Produced by Greg Weeks, Geetu Melwani, George P. Snoga andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net
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Transcriber's Notes:
A number of typographical errors found in the original texthave been corrected in this version. A list of these errorsis provided at the end of the book.
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THE DOOMSMAN
BY
VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN
AUTHOR OF"THE CARDINAL'S ROSE""THE GATES OF CHANCE"ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDONHARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERSMCMVI
Copyright, 1905, 1906, byThe Metropolitan Magazine Company.
Copyright, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published June, 1906.
"CONSTANS AND NIGHT WERE DOWN." See p. 28]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE VERMILION FEATHER 1
II. THE NIGHT OF THE TERROR 14
III. THE NEW WORLD 19
IV. THE MAN ON HORSEBACK 25
V. THE RAT'S-HOLE 32
VI. TROY TOWN 41
VII. THE BREAD OF AFFLICTION 50
VIII. IN THE SHADOW OF DOOM 58
IX. THE KEYS OF POWER 67
X. THE MESSAGE 83
XI. THE SISTERS 93
XII. THE HEDGE OF ARROWS 106
XIII. GODS IN EXILE 120
XIV. ARCADIA HOUSE 136
XV. A MAN AND A MAID 150
XVI. AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS 162
XVII. THE AWAKENING 173
XVIII. A PROPHET OF EVIL 181
XIX. IN QUINTON EDGE'S GARDEN 188
XX. THE SILVER WHISTLE BLOWS 199
XXI. OXENFORD'S DAUGHTER 209
XXII. YET THREE DAYS 223
XXIII. THE RED LIGHT IN THE NORTH 231
XXIV. THE EVE OF THE THIRD DAY 238
XXV. ENTR'ACTE 242
XXVI. THE SONG OF THE SWORD 250
XXVII. DOOMSDAY 266
XXVIII. IN THE FULNESS OF TIME 274
XXIX. DEATH AND LIFE 281
XXX. THE STAR IN THE EAST 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
"CONSTANS AND NIGHT WERE DOWN" _Frontispiece_
"OUT LEAPED QUINTON EDGE'S SWORD" _Facing p._ 48
"CONSTANS LOOKED ABOUT HIM IN WONDERMENT" " 64
"THE BLOWS RAINED DOWN UPON HIS FACE" " 76
"THEY PARTED WITHOUT FURTHER SPEAKING" " 90
"AN INSTANT LATER THE BOWSTRING TWANGED" " 118
"SHE STOOD MUTE AND WIDE-EYED BEFORE HIM" " 156
"OF DOOM SHALL WE REQUIRE IT" " 220
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THE DOOMSMAN
I
THE VERMILION FEATHER
A beach of yellow sand and a stranded log upon which sat a boy lookingsteadfastly out upon the shining waters.
It was a delicious morning in early May, and the sun was at his back,its warm rays falling upon him with affectionate caress. But the lad wasplainly oblivious of his immediate surroundings; in spirit he hadfollowed the leading of his eyes a league or more to the westward, wherea mass of indefinable shadow bulked hugely upon the horizon line.Indefinable, in that it was neither forest nor mountain nor yet anatmospheric illusion produced by the presence of watery vapor. It didnot change in density as does the true cloud; for all of its mistinessof outline there was an impression of solidity about its deeper shadows,something that the wind could not lift nor the light pierce. A mystery,and the boy devoured it with his eyes, his head bent forward and hisshoulders held tensely.
The place was a rocky point of land jutting forth into a reef-strewntideway. The forest came down close to the strip of beach, but there wascomparatively little underwood, and the grass, growing up to the veryroots of the trees, gave to the glade an appearance almost parklike.There was no house in sight, not even the thin, blue curl of a smokinghearth to proclaim the neighborhood of man. Yet the sign of humanhandicraft was not wholly wanting; through the tree trunks, at perhaps ahundred yards away, appeared the line of a timber stockade--enormouspalisades, composed of twelve-foot ash and hickory poles, set in adouble row and bound together by lengths of copper wire. It was to befurther observed that the timbers had been stripped of their bark andthe knots smoothed down so as to afford no coigne of vantage to even anaked foot. Add, again, that the poles had been charred and sharpened atthe top, and it will be understood that the barrier was a formidable oneagainst any assault short of artillery.
There was no beaten road or path near the line of palisades, but,following the curving of the shore, a forest track, already green withthe young grass that was pushing its way through last year's stubble,stretched away to the north and south. It was hardly more than a runwayfor the deer and wild cattle, but it did not give one the impression ofhaving been originally plotted out by these creatures, after theimmemorial fashion of their kind. An animal does not lay out his road insections of perfectly straight lines connected by mathematical curves,neither does he fill up gullies nor cut through hills, when it is soeasy to go around these obstructions.
