Part 39 (2/2)
Still, with many a glance back, to make sure of being able to retrace his steps at will, he moved on. Some irresistible influence seemed to be drawing him on, and with every step a consciousness came upon him of that. Moreover, it seemed that he was no longer alone. Could it be that he was being followed--watched--that the freedom with which he had been allowed to come hence was no freedom at all, but that spying eyes had been upon him all the time, that stealthy steps had dogged his own?
And yet, looking back, there was no sign of anything living, let alone anything human, and, stranger still, the sense of a haunting presence was in front rather than behind--a presence drawing him on.
A wave of recoil swept over his being, and he would have returned; yet, strong-minded and of a robust faith as he was, such return under such circ.u.mstances, it seemed to Wagram, would be nothing less than a concession to the promptings of a vague superst.i.tion wholly contrary to his nature and his creed. He had been ill, he reminded himself, and his vitality lowered, otherwise no such foolish imaginings could have held his mind for one single instant. To be scared of a place because it was silent, and in broad daylight, or at any other time for that matter-- why, the thing was too absurd. He resumed his way.
And yet it was not altogether broad daylight either, for now with every few yards the overhanging trees became thicker and thicker, and all beneath lay shrouded in a semi-gloom that was anything but the broad light of day. An overpowering scent of strange tropical plants filled the air--fragrant, yet not altogether, for it seemed charged with a sense of earthiness and decay; and ever above, around, the same deadness of silence, the same weightiness of oppression, as though he were more and more getting outside the world.
He had gone far enough; it was time to turn back. Instinctively he sought his watch, then remembered that it had stopped during his long immersion. Curiously enough, the savages had refrained from robbing him of it, although a glittering bauble should have been far more likely to appeal to their cupidity than a mere collection of apparently useless and utterly unattractive bits of paper. He was about to turn back, accordingly, when something in front attracted and held his gaze.
Two straight rocks about twice his own height stood close together, forming, as it were, a gate--a door, rather--for spanning the aperture thus formed was a beam, and from it dangled a row of human skulls.
Facing outward they faced him, and seemed to take on a forced and painful grin, as though still wearing the expression of an agonised death. Motionless they hung--some touching each other, some apart, looking ghastly enough in the drear silence of the forest. Wagram glanced at them with some disgust but no great awe. This, he decided, was the entrance to some shrine of devil-wors.h.i.+p, and he would have turned away, rather contemptuous than impressed, but a motive, not altogether one of curiosity, moved him to enter that grim portal.
Once within he gazed around with an increased curiosity. He was in an oval s.p.a.ce barely a hundred yards in length. The centre was open, and const.i.tuted an amphitheatre, the sides sloping steeply upward, and grown with thick bush. Above this he could see a rough but strong stockade, and surrounding it, disposed at intervals, were more human skulls. He crossed the open s.p.a.ce to the farther end of the enclosure cautiously, but there was nothing in the shape of an altar of sacrifice or any implement of death or destruction. At the farther end was a large flat stone, flush with the ground. That might be worth examining.
And now curiosity began to awaken vividly within him. This place was obviously a temple--a court, rather--used for the heathenish and idolatrous rites of this tribe--whatever it might be. He bent over the stone. It was rudely hewn into something of an oblong, and was covered with a dark and greasy coating which might have been dried blood. Yes; it looked like that, and he straightened himself up again, nauseated by the idea.
And then something like a deep, soft sigh fell upon his ears. It came from right in front, and seemed within scarce a yard of him. He looked up, startled, then resisted an impulse to turn and flee. Before him the bush, thick and green, was as an impenetrable wall. Could the sound have proceeded thence? He started again. In the dim recesses formed by the interlacing fronds two eyes were staring at him--two large beady eyes--not s.h.i.+ning, but dull and black, and yet more full, more penetrating, than if they had glared.
Every instinct of self-preservation moved him to fall back. The same instinct moved him to keep his own eyes fixed upon that dull, penetrating, fiend-like stare as he did so. What on earth was the thing? he asked himself. A reptile? No; for the eyes were larger than those of the largest serpent known to zoology. Human? No; not that either. He was conscious of a ghastly chilling of the blood within him as he met that horrible stare fixed upon him within the mysterious darkness of the bush screen. He was conscious of something more--that his first instinct of retreat had left him, and was now succeeded by an impulse that compelled him forward, that constrained him to look closer into those awful eyes; and then that same soft, heavy sigh was repeated.
