Sec. 2.
It had gone. Nothing remained but to clear up the mess and begin afreshwith more wisdom and sounder policy. It was over, and, among otherthings now possible, Colonel John Robin Ross-Ellison might ask the womanhe loved whether she could some day become his wife. He had saved herlife, watched over her, served her with mind and body, lived for her.And she had smiled upon him, looked at him as a woman looks at the manshe more than likes, had given him the encouragement of her smiles, hertrust, affectionate greeting on return from danger, prayers that hewould be "careful" when he went forth to danger.
He believed that she loved him, and would, after a decent interval, evenperhaps a year hence, marry him.
And then he would abandon the old life and ways, become wholly Englishand settle down to make her life a happy walk through an enchantedvalley. He would take her to England and there, far from all sights,sounds and smells of the East, far from everything wild, turbulent,violent, crush out all the Pathan instincts so terribly aroused anddeveloped during the late glorious time of War. He would take himselfcruelly in hand. He would neither hunt nor shoot. He would eat no meat,drink no alcohol, nor seek excitement. He would school himself until hewas a quiet, domesticated English country-gentleman--respectable andrespected, fit husband for a delicately-bred English gentlewoman. And ifever his hand itched for the knife-hilt, his finger for the trigger,his cheek for the rifle-butt, his nostrils for the smell of thecooking-fires, his soul for the wild mountain passes, the mad gallop,the stealthy stalk--he would live on cold water until the Old Adam weredrowned.
He _would_ be worthy of her--and she should never dream what blood wason his hands, what sights he had looked on, what deeds he had done, whatpart he had played in wild undertakings in wild places. English would hebe to the back-bone, to the finger tips, to the marrow; a quiet, clean,straight-dealing Englishman of normal tastes, habits, and life.
Strange if, with all his love of fighting, he could not fight (andconquer) himself. Yes--his last great fight should be with himself....He would call, to-day, at the bungalow to which Mrs. Dearman, prior tostarting for Home, had removed as soon as the carefully-guardedCantonment area was pronounced absolutely safe as a place of residencefor the refugees who had been besieged in the old Military Prison.
She would be sufficiently "straight" in her bungalow, by this time, topermit of a formal mid-day call being a reasonable and normal affair....
"Good-morning, Preserver of Gungapur," said Mrs. Dearman brightly; "havethe Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order materializedyet--or don't they give them to Volunteers? What a shame if they don't!"
"I want something far more valuable and desirable than those, Mrs.Dearman," said Colonel Ross-Ellison as he took the extended hand of hishostess, who was a picture of coolness and health.
"Oh?--and--what is that?" she asked, seating herself on a big setteewith her back to the light.
"You," was the direct and uncompromising reply of the man who had beenleading a remarkably direct and uncompromising life for several years.
Mrs. Dearman trembled, flushed and paled.
"What _do_ you mean?" she managed to say, with a fine affectation ofcoolness, unconcern, and indifference.
"I mean what I say," was the answer. "I want _you_. I cannot livewithout you. I want to take care of you. I want to devote my life tomaking you happy. I want to make you forget this terrible experience andtragedy. You are lonely and I worship you. I want you to marry me--whenyou can--later--and let me serve you for the rest of my life. Make methe happiest and proudest man in the world and I will strive to be thenoblest."
He was very English then--in his fine passion. He took her hand and itwas not withdrawn. He bent to look in her eyes, she smiled, and in asecond was in his embrace, strained to his breast, her lips crushed byhis.
For a minute he could not speak.
"I cannot believe it," he whispered at length. "Is this a dream?"
"You are a very concrete dream--dear," said Mrs. Dearman, re-arrangingcrushed and disarranged flowers at her breast, blushing and laughingshyly.
The man was filled with awe, reverence and a deep longing forworthiness.
The woman felt happy in the sense of safety, of power, of pride in thelove of so fine a being.
"And how long have you loved me?" she murmured.
"Loved you, Cleopatra? Dearest--I have loved you from the moment my eyesfirst fell on you.... Poor salt-encrusted, weary, bloodshot eyes theywere too," he added, smiling, reminiscent.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Dearman, puzzled.