The boy, who sat and dreamed at the water's edge, was in his eighteenthyear or thereabouts, slenderly proportioned, and with well-cut features.The delicately moulded chin, the sensitive nostril--these are the signsof the poet, the dreamer, rather than of the man of action. And yet theface was not altogether deficient in indications of strength. That heavyline of eyebrow should mean something, as also the free up-fling of thehead when he sat erect; the final impression was of immaturity ofcharacter rather than of the lack of it. From the merely superficialstand-point, it may be added that he had brown eyes and hair (the latterbeing cut square across his forehead and falling to his shoulders), agood mouth containing the whitest of teeth, and a naturally lightcomplexion that was already beginning to accumulate its summer's coat oftan.
He was dressed in a tunic or smock of brown linen, gathered at the waistby a belt of greenish leather, with a buckle that shone like gold. Hisknees were bare, but around his legs were wound spiral bands ofsoft-dressed deer-hide. Buskins, secured by thongs of red leather andsoled with moose-hide, to prevent slipping, covered his feet, while hishead-dress consisted of a simple band of thin gold, worn fillet-wise.This last, being purely ornamental, was doubtless a token of gentlebirth or of an assured social station. A short fur coat, made from thepelt of the much-prized forest cat, lay in a careless heap at the boy'sfeet. It had felt comfortable enough in the still keenness of the earlymorning hour, but now that the sun was well up in the sky it had beendiscarded.
In his belt was stuck a long, double-edged hunting-knife, having itswooden handle neatly bound with black waxed thread. A five-foot bow ofsecond-growth hickory leaned against the log beside him, but it wasunstrung, and the quiver of arrows, suspended by a strap from hisshoulders, had been allowed to shift from its proper position so that ithung down the middle of his back and was, consequently, out of easyhand-reach. But the youth was in no apparent fear of being surprised bythe advent of an enemy; certainly he had made no provision against sucha contingency, and the carelessness of his attitude was entirelyunaffected. It may be remarked
that the arrows aforesaid wereiron-tipped instead of being simply fire-hardened, and in the featheringof each a single plume of the scarlet tanager had been carefullyinserted. Presumably, the vermilion feather was the owner's private signof his work as a marksman. So far the lad's dress and accoutrements werein entire conformity to the primeval rusticity of his surroundings.Judge, then, of the reasonable surprise which the observer might feel atdiscovering that the object in the boy's hand was nothing lessincongruous than a pair of binocular glasses, an exquisitely finishedexample of the highest art of the optician. One of the eye-piece lenseshad been lost or broken, for, as the youth raised the glasses to sweepagain the distant sea-line, he covered the left-hand cylinder with aflat, oblong object--a printed book. Its title, indeed, could be clearlyread as, a moment after, it lay partly open upon his knee--_A Child'sHistory of the United States_--and across the top of the page had beenneatly written in charcoal ink, "Constans, Son of Gavan at the GreenwoodKeep."
Mechanically, the boy began turning the leaves, stopping finally at apage upon which was a picture of the lower part of New York City as seenfrom the bay. Long and earnestly he studied it, looking up occasionallyas though he would find its visible presentment in that dark blur on thehorizon line. "It must be," he muttered, with a quick intake of hisbreath. "The Forgotten City and Doom the Forbidden--one and the same.Well, and what then?" and again he fell upon his dreaming.
For the best part of an hour the boy had sat almost motionless, lookingout across the water. Then, suddenly, he turned his head; his ear hadcaught a suspicious sound, perhaps the dip of an oar-blade. Thrustingthe field-glass and book into his bosom, he drew the bow towards him andlistened. All was still, except for the chatter of a blue-jay, and aftera moment or so his attention again relaxed. But his eyes, instead oflosing themselves in the distance as before, remained fixed upon thesand at his feet. Fortunately so, or he must have failed to notice thelong shadow that hung poised for an instant above his right shoulder andthen darted downward, menacing, deadly.
An infinitesimal fraction of a second, yet within that brief spaceConstans had contrived to fling himself, bodily, forward and sidewaysfrom his seat. The spear-shaft grazed his shoulder and the blade burieditself in the sand. The treacherous assailant, overbalanced by the forceof his thrust, toppled over the log and fell heavily, ignominiously, atthe boy's side. In the indefinite background some one laughedmelodiously.
Constans was up and out upon the forest track before his clumsy opponenthad begun to recover his breath. It was almost too easy, and then he allbut cannoned plump into a horseman who sat carelessly in his saddle,half hidden by the bole of a thousand-year oak. The cavalier, gatheringup his reins, called upon the fugitive to stop, but Constans, withoutonce looking behind, ran on, actuated by the ultimate instinct of ahunted animal, zigzagging as much as he dared, and glancing from side toside for a way of escape.
