers take them at Heritzburg fair, and I was almost within reach of my goal. Two more, and, stooping, I could touch, with my right hand, the tiles of the little gable, while my left, raised above my head, still clutched the rope.
Then came an anxious moment. I had to pass under the rope, which was between me and the street, and between me and the window also — the window, my goal. I did it; but in my new position I found a new difficulty, and a grim one, confronting me. Standing outside the rope now, with my right hand clinging to it, I could not, with all my stretching, reach with my other hand any part of the window, or anything of which I could get a firm grip. The smooth tiles and crumbling mortar of the little gable gave no hold, while the rope, my grip on which I dared not for my life relax, prevented me stooping sufficiently to reach the sill or the window-case.
It was a horrible position. I stood still, sweating, trembling, and felt the wooden pipe bend and yield under me. Behind me, the depth, the street, yawned for me; before me, the black roof, shutting off the sky. My head reeled, my fingers closed on the ropes like claws; for a second I shut my eyes, and thought I was falling. In that moment I forgot Marie — I forgot everything, except the pavement below, the cruel stones, the depth; I would have given all, coward that I was, to be back in Herr Krapp’s room.
Then the fit passed, and I stood, thinking. To take my hand from the rope would be to fall — to die. But could I lower the rope so that, still holding it, I could reach the sill, or the hinges, or some part of the window-case that would furnish a grip? I could think of only one way, and that a dangerous one; but I had no choice, nor any time to lose, if I would keep my head. I drew out my knife, and, leaning forward on the rope, with one knee on the tiles, I began to sever the cord as far away to my right as I could reach. This was to cut off my retreat — my connection with the window I had left; but I dared not let myself think much of that or of anything. I hacked away in a frenzy, and in a twinkling the rope flew apart, and I slipped forward on the tiles, clutching the piece that remained to me in a grasp of iron.
So far, good! I was trembling all over, but I was safe, and I lost not a moment in passing the loose end twice round the fingers of my right hand. This done, only one thing remained to be done — only one thing: to lean over the abyss, trusting all my weight to the frail cord, and to grope for the sill. Only that! Well, I did it. My hair stood up straight as the pinnacle groaned and bent under my weight; my eyes must have been astare with terror; all my flesh crept. I clung to the face of the gable like a fly, but I did it! I reached the sill, clutched it, loosed the rope, and in a moment was lying on my breast, half in and half out of the window — safe!’
I do not know how long I hung there, recovering my breath and strength, but I suppose only a minute or two, though it seemed to me an hour. A while before I should have thought such a position, without foothold, above the dizzy street, perilous enough. Now it seemed to be safety. Nevertheless, as I grew cooler I began to think of getting in, of whom I should find there, of the issue of the attempt. And presently, lifting one leg over the sill, I stretched out a hand and drew aside a scanty curtain which hid the room from view. It was this curtain that, rising and falling with the draught, had led me to picture a figure moving to and fro.
There was no one to be seen, and for a moment I fancied that the room was empty. The light was on the other side, and my act disclosed nothing but a dusky corner under a sloping roof. The next instant, however, a harsh voice, which shook the rafters, cried, with an oath —
‘What is that?’
I let the curtain fall and, as softly as I could, scrambled over the sill. My courage came back in face of a danger more familiar; my hand grew steady. As I sat on the sill, I drew out a pistol; but I dared not cock it.
‘Speak, or I shoot!’ cried the same voice. ‘One, two! Was it the wind — Himmel — or one of those cats?’
I remained motionless. The speaker, whose voice I seemed to know, was clearly uncertain and a little sleepy. I hoped that he would not rouse the house and waste a shot on no better evidence; and I sat still in the smallest compass into which I could draw myself. I could see the light through the curtain, a makeshift thing of thin stuff, unbleached — and I tried to discern his figure, but in vain. At last I heard him sink back, grumbling uneasily.
