XVII
THE AWAKENING
Constans climbed to his observatory on the roof of the "Flat-iron" asusual that next morning. It was a fine, bright day and so clear that hecould see for miles without the use of his glass. And there wassomething to see--far away to the north he discovered a thin thread ofsmoke that must mark the spot of a newly extinguished camp-fire. At lastthe raiders were back from the Southland; they would be within the cityboundaries by this time and should arrive at the Citadel Square by noonat the latest.
Glancing down into the fortress he saw that already tidings of thereturn must have been received. Torch signals had probably been sentduring the night from the High Bridge announcing the fact of thearrival, and now all was bustle and excitement.
It was a colorful and inspiriting scene--soldiers engaged in polishingtheir accoutrements or clouting up hitherto neglected rents in cloak ortunic; musicians tuning their simple instruments; negro slaves groominghorses; women busy over saucepans that bubbled upon extemporizedfurnaces of piled-up bricks; children and dogs on all sides, chattering,squealing, under everybody's feet, alternately and impartially cuffedand caressed. An air of joyous expectancy lightened every face, for nowthe long months of waiting and of anxiety were past; the outriders ofDoom had returned from the Southland with goodly store of corn and wineand of fat beeves for future feasting. It was, indeed, chilled and agedblood that did not run the faster on this day of days.
Outside of the White Tower stood a groom, holding the bridle of a horsewhose housings were of the most gorgeous description, a blaze of crimsoncloth and gold thread. The owner's spear, with its pennon of embroideredsilk, stood close at hand, its iron-shod shaft wedged tightly into aconvenient crack in the pavement. Upon the banneret, Constans, with hisglass, made out the symbol used by Quinton Edge, a raven in mid-airbearing a skull in his beak. Evidently he was to command the guard ofhonor who would escort the returned warriors down the Palace Road, andthe hour must be close at hand. A few moments later and Quinton Edgehimself appeared, issuing forth from the White Tower. A splendidlygorgeous figure he presented, for over his close-fitting suit of claretcloth he wore a surcoat of white velvet ornamented with gold lace andbuttons of amethyst. His hat of soft felt was decorated with a whiteostrich-plume, exquisitely curled and secured by a jewelled clasp, andin his left hand he carried an ivory truncheon tipped with gold, theemblem, doubtless, of his high position in the councils of the Doomsmen.Apparently he was in good-humor this morning; he chatted animatedly withthose nearest to him, and once or twice he even laughed aloud.
A trumpet sounded, and, without much pretence at military smartness, theescorting party scrambled into their saddles and the cavalcade movedforward through the north gate and up the Palace Road. By noon at thelatest they should return, and preparations immediately began for thefeast that was to be given in honor of the long-absent warriors nowhappily restored to the society of their families and friends. A scoreor more of wine-casks were rolled out from the public stores and madeready for broaching. In the centre of the square the board flooring hadbeen removed from a huge circular pit that measured twenty feet acrossby six or eight in depth; it was lined and bottomed with flatpaving-stones. A fire of hard-wood had been burning in it for hours, thepreliminary to a gigantic barbecue of fat oxen. Upon the open space infront of the guard-huts, slaves were erecting long trestle-tables toserve as the banqueting-board. The day had turned so warm that therewould be no discomfort in dining out-of-doors, for all that the date wasMarch 22d and the last snow-fall still lay a foot or more in depth inthe side streets. The square itself had been thoroughly cleaned, or itwould have been a veritable sea of slush. Astonishing! but as the sun'srays became more and more inclined to the vertical, it became apparentthat the day would not only be warm but actually hot.
Constans had grown tired of making his observations at long range; heresolved to descend and mingle boldly with the people in the square. Hehad only Quinton Edge to fear, and it should be easy to keep out of hisway. Moreover, this was a golden chance for him to pick up some intimateinformation about the defences of the Citadel Square.
Carefully adjusting the details of his ecclesiastical costume, Constansprepared to descend. His last act was to cast a perfunctory glance inthe direction of Arcadia House, and it seemed that his eye caught theflutter of something white. He raised the binoculars--it was true, thesignal was there, a handkerchief tied to the lattice-blind of the cupolawindow.
Constans frowned and reflected. It was only last night that the girl hadasserted her entire ability to look after herself--it was like a womanto be so soon of another mind. And there was Ulick--Ulick who would haveshed the last drop in his veins to serve her. Yet she would have none ofhim, and she had deliberately tied Constans's hands in exacting thepromise that he should not reveal her whereabouts to the man who of allthings desired to serve her. There could be no reasoning with thiswilful young person; she would have her way in spite of all themasculine logic in the world, and he realized the fact with a growingresentment.