"Ah--I have a secret to tell you--a confession that will open thosebeautiful eyes wide with surprise. I first saw you when you _were_Cleopatra Brighte."
"Good gracious!" ejaculated Mrs. Dearman in great surprise. "When_ever_when?"
"I'll tell you," said the man, smiling fondly. "You have my photograph.You took it yourself--on board the 'Malaya'."
"I?" said Mrs. Dearman. "What _are_ you talking about?"
"About you, dearest, and the time when I first saw you--and fell in lovewith you;--love at first sight, indeed."
"But I never photographed you on board ship. I never saw you on a ship.I met you first here in Gungapur."
"Do you remember the 'Malaya' stopping to pick up a shipwrecked sailor,a castaway, in a little dug-out canoe, somewhere in the Indian Ocean,when you were first coming out to India? But of course you do--you havethe snap-shot in your collection...."
"Why--yes--I remember, of course--but that was a horrid, beastly_native_. The creature could only speak Hindustani. He was the solesurvivor of the crew of some dhow or bunder-boat, they said.... He livedand worked with the Lascars till we got to Bombay. Yes...."
"I was that native," said Colonel Ross-Ellison.
"_You_," whispered Mrs. Dearman. "_You_," and scanned his face intently.
"Yes. I. I _am_ half a native. My father was a Pathan. He----"
"_What_?" asked the woman hoarsely, drawing away. "_What_? _What_ areyou saying?"
"I am half Pathan--my father was a Pathan and my mother an Australiansquatter's daughter."
"_Go_," shrieked Mrs. Dearman, springing to her feet. "_Go_. You wretch!You mean, base liar! To cheat me so! To pretend you were a gentleman.Leave my house! Go! You horrible--_mongrel_--you----. To take me in yourarms! To make love to me! To kiss me! Ugh! I could die for shame! Icould _die_----"
The face of the man grew terrible to see. There was no trace of the Westin it, no sign of English ancestry, the face of a mad, blood-mad Afghan.
"_We will both die_," he gasped, and took her by the throat.
* * * * *
A few minutes later a Pathan in the dirty dress of his race fled fromColonel Ross-Ellison's bungalow in Cantonments and took the road to thecity.
Threading his way through its tortuous lanes, alleys, slums and bazaarshe reached a low door in the high wall that surrounded an almostwindowless house, knocked in a particular manner, parleyed, and wasadmitted.
The moment he was inside, the custodian of the door slammed, locked andbolted it, and then raised an outcry.
"Come," he shouted in Pushtoo. "The Spy! The Feringhi! ThePushtoo-knowing English dog, that Abdulali Habbibullah," and he drew hisKhyber knife and circled round Ross-Ellison.
A clatter of heavy boots, the opening of wooden "windows" that lookedinward on to the high-walled courtyard, and in a minute a throng ofPathans and other Mussulmans entered the compound from the house--someobviously aroused from heavy slumber.
"It is he," cried one, a squat, broad-shouldered fellow, as they stoodat gaze, and long knives flashed.
"Oho, Spy! Aha, Dog! For what hast thou come?" asked one burly fellow ashe advanced warily upon the intruder, who backed slowly to the angle ofthe high walls.
"To die, Hidayetullah. To die, Nazir Ali Khan. To die slaying! Come on!"was the reply, and in one moment the speaker's Khyber knife flashed fromhis loose sleeve into the throat of the nearest foe.
>
As he withdrew it, the door-keeper slashed at his abdomen, missed by ahair's-breadth, raised his arm to save his neck from a slash, and wasstabbed to the heart, the knife held dagger-wise. Another Pathan rushingforward, with uplifted knife held as a sword, was met by a sudden lowfencing-lunge and fell with a hideous wound, and then, whirling hisweapon like a claymore in an invisibly rapid Maltese cross of flashingsteel, the man who had been Ross-Ellison drove his enemies before him,whirled about, and established himself in the opposite corner, and spatpungent Border taunts at the infuriated crowd.