I waited a few minutes, until his breathing became more regular, and then, with a cautious hand, I once more drew the curtain aside. As I had judged, the light stood on the floor, by the end of the pallet. On the pallet, his head uneasily pillowed on his arm, while the other hand almost touched the butt of a pistol which lay beside the candle, sprawled the man who had spoken — a swarthy, reckless-looking fellow, still in his boots and dressed. His attitude as he slept, alone in this quiet room, no less than the presence of the light and pistol, spoke of danger and suspicion. But I did not need the one sign or the other to warn me that my hopes and fears were alike realized. The man was Ludwig!
I dropped the curtain again, and sat thinking. I could not hope to overcome such a man without a struggle and noise that must alarm the house; and yet I must pass him, if I would do any good. My only course seemed to be to slip by him by stealth, open the door in the same manner, and gain the stairs. After that the house would be open to me, and it would go hard with any one who came between me and Marie. I did not doubt now that she was there.
I waited until his more regular breathing seemed to show that he slept, and then, after softly cocking my pistol, I set my feet to the floor, and began to cross it. Unluckily my nerves were still ajar with my roof-work. At the third step a board creaked under me; at the same moment I caught a glimpse of a huge, dark figure at my elbow, and though this was only my shadow, cast on the sloping roof by the candle, I sprang aside in a fright. The noise was enough to awaken the sleeper. As my eyes came back to him he opened his and saw me, and, raising himself, in a trice groped for his pistol. He could not on the instant find it, however, and I had time to cover him with mine.
‘Have done!’ I hissed. ‘Be still, or you are a dead man!’
‘Martin Schwartz!’ he cried, with a frightful oath.
‘Yes,’ I rejoined; ‘and mark me, if you raise a finger, I fire.’
He glared at me, and so we stood a moment. Then I said, ‘Push that pistol to me with your foot. Don’t put out your hand, or it will be the worse for you.’
He looked at me for a moment, his face distorted with rage, as if he were minded to disobey at all risks; then he drew up his foot sullenly and set it against the pistol. I stepped back a pace and for an instant took my eyes from his — intending to snatch up the firearm as soon as it was out of his reach. In that instant he dashed out the light with his foot; I heard him spring up — and we were in darkness.
The surprise was complete, and I did not fire; but I had the presence of mind, believing that he had secured his pistol, to change my position — almost as quickly as he changed his. However, he did not fire; and so there we were in the pitchy darkness of the room, both armed, and neither knowing where the other stood.
I felt every nerve in my body tingle; but with rage, not fear. I dared not change my position again, lest a creaking board should betray me, now all was silent; but I crouched low in the darkness with the pistol in one hand and my knife drawn in the other, and listened for his breathing. The same consideration — we were both heavy men — kept him motionless also; and I remember to this day, that as we waited, scarcely daring to breathe — and for my part each moment expecting the flash and roar of a shot — one of the city clocks struck slowly and solemnly ten.
The strokes ceased. In the room I could not hear a sound, and I felt nervously round me with my knife; but without avail. I crouched still lower, lower, with a beating heart. The curtain obscured the window, there was no moon, no light showed under the door. The darkness was so comp
lete that, but for a kind of fainter blackness that outlined the window, I could not have said in what part of the room I stood.
Suddenly a sharp loud ‘thud’ broke the silence. It seemed to come from a point so close to me that I almost fired on that side before I could control my fingers. The next moment I knew that it was well I had not. It was Ludwig’s knife flung at a venture — and now buried, as I guessed, an inch deep in the door — which had made the noise. Still, the action gave me a sort of inkling where he was, and, noiselessly facing round a trifle, I raised my pistol, and waited for some movement that might direct my aim.
I feared that he had a second knife; I hoped that in drawing it from its sheath he would make some noise. But all was still. Sharpen my ears as I might, I could hear nothing; strain my eyes as I might, I could see no shadow, no bulk in the darkness. A silence as of death prevailed. I could scarcely believe that he was still in the room. My courage, hot and fierce at first, began to wane under the trial. I felt the point of his knife already in my back; I winced and longed to be sheltered by the wall, yet dared not move to go to it. In another minute I think I should have fired at a sheer venture, rather than bear the strain longer; but at last a sound broke on my ear. The sound was not in the room, but in the house below. Some one was coming up the stairs.