But none offered. On the right ran the wall of the stockade,impenetrable and unscalable, and it was a long two miles to the northgate. On the left was the water and behind him the enemy. A few hundredyards and he must inevitably be brought to a standstill, breathless anddefenceless. Yet he kept on; there was nothing else to do.
The horseman followed, putting his big blood-bay into a leisurelyhand-gallop. A sword-thrust would settle the business quite aseffectually as a shot from his cross-bow, and he would not be obliged torisk the loss of a bolt, a consideration of importance in this latterage when good artisan work is scarce and correspondingly precious.
Constans could run, and he was sound of wind and limb. Yet, as thethunder of hoofs grew louder, he realized that his chance was of adesperate smallness. If only he could gain a dozen seconds in which tostring his bow and fit an arrow.
But he could not make or save those longed-for moments; already he hadlost a good part of his original advantage, and the horseman was barelysixty yards behind. His head felt as though it were about to split intwo; a cloud, shot with crimson stars, swam before his eyes.
The track swung suddenly to the right, in a sharp curve, and Constans'sheart bounded wildly; he had forgotten how close he must be to thecrossing of the Swiftwater. Now the rotting and worm-eaten timbers ofthe open trestle-work were under his feet; mechanically, he avoided thenumerous gaps, where a misstep meant destruction, and so at last gainedthe farther bank and sank down panting on the short, crisp sward.
The cavalier reined in at the beginning of the trestle; he lookeddoubtfully at the ford above the bridge; but the Swiftwater was inspring flood, and, was the chase worth a wetting?
Evidently not, for, with a shrug of his shoulders, the horseman threwone leg across the saddle-pommel and sat there, very much at his ease,while he proceeded to roll himself a cigarette from coarse, blacktobacco and a leaf of dampened corn-husk.
Constans felt his face flush hotly as he noted the contempt implied inhis enemy's well-played indifference. Already he had put his bow inorder; now he stood up and, with some ostentation, proceeded to fit anarrow to the string. The cavalier looked at these preparations withentire calmness and busied himself again with his flint and steel.
"It would be murder," muttered Constans, irritably, and lowered hishand. Then, moved by sudden impulse, he took aim anew and with more thanordinary care. The arrow sung through the air and transfixed the fleshypart of the cavalier's bridle-arm. The horse, whose withers had beengrazed by the shaft, started to rear, but his rider neither moved norchanged color. Quieting the frightened animal with a reassuring word,he deftly caught the tinder spark at the tip of his cigarette and drewin a deep inhalation of the smoke. Then, with the utmost coolness, heproceeded to snap the arrow-shaft in twain and draw out the barb,Constans yielding him grudging admiration, for it was all very perfectlydone.
"Here is a man," thought Constans, and looked him over carefully.
And truly the cavalier made a gallant figure, dressed as he was in thebravest raiment that the eyes of Constans had ever yet beheld. For hisclose-fitting suit was of claret-colored velvet with gilt buttons, whilehis throat-gear was a wonderfully fine lace jabot, with a great redjewel fastened in the knot. A soft hat, trimmed with gold lace and anostrich-feather, covered his dark curls, while yellow gauntlets and highriding-boots of polished leather completed his outward attire. Not anunpleasing picture as he sat there in the sunshine astride the bigblood-bay, but Constans, looking upon him, knew that neither now norhereafter could there be any verity of peace between them. There is sucha thing as hate at first sight even as there is love.
The horseman had retained the feathered end of the arrow-shaft, and heproceeded to examine it with an appearance of polite interest.
"Your private token, young sir?" he inquired, indicating the singlefeather of scarlet. His voice was pitched in an affectedly high key, hismanner languidly ceremonious. Constans could only bow stiffly in theaffirmative.
"Ah, yes; it is one not to be easily forgotten. I, too, have mysign-manual, and I should have been glad to have exchanged with you."
Again Constans bowed. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldnot come. The cavalier smiled.
"But there may be another opportunity later on," he continued. "Atleast, we may hope so." He bowed, lifting his plumed hat. "To our futureacquaintance." He turned his horse's head to the southward, and rodeaway at a slow canter without once looking back.
Constans watched the ostrich-crest as it rose and fell, until it waslost to sight among the tree-trunks. Then, drawing his belt tight, hestarted on a dog-trot in the contrary direction; the barrier, admittinghim to the protection of the stockade, was still some distance away, andhe must reach it without delay and give the warning. But, even as heran, he heard the tolling of a bell; it was the alarm that the Doomsmenwere abroad. Now, indeed, he must make haste or he would find thebarrier closed against himself.
Ten minutes later he stood before the northern entrance of the GreenwoodKeep. Already the warders were fitting into place the gates ofiron-studded oak, but they recognized the voice of their
lord's son andallowed him to squeeze his way through. Guyder Touchett, the burlycaptain of the watch, clapped him familiarly on the back.