"Come on, you village curs, you landless cripples, you wifeless sons ofburnt fathers! Come on! Strike for the credit of your noseless mothers!Run not from me as your wives ran from you--to better men! Come on, yousweepers, you swine-herds, you down-country street-scrapers!" and theycame on to heart's content, steel clashed on steel and thudded on fleshand bone.
"Get a rifle," cried one, lying bleeding on the ground, striving to risewhile he held his right shoulder to his neck with his partly severedleft hand. As he fainted the shoulder gaped horribly.
"Get a cannon," mocked Ross-Ellison. "Get a cannon, dogs, against oneman," and again, whirling the great jade-handled knife, long as a shortsword, he rushed forward and the little mob gave ground before theirresistible claymore-whirl, the unbreakable Maltese cross described bythe razor-edge and needle-point.
"It is a devil," groaned a man, as his knife and his hand fell togetherto the ground, and he clapped his turban on the stump as a boy claps hishat upon some small creature that he would capture.
The madman whirled about in the third corner and, as he ceased the wildwhirl, ducked low and lunged, lessening the number of his enemies byone. This lunge was a new thing to men who could only slash and stab, anew thing and a terrible, for it could not be parried save by seizingthe blade and losing half a hand.
"Come on, you growing maidens! Come on, grandmothers! Come on, youcleaners of pig-skins, you washers of dogs! Come on!" and as heshouted, the door crashed down and a patrol of British soldiers,attracted by the noise, and delayed by the stout door, burst into thecourtyard.
"At the henemy in front, fixed sights," shouted the corporal in charge.And added an order not to be found in the drill-book: "Blow 'em to 'ellif they budges."
In the hush of surprise his voice arose, addressing the fighters:"_Bus_[70] you bleedin' soors,[71]" said Corporal Cook. "_Bus_; and you_dekho_[72] 'ere. If any of you _jaos_[73] from where 'e is, I'll_pukkaro_[74] 'im and give 'im a punch in the _dekho_."
[70] Enough, stop. [71] Swine. [72] Look. [73] Jao = go (imperative). [74] Seize (imperative).
And, as bayonets rose breast-high and fingers curled lovingly roundtriggers, every knife but that of Ross-Ellison disappeared as by magic,and the Corporal beheld a little crowd of innocent men endeavouring tosecure a dangerous lunatic at the risk of their lives--terrible risk, asthe bodies of five dead and dying men might testify.
"I give myself up to you as a murderer, Corporal," said he who had beenColonel John Robin Ross-Ellison. "I am a murderer. If you will take mebefore your officer I will confess and give details."
"I'm agoin' to take you bloomin' well all," replied the surprisedCorporal. "Chuck down that there beastly carvin' knife. You seem a too'andy cove wiv' it."
At the Corporal's order of, "Prod 'em all up agin that wall and shootany bloke as moves 'and or 'oof," the party of panting, bleeding andperspiring ruffians was lined up, relieved of its weapons, and dulymarched to the guard-room.
Here, one of the gang (later identified as the man who had been knownas John Robin Ross-Ellison, and who insisted that he was a Baluchi)declared that he had just murdered Mrs. Dearman in her drawing-room andmade a full statement--a statement found to be only too true, itsdetails corroborated by a trembling _hamal_ who had peeped and listened,as all Indian servants peep and listen.
* * * * *
Duly tried, all members of the gang received terms of imprisonment(largely a prophylactic measure), save the extraordinaryEnglish-speaking Baluchi, who had long imposed, it was said, uponGungapur Society in the days before that Society had disappeared in thecataclysm.
A few days before the date fixed for the execution of this veryremarkable desperado, Captain Michael Malet-Marsac, Adjutant of theGungapur Volunteer Corps, received two letters dated from Gungapur Jail,one covering the other. The covering letter ran:--
"MY DEAR MALET-MARSAC,
"I forward the enclosed. Should you desire to attend the execution youcould accompany the new City Magistrate, Wellson, who will doubtless beagreeable.
"Yours sincerely,
"A. RANALD, Major I.M.S."
The accompaniment was from John Robin Ross-Ellison Mir Ilderim DostMahommed Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan.
