Part 37 (1/2)

”Heard it!” echoed Vincent, wildly. ”Yes! I heard it. Go on! What then?”

”I don't know--I know nothing in this infernal nightmare that's got hold of us all!” cried Lance. ”I only know that if we don't get to the gaol before they do--they've gone to set the prisoners free--there will be the devil of a row. So you must come at once, Vincent--you must come at once!”

Captain Dering gave an irresolute look at the dying girl. She had saved his life--he loved her--could he leave her? Was anything worth that sacrifice?

”You _must_ go!” said a stern voice. It was Father Ninian's, who had taken Vincent's place and was now holding Laila in his arms. ”You must go, Captain Dering, and prevent worse from befalling; if you can--if you can!” There was almost a triumph in his voice.

Lance looked from one to the other in sheer despair. ”Well! if you won't come, I'm off--oh! come along, Vincent, and don't be a fool!

It--it isn't worth it; it never is!”

Vincent Dering stood still irresolute. ”You'll stay, sir,” he said, ”and--and look after--”

Father Ninian drew the unconscious girl closer to him. ”I will look after--_Margherita_.”

The last word came in a half whisper to himself and his eyes met Vincent's with a curious dazed defiance. The latter gave the defiance back, as their owner stooped for a second over Laila's indifferent face, and kissed it.

”Good-by, _Juliet_,” he said; and the last word came also in a half whisper to himself.

The next moment he was following Lance down the dim pa.s.sage, full of a vague relief, and realizing for the first time that the mist, which for the last half hour had dimmed the reality of all things, was due, not to any aberration of his brain, but to the simple fact that an electrical dust-storm was in full blast.

He realized it with relief. That was at least real, tangible.

Almost too much so; and as the hot wind, charged with those aspiring atoms of earth, met him fiercely, he realized also that the storm would fight against him in his efforts to prevent worse from happening. If, indeed, anything could be worse than what had happened; worse than Laila's--

He broke off in his thought, incredulous. It could not be true. He would come back to find her better--well!--

But that other dream was true. His men had risen. The one thing necessary, therefore, was to get to the gaol before any decided action took place; and this he realised still more clearly from Lance's curt explanation as they ran down the river steps. Once there, the sight of the canoe he had left suggested the feasibility of getting to the gaol in it. His personal influence might avail. If that failed, he would at least be able to save time by choosing a suitable place for the raft to come ash.o.r.e. The great thing was to be on the spot, to be within reach of action at once; to wait for the raft meant needless delay.

So, a minute after, the faint splash of his paddle was lost in the rising hum of the storm, and Lance was left looking anxiously for sound or sight of the raft, which, if all had gone well, should by now have started.

But neither came, so, seeing from the light he had s.n.a.t.c.hed up as he pa.s.sed through the balcony that the air was growing darker, more impenetrable than ever, he shoved off his strange craft, to wait further out in the stream where there was less chance of the raft pa.s.sing him unseen, unheard.

For this reason also, he paddled up along the wall a bit into the faint glow of light which showed still from the arches of the chapel. And as he lay in it, his ears and eyes strained for the least sound, he could hear as a kind of background to that m.u.f.fled drumming of the storm, the sound of the pilgrims chanting as they waited for the dawn. The dawn which would bring--what? Who could tell?

The sound of other prayers, echoing from the chapel, made him shake his head, feeling that it was hopeless to look forward--or backward for that matter! Why had Roshan shot the girl--if he had! And why had Pidar Narayan called her Margherita, and Vincent called her Juliet?

The whole thing was exactly as he had said--an infernal nightmare!

Then a faint sound in front of him made his strong arms sweep the paddle through the stream as he shot into the darkness in search of the raft; in search of Erda.

Not that she needed him, really. The memory of her in that red-and-gold mess jacket above her wedding dress, giving orders to the men squarely, came back to make him smile.

G.o.d bless her! She could do well enough without him. That was one comfort. And Dillon could hold his own too, without much help, for a time--that was another; for what with this and that, help was bound to be over-long in coming.

CHAPTER XXII

A MONOPOLY

Lance Carlyon was right in trusting Dr. Dillon's power of doing without help until Providence chose to send some. This was the easier task, in that he had made up his mind deliberately beforehand as to what his best course of action would be should an alarm of this sort occur.