"Your legs have saved your skin, master. God's life! but you flashedthrough the cover like a cock-grouse going down the wind. Yet I trembledlest a cross-bow bolt might be following even faster."
"They have come--the Doomsmen?" panted Constans.
"Garth, the swineherd, reported their landing at the Golden Cove anhour before sunup. Three war-galleys, which means twice that score ofmen."
"Some mischance of wind or tide," said Constans, thoughtfully. "Inoticed that the water in the Gut was rougher than is usual at dawn."
"Like enough," assented Touchett. "These night-birds are not often seenin a blue sky, and luckily so, for the safety of your father's ricks andbyres. After all, there is no certainty in the matter; Garth is stupidenough betimes for one of his own boars, and there was achristening-party at the barracks last night. You know what thatmeans--the can clinking until the tap runs dry."
"Yet you say he saw----"
Guyder Touchett shrugged his shoulders. "Anything you like. When the aleis in the eye there are stranger things than gray cats to be discoveredat the half-dawn. In my opinion, Garth is a fool and a liar."
"And, as usual, your opinion is wrong," retorted Constans, "for the GrayMen are really here. But I cannot wait; I must speak with Sir Gavanhimself."
"You will find him at the water gate," bawled Touchett, as the boy ranpast him.
Constans sped rapidly up the green slope leading to the house a quarterof a mile away. As he ran, he mentally rehearsed the story of his lateadventure. Surely, now, Sir Gavan would permit him to bear a man's partin the impending crisis. Had he not already drawn hostile blood--thefirst?
Sir Gavan awaited his son at the water gate, his ruddy countenancestreaked with an unwonted pallor and his gray eyes dark with trouble.
"Where is your sister?" he asked, abruptly, as Constans ran up.
The boy stared. "She did not go out with me, sir. Do you mean thatIssa----"
"Hush! or your mother will overhear. Come this way." And Sir Gavanpreceded his son into the guard-room on the left of the vaultedentrance, walking heavily, as one who bears an unaccustomed burden uponhis shoulders. Yet when he spoke again his voice had its accustomedsteadiness.
"No one has seen her since ten of the sundial. It is now noon, and thealarm-bell has been ringing this half-hour."
Constans felt something tighten at his own throat. "You have searchedthe enclosure?" he faltered.
"Every nook and corner," returned Sir Gavan. "Tennant, with a dozen men,is now beating the upper plantations."
Constans thought guiltily of that cleverly concealed gap in thepalisades just beyond the intake of the Ochre brook. He and Issa hadshared it between them as a precious secret, and he had used it thisvery morning as a short cut to the water-side. Tennant, their elderbrother, was not aware of its existence, but then Tennant was a prig,and not to be trusted in truly momentous affairs.
There was his father's wrath. Constans turned sick at the thought ofarousing it. No; he could not tell him.
"I don't know," he said, vaguely.
Sir Gavan looked at him searchingly, then turned and strode out of theroom.
Constans felt his cheeks grow hot. Why had he not told all the truth?He was a coward, a liar, in all but the actual word. He sat down on abench and buried his face in his hands; then the recurring thought ofIssa and of her peril stung him to his feet. Where had Sir Gavan gone?
Constans made his way, hesitatingly, into the court-yard of the keep. Hefound it thronged with men, his father's retainers and servants. Thearchers were busy putting new strings to their bows; the spearmen weretesting, with grave eagerness, the stout ash of their weapons, orperchance whetting an edge on the broad blades. Half a dozen of theyounger men were engaged in covering the roof of the main and outbuildings with horse-hides soaked in water, as a protection againstburning arrows; others were driving the protesting cattle into the byresand sacking up a quantity of newly threshed grain that lay upon theflailing floor; everywhere the noise of shouting men and of hurryingfeet.
Sir Gavan was not to be seen, and Constans, after inquiring for himthrough a fruitless quarter of an hour, entered the main house andsought the fighting platform on its roof. Why had no lookout beenstationed here? Surely an oversight. He gazed eagerly about him.
Directly to the right of the house lay the home paddock, stretching awaysome two hundred yards to the edge of a white-birch plantation. TheOchre brook bounded it on one side, and the current had scoured out foritself an ever-deepening channel in the soft, alluvial soil. A clump ofalders, just bursting into leaf, masked the bed of the stream at oneparticular point, where the bank rose into a miniature bluff. Constans,from his elevated position, was enabled to overlook this point, and soto make out the figure of a mounted man behind the alder screen, hishorse standing belly deep in the water. It was the cavalier of theostrich-feathers; and then, through the white trunks of the birches, hecaught the flutter of a woman's gown. Constans tried to shout, to callout, but the vocal chords refused to relax, the sounds rattled in histhroat.