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,
"For the credit of the British I am pretending to be a Baluchi. I am nota Baluchi and I hope to die like a Briton--at any rate like a man. Ihave been held responsible for what I did when I was not responsible,and shall be killed in cold blood by sane people, for what I did in hotblood when quite as mad as any madman who ever lived. I don'tcomplain--I _ex_plain. I want you to understand, if you can, that it wasnot your friend John Ross-Ellison who did that awful deed. It was aPathan named Ilderim Dost Mahommed. And yet it was I." ["Poor chap ismad!" murmured the bewildered and horrified reader who had lived in akind of nightmare since the woman he loved had been murdered by the manhe loved. "The strain of the war has been too much for him. He must havehad sunstroke too." He read on, with misty sight.]
"And it is I who will pay the penalty of Ilderim Dost Mahommed's deed.As I say, I do not complain, and if the Law did not kill me I wouldcertainly kill myself--to get rid of Ilderim Dost Mahommed.
"I have thought of doing so and cheating the scaffold, but have decidedthat Ilderim will get his deserts better if I hang, and I may perhapsget rid of him, thus, for ever.
"Will you come? I would not ask it of any living soul but you, and I askit because your presence would show me that you blindly believe that itwas not John Robin Ross-Ellison who killed poor Mrs. Dearman, and thatwould enable me to die quite happy. Your presence would also be a greathelp to me. It would help me to feel that, whatever I have lived, I diea Briton--that if I could not live without Ilderim Dost Mahommed I candie without him. But this must seem lunatic wanderings to you.
"I apologize for writing to you and I hesitated long. At length I said,'I will tell him the truth--that the deed was not done by Ross-Ellisonand perhaps he will understand, and come'. Mike--_John RobinRoss-Ellison did not murder Mrs. Dearman_.
"Your distracted and broken-hearted ex-friend,
"J.R. ROSS-ELLISON."
"He _was_ 'queer' at times," said Captain Michael Malet-Marsac. "Therewas a kink somewhere. The bravest, coolest, keenest chap I ever met, thefinest fighting-man, the truest comrade and friend,--and from time totime something queer peeped out, and one was puzzled.... Madness in thefamily, I suppose.... Poor devil, poor, poor devil!" and CaptainMalet-Marsac stamped about and swore, for his eyes tingled and his chinquivered.
Sec. 3.
Captain Michael Malet-Marsac alighted from his horse at the great gateof the Gungapur Jail, loosed girths, slid stirrup irons up the leathersto the saddle, and handed his reins to the orderly who had ridden behindhim.
"Walk the horses up and down," said he, for both were sweating and themorning was very cold. Perhaps it was the cold that made Captain MichaelMalet-Marsac's strong face so white, made his teeth chatter and hishands shake. Perhaps it was the cold that made him feel so sick, andthat weakened the tendons of his knees so that he could scarcelystand--and would fain have thrown himself upon the ground.
With a curious coughing sound, as though he swallowed and cleared histhroat at the same moment, he commenced to address another order orremark to the mounted sepoy, choked, and turned his back upon him.
Striding to the gate, he struck upon it loudly with his hunting-crop,and turning, waved the w
aiting orderly away.
Not for a king's ransom could he have spoken at that moment. He realizedthat something which was rising in his throat must be crushed back andswallowed before speech would be possible. If he tried to speak beforethat was done--he would shame his manhood, he would do that which wasunthinkable in a man and a soldier. What would happen if the little ironwicket in the great iron door in the greater wooden gates opened beforehe had swallowed the lump in his throat, had crushed down the risingtumult of emotion, and a European official, perhaps Major Ranaldhimself, spoke to him? He must either refuse to answer, and show himselftoo overcome for speech--or he must--good God forbid it--burst intotears. He suffered horribly. His skin tingled and he burnt hotly fromhead to foot.
And then--he swallowed, his will triumphed--and he was again asoutwardly self-possessed and nonchalant as he strove to appear.
He might tremble, his face might be blanched and drawn, he might feelphysically sick and almost too weak and giddy to stand, but he hadswallowed, he had triumphed over the rising flood that had threatenedto engulf him, and he was, outwardly, himself again. He could go throughwith it now, and though his face might be ghastly, his lips white, hishand uncertain, his gait considered and careful, he would he able tochat lightly, to meet Ross-Ellison's jest with jest--for thatRoss-Ellison would die jesting he knew....
