Part 42 (1/2)

He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night--a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey.

It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.

In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.

The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river.

It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements.

”What the devil can that mean?” muttered Calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. ”d.a.m.n the man, he's dismounted!” continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse.

”And coming this way--towards the bend of the river--straight as he can streak it!

”Down the bluff--into the bottom--and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. Surely to G.o.d he don't intend making his way across into the garden? He'd have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old Scratch can be his intention? A thief?”

This was Calhoun's first idea--rejected almost as soon as conceived. It is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on horseback. Much more might the thief?

For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.

What else could he be after?

The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man's errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.

What could it be?

Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.

”What can the man be after?”

After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time--each with increasing emphasis--the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.

”The stroke of an oar,” muttered he, on hearing it. ”Is, by the holy Jehovah! He's got hold of the skiff, and's crossing over to the garden.

What on earth can he be after?”

The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs--rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.

He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.

This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a cas.e.m.e.nt window; while it came from below--almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.

On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them--what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.

The cas.e.m.e.nt that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.

Loosely attired in white, as though in the neglige of a _robe de chambre_, with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!

Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the cas.e.m.e.nt with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.

And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?