The step reached a landing, and I heard it pause; a stumble, and it came on again up the next flight. Another pause, this time a longer one. Then it mounted again, and gradually a faint line of light shone under the door. I felt my breath come quickly. One glance at the door, which was near me on the right hand, and I peered away again, balancing the pistol in my hand. If Ludwig cried out or spoke, I would fire in the direction of the voice. Between two foes I was growing desperate.
Before I could recover myself a pair of strong arms closed round mine and bound them to my sides.
The step came on and stopped at the door; still Ludwig held his peace. The new-comer rapped; not loudly, or I think I should have started and betrayed myself — to such a point were my feelings wound up — but softly and timidly. I set my teeth together and grasped my knife. Ludwig on his part kept silence; the person outside, getting no answer, knocked again, and yet again, each time more loudly. Still no answer. Then I heard a hand touch the latch. It grated. A moment of suspense, and a flood of light burst in — close to me on my right hand — dazzling me. I looked round quickly, in fear; and there, in the doorway, holding a taper in her hand, I saw Marie — Marie Wort!
While I stood open-mouthed, gazing, she saw me, the light falling on me. Her lips opened, her breast heaved, I think she must have seen my danger; but if so the shriek she uttered came too late to save me. I heard it, but even as I heard it a sudden blow in the back hurled me gasping to my knees at her feet. Before I could recover myself a pair of strong arms closed round mine and bound them to my sides. Breathless and taken at advantage I made a struggle to rise; but I heaved and strained without avail. In a moment my hands were tied, and I lay helpless and a prisoner.
After that I was conscious only of a tumult round me; of a woman shrieking, of loud trampling, and lights and faces, among these Tzerclas’ dark countenance, with a look of fiendish pleasure on it. Even these things I only noted dully. In the middle of all I was wool-gathering. I suppose I was taken downstairs, but I remember nothing of it; and in effect I took little note of anything until, my breath coming back to me, I found myself being borne through a doorway — on the ground floor, I think — into a lighted room. A man held me by either arm, and there were three other men in the room.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN THE HOUSE BY ST. AUSTIN’S.
Two of these men sat facing one another at a great table covered with papers. As I entered they turned their faces to me, and on the instant one sprang to his feet with an exclamation of rage that made the roof ring.
‘General!’ he cried passionately, ‘what — what devil’s trick is this? Why have you brought that man here?’
‘Why?’ Tzerclas answered easily, insolently. ‘Does he know you?’ He had come in just before us. He smiled; the man’s excitement seemed to amuse him.
‘By —— , he does!’ the other exclaimed through his teeth. ‘Are you mad?’
‘I think not,’ the general answered, still smiling. ‘You will understand in a minute. But his business can wait. First’ — he took up a paper and scanned it carefully— ‘let us complete this list of — —’
‘No!’ the stranger replied impetuously. And he dashed the paper back on the table and looked from one to another like a wild beast in a trap. He was a tall, very thin, hawk-nosed man, whom I had seen once at my lady’s — the commander of a Saxon regiment in the city’s service, with the name of a reckless soldier. ‘No!’ he repeated, scowling, until his brows nearly met his moustachios. ‘Not another gun, not another measurement will I give, until I know where I stand! And whether you are the man I think you, general, or the blackest double-dyed liar that ever did Satan’s work!’
The general laughed grimly — the laugh that always chilled my blood. ‘Gently, gently,’ he said. ‘If you must know, I have brought him into this room, in the first place, because it is convenient, and in the second, because — —’
‘Well?’ Neumann snarled, with an ugly gleam in his eyes.
‘Because dead men tell no tales,’ Tzerclas continued quietly. ‘And our friend here is a dead man. Now, do you see? I answer for it, you run no risk.’