Why did not the door open? Had his knock gone unheard? Should he knockagain, louder? And then his eye fell upon the great iron bell-pull andchain, and he stepped towards it. Of course--one entered a place likethis on the sonorous clanging of a deep-throated bell that roused theechoes of the whole vast congeries of buildings encircled by the hideoustwelve-foot wall, unbroken save by the great gatehouse before which hestood insignificant. As his shaking hand touched the bell-pull hesuddenly remembered, and withdrew it. He was to meet the City Magistrateoutside the jail and enter with him. He could gain admittance in noother way.
He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes to seven. Wellson should bethere in a minute--he had said, "At the jail-entrance at 6.45". God sendhim soon or the new-found self-control might weaken and a rising tidecreep up and up until it submerged his will-power again.
With an effort he swallowed, and turning, strode up and down on a rapid,mechanical sentry-go.
A guard of police-sepoys emerged from a neighbouring guard-room and"fell in" under the word of command of an Inspector. They were armedwith Martini-Henry rifles and triangular-bladed bayonets, very long.Their faces looked cruel, the stones of the gate-house and main-guardlooked cruel, the beautiful misty morning looked cruel.
Would that damned magistrate never come? Didn't he know thatMalet-Marsac was fighting for his manhood and terribly afraid? Didn't heknow that unless he came quickly Malet-Marsac would either leap on hishorse and ride it till it fell, or else lose control inside the jail andeither burst into tears, faint, or--going mad--put up a fight for hisfriend there in the jail itself, snatch weapons, get back to back withhim and die fighting then and there--or, later, on the same scaffold?His friend--by whose side he had fought, starved, suffered,triumphed--his poor two-natured friend....
Could not one of these cursed clever physicians, alienists,psychologists, hypnotists--whatever they were--have cut the strangesavagery and ferocity out of the splendid John Robin Ross-Ellison?...
A buffalo passed, driven by a barely human lout. The lout was free--thebrainless, soulless bovine lout was free in God's beautiful world--andRoss-Ellison, soldier and gentleman, lay in a stone cell, and in quarterof an hour would dangle by the neck in a pit below a platform--perhapssuffering unthinkable agonies--who could tell?... His old friend andcommandant--
Would Wellson never come? What kept the fellow? It was disgracefulconduct on the part of a public servant in such circumstances. Thinkwhat an eternity of mental suffering each minute must now be toRoss-Ellison! What was he doing? What were they doing to him? _Could_the agony of Ross-Ellison be greater than that of Malet-Marsac? It mustbe a thousand times greater. How could that tireless activity, thatrestless initiative, that cool courage, that unfathomable ingenuity bequenched in a second? How could such a wild free nature exist in a cell,submit to pinioning, be quietly led like a sheep to the slaughter? Hewho so loved the mountain, the wild desert, the ocean, the freewandering life of adventure and exploration.
Would Wellson never come? It must be terribly late. Could they havehanged Ross-Ellison already? Could he have gone to his death thinkinghis friend had failed him; had passed by, like the Levite, on the otherside; had turned up a sanctimonious nose at the letter of the Murderer;had behaved as some "friends" do behave in time of trouble?
Could he have died thinking this? If so, he must now know the truth, ifthe Parsons were right, those unconvincing very-human Parsons of likepassions, and pretence of unlike passions. Could his friend be dead, hisfriend whom he had so loved and admired? And yet he was a murderer--andhe had murdered ... _her_....
Captain Michael Malet-Marsac leant against a tree and was violentlysick.
Curse the weak frail body that was failing him in his hour of need! Ithad never failed him in battle nor in athletic struggle. Why should itweaken now. He _would_ see his friend, and bear himself as a man, tohelp him in his dreadful hour.
Would that scoundrel never come? He was the one who should be hanged.
A clatter of hoofs behind, and Malet-Marsac turned to see the CityMagistrate trot across the road from the open country. He drew out hiswatch accusingly and as a torrent of reproach rose to his white parchedlips, he saw that the time was--exactly quarter to seven.