He moved a step forward. One foot was on the flat stone. In a moment the other would have followed it--drawn, impelled by an irresistible force--when a strange humming noise behind him--low, but growing louder and louder--made him pause. Someone was approaching, and that by the way he had come. A quick instinct warned him that it would not be well to be found here prying into what was doubtless some sacred if ghastly temple of mystery held in awe by a race of devil-wors.h.i.+ppers. The spell was broken. Withdrawing his one foot from the stone he looked back, then quickly took cover within the thick bush that lined the slopes of the amphitheatre.
His conjecture proved correct. Hardly was he in hiding than a man appeared, entering through the same opening which had admitted himself-- a tall, black man, yet not altogether wearing the same appearance as those among whom his own lot seemed cast. The new arrival scarce glanced from left to right, and, still humming his strange, weird croon, advanced straight to the stone even as he himself had done. Then he halted.
In his place of concealment Wagram was no more than a dozen yards from the new-comer, whose every movement and every expression he could distinguish. The man was unarmed, and nearly naked--a fine, well-built, stalwart savage. He seemed to be gazing before him in expectation mingled with disappointment. Then to the hidden watcher's ears came again that soft, weird sigh.
He in the open heard it too, for a change came over his face and bearing. Uttering a deep-breathed ”Ah!” he straightened himself up, then bent forward, and seemed gazing upon exactly the place where those dreadful eyes had appeared. Then his behaviour was strange. Once more he rose erect, and withdrew his foot from the stone, and pa.s.sed one black hand over his own eyes, as though to shut out those others. Then he moved unsteadily to right and to left, and half turned away--but no.
It seemed that some compelling force was upon him too, precluding retreat. Back he would come to the centre again and peer forward, then break away as before. This was repeated several times; then, all at once, he stood motionless. His foot was again raised and placed on the stone, his gaze again bent in eager fascination upon that which lay beyond--then the other foot followed. One step forward--then two--and then--
Something darted forward with lightning-like glance from the bush screen--something long and steel-like and gleaming. It transfixed the dazed savage as he stood, then withdrew almost before the heavy thud of his body sounded on the hard stone surface. There it lay, the limbs twitching in muscular spasms. A final shudder and all was still, except the drip, drip of the life-blood falling upon the surface of the stone.
The spectator's own blood froze within him as he looked. The sight was ghastly and horrifying enough in any case, but looked at in the light of his own circ.u.mstances it was doubly so; added to which he now knew the fate from which he himself had escaped. As he took his way out of this h.e.l.l-pit of horror and cruelty, taking care to keep well within the shelter of the bushes until he should gain the gruesome door by which he had entered, he was wondering what hideous rite of devil-wors.h.i.+p he had just witnessed, and recalled with a shudder the weird fascination that had well-nigh compelled him to stand in the other's place.
”The dark places of the earth are full of cruelty,” he recalled as he hurried through the sombre gloom of the silent forest--a hundred times more sombre now--and the air itself seemed weighed down with a scent of blood. In very truth he was in one of ”the dark places of the earth.”
How, and when, would he find deliverance therefrom?
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
THE OPEN DOOR.
Those who have fallen among barbarians have seldom been without the experience of their detainers desiring to hold some kind of converse with them, however hostile the burden of such might be. Wagram, however, was absolutely without this experience, for these people were not only totally unable to communicate with him by word of mouth but showed absolutely no inclination to do so.
He had tried to communicate with them by signs, but found that he might as well have been signalling to the surrounding trees. They stared at him but made no sort of response. His physical wants were mechanically attended to, and that was all. They eyed him with stony indifference, not as another human being out of whom they might or might not extract material advantage, but simply as an ox being fattened for the shambles.
This, however, fortunately, he did not know.
The night following upon the horrible event he had witnessed in the forest was one of the most fearful experiences he had ever known.
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