Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece Part 52

"Stand; advance a step, and I fire. Ha! I see you now. I did not recognise your voice, Hunston."

"I thought not; but why all this precaution?"

"Fear has induced us to change the countersign. We believe there is mischief abroad, and so extra precautions are needed."

"Right, Ymeniz," said Hunston, who had been out scouting for a few hours after the execution of Pike, "although it is to be feared that the blindness which prevents your recognition of a friend and comrade may mislead you as to the real character of an enemy, should one dare to penetrate thus far."

The sentry laughed.

"Fear nothing on that score, Hunston," he said.

"Indeed I do."

"My carefulness may turn even friends into enemies, but fear, or over carefulness--"

"It is much the same thing," suggested Hunston.

"Right; but it is not likely to make me take foes for friends."

"I doubt it."

"You have a cunning tongue, friend Hunston," said the sentry, who was just a little bit nettled, "but I don't believe that you could prove that to my satisfaction."

"I might do it to the one or the other," returned Hunston, caustically; "but certainly not to both, the two are so opposed."

This was just a dash too subtle for the sentry, and so Hunston pa.s.sed on without further remark.

A few steps further on he came to a group formed of the brigands, gathered around Pedro, a brigand who had been of some little a.s.sistance in the rescue of Hunston, but who unlike Tomaso, had managed to escape.

He was recounting the late adventures--from his own episode in the tale--of Hunston.

Hunston walked up to the centre of the group.

"Pedro," he said, "you rescued me, and perhaps saved my life; accept my hand, and with it my eternal grat.i.tude." Pedro stepped back. He winced instead of taking the proffered hand, and his countenance fell.

"Pardon me Hunston," he said; "I'm very glad to have been of service to you, to have been able to save a comrade, but--"

He paused.

Hunston frowned.

"But what?"

"Don't be too grateful."

The tone, no less than the nature of the request, sounded just a little bit comical, and it made the bystanders, Hunston included, smile.

"What do you mean by that, my preserver? Why should I not be grateful?"

"Because I have heard it said that your grat.i.tude brought bad luck to anyone who had really befriended you."

Hunston started.

He thought of Robert Emmerson.

That arm did its inventor's work well, indeed.

Not a day pa.s.sed but Hunston realised the truth of the legend inscribed on the mechanical arm.

Not a day pa.s.sed, but that he saw how fearfully was the legacy of vengeance bequeathed by the murdered Protean Bob being carried out.

Dropping his glance in some confusion for a moment, he turned sharply upon the brigand after a little reflection.

Pedro could know nothing of the death of Emmerson.

Nay, it was more than probable that the very name was utterly unknown to these men.

"You wish to insult me, Pedro," he said, "and so cancel the obligation I am under to you. But beware of going too far, for you may leave a balance upon the wrong side, and I am as quick to avenge an insult as to--"

Pedro interrupted him with a laugh.

"What did I say? I have only just rendered you a great service--at least, so you say--"

"And mean."

"And mean, perhaps; and yet you are already threatening me. When I said that your grat.i.tude is said to bring bad luck to anyone, I was only repeating an idle saying--as I thought--but it seems like the truth, after all."

Hunston was moving thoughtfully away, when the brigand's words stopped him.

"Forgive me, Pedro," he said, turning round; "I am a bad, ungrateful man, but I'm not utterly wanting in decent feeling. You touch me on a very sore spot."

So saying he walked on, leaving Pedro staring after him.

"That's a queer lot," muttered the brigand to himself, "a very queer lot. I think I would sooner have the murder of a priest on my conscience than be weighted with the deeds that he'll have to answer for."

Pedro was no fool.

His observations were pretty well to the point.

Hunston felt the pangs of remorse.

Daily, hourly, in fact, he looked back and thought of what he was, and what he might have been had not his vicious propensities got the upper hand of him at the critical turn in his career.

And so the demon remorse played havoc with him already.

The mechanical arm was responsible for all. Its mysterious disorganisation had been the direct cause of his forced inactivity.

What gives ugly thoughts such power over one as bodily inactivity?