"'Morning, Marsac," said the City Magistrate as he swung down from thesaddle. "You're looking precious blue about the gills."
"'Morning, Wellson," replied the other shortly.
To the City Magistrate a hanging was no more than a hair-cut, a neitherpleasing nor displeasing interlude, hindering the doing of morestrenuous duties; a nuisance, cutting into his early-morningreport--writing and other judicial work. He handed his reins to anobsequious sepoy, eased his jodhpores at the knee, and rang the bell.
The grille-cover slid back, a dusky face appeared behind the bars andscrutinized the visitors, the grille was closed again and the tiny dooropened. Malet-Marsac stepped in over the foot-high base of the door-wayand found himself in a kind of big gloomy strong-room in which werenative warders and a jailer with a bunch of huge keys. On either side ofthe room was an office. Following Wellson to a large desk, on whichreposed a huge book, he wrote his name, address, and business,controlling his shaking hand by a powerful effort of will.
This done, and the entrance-door being again locked, bolted, and barred,the jailer led the way to another pair of huge gates opposite the pairthrough which they had entered, and opened a similar small door therein.Through this Malet-Marsac stepped and found himself, light-dazzled, inthe vast enclosure of Gungapur Jail, a small town of horribly-similarlow buildings, painfully regular streets, soul-stunning uniformity, andliving death.
"'Morning, Malet-Marsac," said Major Ranald of the Indian MedicalService, Superintendent of the jail. "You look a bit blue about thegills, what?"
"'Morning, Ranald," replied Malet-Marsac, "I _am_ a little cold."
Was he really speaking? Was that voice his? He supposed so.
Could he pretend to gaze round with an air of intelligent interest? Hewould try.
A line of convicts, clad in a kind of striped sacking, stood with theirbacks to a wall while a native warder strode up and down in front ofthem, watching another convict placing brushes and implements beforethem. Suddenly the warder spoke to the end man, an elderly stalwartfellow, obviously from the North. The reply was evidentlyunsatisfactory, perhaps insolent, for the warder suddenly seized thegrey beard of the convict, tugged his head violently from side to side,shook him, and then smote him hard on either cheek. The elderly convictgave no sign of having felt either the pain or the indignity, but gazedstraight over the warder's head. Of what was he thinking? Of what mightbe the fate of that warder were he sud
denly transported to the wilds ofKathiawar, to lie at the mercy of his late victim and the famous band ofoutlaws whom he had once led to fame--a fame as wide as Ind?
There was something fine about the old villain, once a real Robin Hood,something mean about the little tyrant.
Had Ranald seen the incident? No, he stood with his back to a buttresslooking in the opposite direction. Did he always stand with a wallbehind him in this terrible place? How could he live in it? A minute ofit made one sick if one were cursed with imagination. Oh, the horror ofthe prison system--especially for brave men, men with a code of honourof their own--possibly sometimes a higher code than that of the averageBritish politician, not to mention the be-knighted cosmopolitanfinancier, friend of princes and honoured of kings.
Could not men be segregated in a place of peace and beauty and improved,instead of being segregated in a dull hell and crushed? What a home ofsoulless, hopeless horror!... And his friend was here.... Could hecontain himself?... He must say something.
"Do you always keep your back to a wall when standing still, in here?"he asked of Major Ranald.
"I do," was the reply, "and I walk with a trustworthy man close behindme." "Would you like to go round, sometime?" he added.
"No, thank you," said Malet-Marsac. "I would like to get as far away aspossible and stay there."
Major Ranald laughed.
"Wouldn't like to visit the mortuary and see a post-mortem?"
"No, thank you."
"What about the Holy One?" put in the City Magistrate. "Did you'autopsy' him? A pleasure to hang a chap like him."
"Yes, the brute. I'll show you his neck vertebrae presently if you like.Kept 'em as a curiosity. An absolute break of the bone itself. Peopletalk about pain, strangulation, suffocation and all that. Nothing ofthe sort. Literally breaks the neck. Not mere separation of thevertebrae you know. I'll show you the vertebra itself--clean broken...."