Yet there was his promise and it must be kept. He would go again toArcadia House sometime during the afternoon or evening, for the matterwas not one of absolute urgency. In the latter case two signals wouldhave been displayed, and there was but the one. So, dismissing thematter from mind for the present, he made his way to the street andjoined with the crowd that was continually passing in and out of thenorth gate.
With an air of easy unconcern, he directed his steps towards theentrance. A harsh croak greeted him, and he recognized the crippledsailor who called himself Kurt the Knacker. He glanced up to see thatworthy ensconced in a snug corner of the gateway and surrounded by hisaccustomed cronies the warders on duty. Plainly, there had been morethan one replenishing of the black-jack that stood on the settle besidehim, for his face was flushed and the purple veins in his high, baldforehead presented an inordinately swollen appearance.
"Hola! shipmet," said the Knacker, in a tone that was doubtless intendedto be affable. "It is to be a brave show to-day and you are come in goodtime to see it. Seven thunders! but one always sees the black-jacketsflocking thick as flies in a pudding when the smell of the saucepan isin the air. Your master yonder was of too proud a stomach to clink canwith us, but you will be more amiable. There's a fresh cask on thetrestles and not a token to pay."
Constans, following the direction in which a stubby forefinger pointed,caught sight of the tall form of Prosper, the priest. He was movingslowly along in the press and only a few yards away. Now Constans had nodesire for a meeting with his ecclesiastical superior; so, withouttroubling himself to reply to the Knacker's hospitable invitation, hetried to edge forward and again seek concealment in the crowd. But Kurtreached out and caught his sleeve. "No skulking, reverend sir," he said,maliciously. "Which shall it be, a swig from my black-jack or a fulltoss of the horn? For drink you must, if you would enter here."
One of the guardsmen held out a full ox-horn of wine, and the Knackerseized it and forced it into Constans's hand.
"After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipplefor women, boys, and priests. Down with it right cheerfully or take asousing in the butt itself--to drown there or drink it dry."
It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing theox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor's face, and Kurt,the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathingstertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of theby-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up,and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through thecrowd and so reach the open square. Stepping into one of the emptyguard-huts he quickly divested himself of cowl and cassock, and rollingthem up into a bundle he tossed them into a dark corner. His under suitwas made of the ordinary gray frieze worn generally among the Doomsmen,and now neither Prosper nor the witnesses of the fracas at the gatewould be likely to identify him.
Constans gazed about him with lively interest. Yet so accurat
e had beenhis previous bird's-eye observations that he found but little to add tothem. He noticed, however, that a banquette of earth, rammed hard, ranaround the inside periphery of the walls, affording vantage for thedefenders to discharge their arrows and other missiles over the parapet.But, as Constans quickly saw, this same terrace would give usefulfoothold to the besiegers should once the top of the wall be gained.Instead of being obliged to draw up their scaling-ladders, or risk thesixteen-foot drop to the hard surface of the enclosure, they had only tojump onto the banquette and from thence to the ground. He would haveliked to investigate what engines of defence could be brought intoservice by the garrison, but there was nothing to be seen beyond twomachines, sadly out of repair, which were intended for the casting ofheavy stones through the force of twisted ropes. So Constans turned hisattention again to the scene before him.
A gang of carpenters were putting the finishing-touches to an elevatedplatform which stood near the entrance to the White Tower. A crimsoncanopy warded off the sun's rays, and the structure was probablyintended for the accommodation of the more distinguished guests. A largechair stood in the centre of the dais, and over it a gray wolf-skin hadbeen draped; certainly this must be the official seat of Dom Gillianhimself. But as yet it stood empty.
How hot the sun was! And yet this was only the day of the vernalequinox; it was most extraordinary. Everywhere the gutters ran streamingwith water, the snow melting under the unexampled heat of the solar rayslike wax in a candle flame. The trees growing in the square wereleafless, and the tropic sun's rays blazed mercilessly through theirnaked branches. Constans found himself panting for breath.
As the hours dragged on Constans felt a vague uneasiness pressing downupon him, and he could see that the people also were growing restlessunder the unaccountable delay. The laughter and talk little by littledied away; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, upthe long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under theirhollowed hands. Would they never come!
With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litterissued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking thatgreat head with its mane of coarse, white hair--the old Dom Gillian.With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting theunwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The peoplelooked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance oftheir lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard hispeople; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon thearms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood oneither hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed tocollapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.
Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed thezenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-linerested a cloud in bigness like to a man's hand and of the blackness ofnight itself. Would they never come!
Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against thesnowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figureof a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of theslippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowdpressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops fallingfrom his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform.And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from thesaddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still sleptplacidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.