Part 12 (1/2)

”And thou dost call thyself a gentleman!” exclaimed Elinor looking at him with scorn, her fear in a measure giving place to indignation at the insolent and shameless words. ”Let me depart, I say--nay, I command thee.”

”Ha! ha! Thou, I think, art carrying thyself loftily. 'Command!'” he repeated with a laugh. ”Nay, marry! Here thou wilt stay until them thinkest thy going worth the price. And while thou dost meditate upon it I will drink to thy health.” He staggered toward the table and refilled the cup.

Elinor glanced about the room seeking some possible avenue of escape.

Her eyes rested upon the portieres in front of the window; she moved toward them, but as her dress rustled Winter turned at the sound.

”Aye, walk the room, my pretty one; thou wilt find thy cage well barred. But enough of this,” he continued, approaching her, ”we do but delay. Thou didst ask thy father's release from his compact. Well, he shall be set free, but thou must recompense--not in coin, not in some heavy muttered penance, but by thy beauty.” He caught the girl in his arms and whispered in her ear. Then the indignities which had been heaped upon her gave strength to her arm. No sooner had his drunken tongue uttered the sentence than she smote with all her might the face gazing into hers. The blow for a moment staggered the man and he released his hold; in that instant of freedom Elinor sprang toward the window, das.h.i.+ng the curtains aside.

”Stand back!” she cried, as he made a step toward her, his face purple with rage, ”and for thy wicked words ask forgiveness from heaven ere it blast thee. Where is thy religion, where thy manhood, thou beast?

Aye, beast is too good a term for such as thee, for they respect the s.e.x--even the stag will not goad the doe. I fear thee not; move from where thou art and by the G.o.d who heard thy wicked words I'll cry thy infamy and treason in a voice which shall 'rouse all London, and wake the sleepy headsman to grind the axe. Now, I fear thee not!”

For a moment Winter paused, looking at the girl. Then his quick wit, no longer dulled by the wine which had blinded him to the consequences of the words he had uttered, came to his aid, and he replied:

”What? And lay thy father's head, as well as mine, upon the block?”

The curtain dropped from the girl's hand; she staggered, catching it for support; then quickly recovered herself and with determination flas.h.i.+ng from her eyes exclaimed: ”Nay, then, I will not cry thy treason; my tongue is mute. But stir one foot and I leap from off the balcony, gladly embracing the cold stones beneath, rather than suffer a touch from thy guilty hands.”

”Come! Come!” said Winter, baffled by her words and spirit; ”I'll not harm thee. I was but heated by the wine. Thou mayst depart in peace.”

”I put no faith in thy words,” said Elinor, still standing by the cas.e.m.e.nt, ”for thou hast taught me how far one who calls himself a man may be trusted. Go thou and unbar the door,” pointing imperiously with her hand; ”then take thyself to the further end of the chamber and there stand.”

Winter hesitated, but even his dulled faculties recognized the superiority of the girl's position, and he sullenly complied with her request. Not until he had retired to the extreme end of the room did Elinor leave her place. Then, she quickly fled into the corridor.

Winter remained for a moment where he was and, mad with drunken rage when the closing of the outer door announced the escape of his victim, exclaimed: ”Aye, thou hast outwitted me for a moment; but thy victory is not for long. I shall hold the laurel and also thee before daybreak.” Then, staggering into the hall, he shouted: ”Richard!

Richard!”

A man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ”Come! Stir thy scurvy legs; didst see the woman who this moment left me? Follow, and when at a place thou deemest fit, throw this heavy mantle about her, and bring her to me. She will struggle, I trow; but thou knowest the remedy.

Tarry not; go swiftly, or she will escape.”

At last Elinor was in the street, and, dazed for a moment by her sudden release from the peril in which she had just stood, with a terrified look over her shoulder--half fearing to see a staggering figure in pursuit, she fled in the direction of her home. But what form is this which glides from out the gate, and catching sight of the girl hurries in the direction she has taken? Like some evil phantom it moves, noiselessly and swiftly, ever keeping well in the shadows.

CHAPTER XII.

WHAT THE MOON SAW.

But what of Fawkes? Did any gloomy thoughts disturb his rest? Did the shadow of the axe or gibbet fall athwart his dreams? If not, why turns he so uneasily in his slumber and at last awakes?

”Sleep sets ill upon me,” he mutters, drawing a hand across his brow.

In a moment he arose, hastily dressed himself, walked toward the window, opened it and gazed upon the night. Does some subtle bond of sympathy exist between him and the girl who is now in peril of death--or worse? It would seem so, for standing beside the cas.e.m.e.nt, he exclaims:

”Am I a sickly child, or puny infant, that I awake, frightened by silly visions which war with sleep, and murder it ere 'tis fairly born? Troth!” he continued, with knitted brows, ”'twas strange my fancy painted such a picture.”

He stood for a moment wrapped in thought, then added, shaking his head as though unable to thrust aside the memories which troubled him:

”By the blessed Virgin! a most vivid dream. How she held her arms out to me, yet her lips were mute. Aye, and the eyes--the dumb horror written in them, as if beholding a specter which blanched the face and fettered the limbs. I believe,” he added with a sudden resolution, ”'tis a woman's trick, but I would fain see her face ere I rest again.”

He stepped out into the corridor, proceeded in the direction of his daughter's room, and softly entering, advanced toward the bed.

”Not here!” exclaimed he, beholding the empty couch. ”Nay, thou canst not frighten me,” he continued with a forced laugh, gazing about.