Captain Malet-Marsac swayed on his feet. What should he do? A blue mistfloated before his eyes and a sound of rushing waters filled his ears.Was he fainting? He must _not_ faint, and fail his friend. And then, theroar of the waters was pierced and dominated by the voice of that friendsaying--
"Hul_lo_! old bird. Awf'ly good of you to turn out, such a beastly coldmorning."
John Robin Ross-Ellison had come round an adjacent corner, a Europeanwarder on either side of him and another behind him, all three, to theircredit, as white as their white uniforms and helmets. On his head was acurious bag-like cap.
Ross-Ellison appeared perfectly cheerful, absolutely natural, andwithout the slightest outward and visible sign of any form ofperturbation.
"'Morning, Ranald," he continued. "Sorry to be the cause of turning youout in the cold. Gad! _isn't_ it parky. Hope you aren't going to keep mestanding. If I might be allowed I'd quote unto you the words which apretty American girl once used when I asked if I might kiss her--'_Waderight in, Bub!_'"
"'Fraid I can't 'wade in' till seven o'clock--er--Ross-Ellison,"answered the horribly embarrassed Major Ranald. "It won't be long."
"Right O, I was only thinking of your convenience. _I'm_ all right,"said the remarkable criminal, about to suffer by the Mosaic law at thehands of Christians, to receive Old Testament mercy from the disciplesof the New, to be done-by as he had done.
An Indian clerk, salaaming, joined the group, and prepared to read froman official-looking document.
"Read," said Major Ranald, and the clerk in a high sing-song voice,regardless of punctuation, read out the charge, conviction anddeath-warrant of the man formerly calling himself John RobinRoss-Ellison, and now professing and confessing himself to be a Baluchi.Having finished, the clerk smiled as one well pleased with a duty wellperformed, salaamed and clacked away in his heelless slippers.
"It is my duty to inquire whether you have anything to say or any lastrequest to make," said Major Ranald to the prisoner.
"Well, I've only to say that I'm sorry to cause all this fuss, y'know--and, well, yes, I _would_ like a smoke," replied the condemnedman, and added hastily: "Don't think I want to delay things for a momentthough--but if there is time...."
"It is four minutes to seven," said Major Ranald, "and tobacco andmatches are not supposed to be found in a Government Jail."
Ross-Ellison winked at the Major and glanced at a bulge on the rightside of the breast of the Major's coat.
At this moment the warder standing behind the condemned man seized bothhis wrists, drew them behind him and fastened them with a broad, strongstrap.
"H'm! That's done it, I suppose," said the murderer. "Can't smokewithout my hands. Queer idea too--never thought of it before. Can'tsmoke without hands.... Rather late in life to realize it, what?"
"Oh, yes, you can," said the Major, drawing his big silver cheroot-casefrom his pocket and selecting a cheroot. Placing it between theprisoner's lips he struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar.Ross-Ellison drew hard and the cigar was lit. He puffed luxuriously andsighed.
"Gad! That's good," he said, "May some one do as much for you, old chap,when _you_ come to be--er--no, I don't mean that, of course.... Haven'thad a smoke for weeks. Yes--you can smoke without hands after all--butnot for long without feeling the inconvenience. I used to know anAmerican (wicked old gun-running millionaire he was, Cuba way, and downSouth too) who could change his cigar from one corner of his mouth rightacross to the other with his tongue. Fascinatin' sight to watch...."
Captain Malet-Marsac swallowed continuously, lest he lose the faculty ofswallowing--and be choked.
Major Ranald looked at his watch.
"Two minutes to seven. Come on," he said, and took the cheroot from theprisoner's mouth.
"Good-bye, Mike," said that person to the swallowing fainting wretch."Don't try and say anything. I know exactly what you feel. Sorry wecan't shake hands," and he stepped off in the wake of Major Ranald,closely guarded by three warders.