‘Himmel!’ the other exclaimed; in a different tone, however. ‘But in that case, why bring him here at all? Why not despatch him upstairs?’
‘Because he knows one or two things which I wish to know,’ the general answered, looking at me curiously. ‘And he is going to make us as wise as himself. He has been drilling in the south-east bastion by the orchard, you see, and knows what guns are mounted there.’
‘Cannot you get them from the fool in the other room?’ Neumann grunted.
‘He will tell nothing.’
‘Then why do you have him hanging about here day after day, risking everything? The man is mad.’
‘Because, my dear colonel, I have a use for him too,’ Tzerclas replied. Then he turned to me. ‘Listen, knave,’ he said harshly. ‘Do you understand what I have been saying?’
I did, and I was desperate. I remembered what I had done to him, how we had outwitted, tricked, and bound him; and now that I was in his power I knew what I had to expect; that nothing I could say would avail me. I looked him in the face. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You had the laugh on your side the last time we met,’ he smiled. ‘Now it is my turn.’
‘So it seems,’ I answered stolidly.
I think it annoyed him to see me so little moved. But he hid the feeling. ‘What guns are in the orchard bastion?’ he asked.
I laughed. ‘You should have asked me that,’ I said, ‘before you told me what you were going to do with me. The dead tell no tales, general.’
‘You fool!’ he replied. ‘Do you think that death is the worst you have to fear? Look round you! Do you see these windows? They are boarded up. Do you see the door? It is guarded. The house? The walls are thick, and we have gags. Answer me, then, and quickly, or I will find the way to make you. What guns are in the orchard bastion?’
He took up a paper with the last word and looked at me over it, waiting for my answer. For a moment not a sound broke the silence of the room. The other men stood all at gaze, watching me, Neumann with a scowl on his face. The lights in the room burned high, but the frowning masks of boards that hid the windows, the litter of papers on the table, the grimy floor, the cloaks and arms cast down on it in a medley — all these marks of haste and secrecy gave a strange and lowering look to the chamber, despite its brightness. My heart beat wildly like a bird in a man’s hand. I feared horribly. But I hid my fear; and suddenly I had a thought.
‘You have forgotten one thing,’ I said.
They started. It was not the answer they expected.
‘What?
’ Tzerclas asked curtly, in a tone that boded ill for me — if worse were possible.
‘To ask how I came into the house.’
The general looked death at Ludwig. ‘What is this, knave?’ he thundered. ‘You told me that he came in by the window?’
‘He did, general,’ Ludwig answered, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Yes, from the next house,’ I said coolly. ‘Where my friends are now waiting for me.’
‘Which house?’ Tzerclas demanded.
‘Herr Krapp’s.’
I was completely in their hands. But they knew, and I knew, that their lives were scarcely more secure than mine; that, given a word, a sign, a traitor among them — and they were all traitors, more or less — all their boarded windows and locked doors would avail them not ten minutes against the frenzied mob. That thought blanched more than one cheek while I spoke; made more than one listen fearfully and cast eyes at the door; so that I wondered no longer, seeing their grisly faces, why the room, in spite of its brightness, had that strange and sombre look. Treachery, fear, suspicion, all lurked under the lights.
Tzerclas alone was unmoved; perhaps because he had something less to fear than the faithless Neumann. ‘Herr Krapp’s?’ he said scornfully. ‘Is that all? I will answer for that house myself. I have a man watching it, and if danger threatens from that direction, we shall know it in good time. He marks all who go in or out.’
‘You can trust him?’ Neumann muttered, wiping his brow.
‘I am trusting him,’ the general answered dryly. ‘And I am not often deceived. This man and the puling girl upstairs tricked me once; but they will not do so again. Now, sirrah!’ and he turned to me afresh, a cruel gleam in his eyes. ‘That bird will not fly. To business. Will you tell me how many guns are in the orchard bastion?’
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 156