The Web of the Golden Spider Part 42

"Yes," shouted Wilson.

The din seemed to be approaching in an ever-narrowing circle. It came from all sides--a noise so deafening, so full of unusual sounds that it was in itself terrifying. Again came the blast, followed by another and another. Manning caught sight of the image upon the ground. It acted like magic. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. But the girl, regardless of danger, ran to his side.

"Don't," she cried in a panic. "What is the matter, father?"

He looked down at her with eyes which scarcely reflected any recognition.

"Don't go, father. Don't you know me? Don't you know your daughter?

See, I am Jo--Jo! Do you understand?"

Even in the midst of this other danger--the noise and imminent peril, the two men heard and turned away their heads at the sight with throats straining with emotion. Manning looked back with hardly a gleam of his true self showing in his eyes. And yet there was something left which made him pause--which in one flash brought him back for a second. He stooped and kissed her. Then he raised himself and facing the two men pointed towards the woods behind them.

"Go," he commanded.

Another blast and he clutched the idol to his breast. He raised his eyes to the East and the three stood dumbfounded--from his throat there issued a cry so wild, so weird, that it checked their breathing.

Instantly following there was silence from the shadows. One, two, three, four seconds pa.s.sed--still that silence which was nerve-racking in its intensity. Then a cry rang out from among the trees so piercing that the girl put her arm up over her eyes as though to ward off a blow. A hundred forms appeared from the trees. Stubbs and Wilson raised their rifles. But with a sweeping motion back with his hand, the Priest bade the two men pause. He disappeared into the shadows where he was greeted with a sort of paean of joy. Then silence. Then a few sharp-spoken words. Then silence again.

Wilson, scarcely believing this was not some evil dream, gripped Stubbs' arm.

"Come," he gasped. "Let's get out. This--this is h.e.l.l."

He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.

"Get a grip on yourself, Jo--just for a little. We must go--at once."

"But Daddy--Daddy----"

Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.

"It is better--as it is."

Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.

Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,--on--on--on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.

For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope for one bit of good luck more--that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl's father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.

But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.

The girl, to be sure, sobbed at first a good deal in the dark but the two men knew nothing of this. Soon, after the first acute pain of the personal loss, she was able to reason a little with herself. It seemed to her then, remembering how much a child he was when with her and how strong and powerful he looked as he stepped into the woods, that perhaps, after all, he would be happier with his many children than with her. Then always there was the opportunity of coming back to him,--coming under better auspices and with better opportunities for really bringing him to his own. It was this last thought that finally brought her real consolation.

"Perhaps," she said to Wilson, hesitating a trifle in fear that he might not approve of the suggestion, "perhaps some day we can come back here to him, David."

"I had thought of it, dear. He saved our lives; if he had remained, not one of us would have got out of here. That in itself is enough to make us everlastingly beholden to him. But--" he paused, "I think, dear heart, that it is kinder to let him remain even among heathen people a strong man with power, than to bring him back, a child, to die."

"He chose for himself, David."

"Yes--and was able to realize and be glad that he had been given another chance to do for his daughter."

The girl thought a moment. Then her face brightened.

"That--that alone makes the trip worth while."

"That--and this," he answered, drawing her to his side.

"Yes," she whispered, "and in a way he gave me you--he gave me you."

CHAPTER XXVIII

_A Dash for Port_

The Queen of Carlina, after a restless night, rose one fair morning early in October and dressed herself long before the appearance of her maids. There had been much to disturb her sleep, rumor upon rumor and arrest after arrest during the last few days, and last night a long conference with her advisers. Before she retired she had turned wearily to Otaballo, who remained a few minutes after the others departed.

"My General," she said, "I'm tired of it all. Let them do as they will."

"Not so long as there is a loyal man to carry a gun," he answered stubbornly.

"You are old, General; it is time you had peace."

"I am as young as my queen."

"She is very old to-night," she answered, with a weary smile. "I fear I am not a real queen,--just a woman. And women grow old quickly--without love."

The General bit his moustache. He had long seen that it was more this than the plotting of the Revolutionists which was undermining his power. He did not know how to answer.

"You have the love of your people."

"Not even that. The sentiment of love for their queen is dead. That is the root of the whole matter. There is but one thing, then, for me to do: to retire gracefully--to antic.i.p.ate their wishes--to listen to their cry and declare a republic. Then you and I will go back to the cottage together and drink our tea in peace."

"You are wrong. That is not the wish of the people; it is the wish only of a few hundred blackguards led on by those devils brought here from over the sea."

"You mean d.i.c.k's men?"

"The devil's men. If you give me authority, I'll have every mother's son of them shot before morning."

She shook her head.

"Not even to please my bloodthirsty general. They have played us false but--still they are countrymen of his."

"You insult him. They belong to no country."

"Why," she asked thoughtfully, "why should I expect them to fight for me? Perhaps they think I played d.i.c.ky false. They have reason--he is not here where he won his right to be."

"Then for the love of G.o.d, bring him here," he answered, forgetting himself. She started at that.