The City Magistrate and Captain Malet-Marsac followed. At Major Ranald'sknock, the small inner door of the gate-house was opened and theprocession filed through it into the strong room where the wardersstood to attention. Having re-fastened the door, the jailer opened theouter one and the procession passed out of the jail into the blessedfree world, the world that might be such a place of wonder, beauty,delight, health and joy, were man not educated to materialism, falseideals, false standards, and blind strife for nothing worth.
The sepoy-guard stood in a semicircle from the gate-house to theentrance to a door-way in the jail-wall. Ross-Ellison took his last lookat the sky, the distant hills, the trees, God's good world, and thenturned into the doorless door-way with his jailers, and faced thescaffold in a square, roofless cell. The warder behind him drew the capdown over his face, and he was led up a flight of shallow stairs on to aplatform on which was a roughly-chalked square where two hinged flapsmet. As he stood on this spot the noose of the greased rope was placedround his neck by a warder who then looked to Major Ranald for a sign,received it, and pulled over a lever which withdrew the bolts supportingthe hinged flaps. These fell apart, Ross-Ellison dropped through theplatform, and Christian Society was avenged.
Without a word, Captain Malet-Marsac strode, as in a dream, to hishorse, rode home, and, as in a dream, entered his sanctum, took hisrevolver from its holster and loaded it.
Laying it on the table beside him, he sat down to write a few words tothe Colonel of his regiment, Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley of the 99thBaluch Light Infantry, and to send his will to a brother-officer whom hewished to be his executor.
This done, he took up the revolver, placed the muzzle in his mouth, thebarrel pointing upward, and--pulled the trigger.
_Click_!
And nothing more.
A tiny, nerve-shattering, world-shaking, little universe-rocking_click_--and nothing more.
A bad cartridge. He remembered complaints about the revolver ammunitionfrom the Duri Small Arms Ammunition Factory. Too long in stock.
Should he try the same one agai
n, or go on to the next? Probably getbetter results from the first, as the cap would be already dented by theconcussion. He took the muzzle of the big revolver from his aching mouthand, releasing the chamber, spun it round.... He would place it to histemple this time. Holding one's mouth open was undignified. He raisedthe revolver--and John Bruce burst into the room. He had seenMalet-Marsac ride by, and knew where he had been.
"Half a second!" he shouted. "News! Do that afterwards."
"What is it?" asked Malet-Marsac, taken by surprise.
"Put that beastly thing in the drawer while I tell you, then. It mightgo off. I hate pistols," said Bruce.
Malet-Marsac obeyed. Bruce was a man to be listened to, and what had tobe done could be done when he had gone. If it were some last piece ofduty or service, it should be seen to.
"It is this," said Bruce. "You are a liar, a forger, a thief, a dirtypickpocket, a coward, a seller of secrets to Foreign Powers," and, erethe astounded soldier could speak, John Bruce sprang at him and tried toknock him out. "Take that you greasy cad--and fight me if you dare," heshouted as the other dodged his punch.
Malet-Marsac sprang to his feet, furious, and returned the blow. In asecond the men were fighting fiercely, coolly, murderously.
Bruce was the bigger, stronger, more scientific, and there could be butone result, given ordinary luck. It was a long, severe, and punishingaffair.
"Time," gasped Malet-Marsac at length, and dropped his hands."Get--breath--fight--decently--time--'nother round--after," and as hespoke Bruce knocked him down and out, proceeding instantly to tie hisfeet with the punkah-cord and his hands with two handkerchiefs and apair of braces. This done, he carried him into his bedroom, and laid himon the bed, and sprinkled his face with water.
Malet-Marsac blinked and stirred.
"Awful sorry, old chap," said Bruce at length. "I thought it the bestplan. Will you give me your word to chuck the suicide idea, or do youwant some more?"
"You damned fool! I...." began the trussed one.
"Yes, I know--but I solemnly swear I won't untie you, nor let anybodyelse, until you've promised."
Malet-Marsac swore violently, struggled valiantly and, anon, slept.
When he awoke, ten hours later, he informed Bruce, sitting by the bed,that he had no intention of committing suicide....
Years later, as a grey-haired Major, he learnt, from the man's ownbrother, the story of the strange hero who had fascinated him, and ofwhose past he had known nothing--save that it had been that of a _man_.
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