XVIII
A PROPHET OF EVIL
Standing at Dom Gillian's side Quinton Edge bent down and whispered afew words in his ear, inaudible even to those who stood nearest. And yetthe people knew that woe had fallen upon Doom. Like flame upon flax thevoiceless signal leaped from heart to heart; here and there in the crowdappeared little centres of disturbance, the strong pushing the weakforcibly aside that they might the quicker fill their own gasping lungs;an inarticulate murmur rose and swelled, like to the stirring of forestleaves under the breath of the rough north wind. Quinton Edge heard, andturned to face the people.
"It is true," he said, and gripped hard upon the rail on which his handrested. "A child's trick it was, but the Southlanders are men of smoothtongue and our brothers were encumbered with the cattle and perhapsoverconfident now that their faces were turned at last towards home.Six-score brave men"--he stopped and swallowed at something in histhroat.
"The ambuscade was well-planned, and the Southlanders had enlisted theaid of the Painted Men, to their shame be it said. So our brethren foundthemselves hemmed in at every point. Yet they sold their lives at agood price, and they are mourning to-day in the Southland, even as wehere. Not a Doomsman set out upon his long journey to the shadowland butthat a Southron was forced to bear him company. It was well done--a goodfight, the sword-point driven home, and then the dropping of thecurtain. Hail! a hail! to our brothers who have passed beyond."
A few wavering and uncertain voices took up the cry, but it quickly diedaway before the uplifted hand of Prosper, the priest. He had pushed hisway through the crowd and was now standing in its outmost rank directlyopposite the platform.
"There were six-score who rode away," he said, addressing himselfdirectly to Quinton Edge. "Six-score, and how many have returned?"
An insolent question in the manner of its asking, but the Doomsman'sanswer matched it well.
"Four that I counted, but there may be a straggler or two to come inlater. Does the Shining One no longer know where his own thunderboltshave struck, that he sends his hired servants to gather up the gossip ofthe market-place?"
"The All-Wise both sees and knows," retorted the priest. "It is thepeople you deceive who have need to look and listen, if haply they mayunderstand. You have dared to take the name of the Shining One upon yourlips; stand forth now like a man, if you would face him in his wrath."
During the past few minutes it had grown suddenly dark; the sun haddisappeared and a curtain of opaque cloud was rapidly overcasting thesky; a peculiar, yellowish light had replaced the radiance of day.
"And what does your god demand that his anger may be turned away?" askedQuinton Edge. "Doubtless the daily offerings upon which his faithfulpriests depend for their easy, unearned living. Sides of fat beeves andmeasures of wheat, not forgetting a cask or two of apple-wine or cornbrandy."
But the priest, disdaining to answer the taunt, had turned and wasspeaking directly to the people.
"Is it that you seek a deliverer and find none? But how shall theShining One keep faith with you who turn your feet away from hissanctuary and bring no victims to his altars? Has he not called to youdaily, and have you not stopped your ears? And now that ye call in turn,shall he indeed hear? Already is your woe come upon you, children ofDoom. Look and listen!"
A flash of lightning accompanied the priest's last words and the crashof the thunder came almost simultaneously. The obscurity was momentarilyincreasing, and the gigantic, nimbus cloud-band now reached far beyondthe zenith, its slate-blue edges contrasting vividly with thegreen-and-saffron tints of the narrow strip of clear sky that stillremained visible. And in another moment that, too, had disappeared; suchwas the darkness that a man could not see his neighbor's face, thoughtheir elbows might be touching.
"To your holes and dens!" shouted the priest, now quite beside himselfin his fanatical exaltation. "He speaks again, he speaks again! Woe, woeto the city of Doom!" Once more the firmament seemed cleft in twain, andthe earth trembled under the reverberations of the tremendous electricaldischarges. The effect upon the overwrought nerves of the throng wasinstantaneous; as one man the crowd turned and made for the exits fromthe Citadel Square. Even the personal attendants upon Dom Gillian wereaffected by the panic, and leaped over the guard-rails of the platforminto the mass of humanity below. In half a score of minutes the enormoussquare was deserted save for a few infirm and crippled stragglers, andConstans himself thought it prudent to withdraw to the shelter of one ofthe guard-huts from whose doorway he could still watch the progress ofevents.
Only Prosper, the priest, remained in the open, standing there withuplifted hands and gazing steadfastly into the sable vault above him.Quinton Edge called to him, but he answered not. Then the Doomsman,leaning far over the balustrade of the platform, struck the priestsharply on the shoulder with his truncheon of office.
"Come up here and help me with the Lord Keeper. These dogs have allsought their kennels and left us to shift for ourselves."
Gathering up his long, black robe, Prosper ascended the steps of theplatform and passed to the Lord Keeper's side. He looked eagerly intoDom Gillian's eyes, but the old man's face might have been a mask in itsimpassive stolidity. Plainly he had neither heard nor understood aughtof all that had passed.
"It is too late," muttered the priest. "The crash of steel is now theonly music to which the old lion will prick his ears, and the ShiningOne must strike for his own honor."
Suddenly the obscurity lightened. A downpour of rain was imminent, butthe sky had lost its terrifying aspect of abnormality; the yellowishhaze that in superstitious eyes presaged some dreadful convulsion ofnature had drifted away before the rising wind--it would be a peltingshower and nothing more. Quinton Edge looked around, smiling.
"So it was only a player's effect--a few fireworks and the rattling of abig drum--an opportune conjunction of bad news and bad weather that ishardly likely to occur again. The next time that the Shining Onecondescends to forge his thunderbolts----"
"They will fall from out of a cloudless sky," interrupted the priest,with a vehemence that in spite of himself shook the cool confidence ofthe Doomsman. Yet the latter flung back the challenge contemptuously.
"Words, words--painted bladders with which to belabor the backs of foolsand children. It calls for a buffet of sturdier sort to convince a man."
The priest measured his adversary. "Let it be a blow, then," he said,coldly, "since a prating mouth knows no other argument than the mailedfist. But you shall not see the hand that smites, nor even know thequarter from whence it comes. Build high your walls and your bulwarks;they shall but prove the greater peril when they crumble under theimpact of our lord's hammer. You will believe; yes, when trencher-mateand bedfellow are stricken at your side, and yet no man shall be able tosay at what instant the avenger's shadow passed between, or catch thefaintest sound of his retreating footsteps. All in his good time to whoma day and an hour and a cycle of the ages are as one."
A dozen big raindrops splashed down, and from the distance came thepatter of the advancing hail. Quinton Edge drew himself up stiffly; thenecessity of immediate action was a relief more welcome than he wouldhave cared to own. He stepped to Dom Gillian's chair, and, putting hishands under the armpits of the old man, lifted him unresisting to hisfeet.
"Help me with him to the White Tower," he said, with curt command, andProsper obeyed in silence. Together they managed to get Dom Gillian downthe steps and across the open space to the entrance of the tower, barelygaining the shelter when the storm broke in earnest, the rain comingdown in great, gray masses as though the clouds had been literally tornasunder by the weight of their burden. For a few moments everything wasblotted out by the deluge, then it lightened again with the coming ofthe hail, and Constans drew in his breath sharply as he saw a littlecavalcade trotting slowly through the north gate from the Palace Road.First came a few of the escort-guard and behind them three or fourtroopers, survivors of the ill-fated expedition, followed by a couple ofhorse-litt
ers, improvised from fence-poles and blankets. In these roughbeds lay two grievously wounded men, and Constans gazed, half in hope,half in fear, upon their wan faces upon which the stinging hail beatdown. Soldierly men they were, too, for they made no complaint, butUlick was not one of them. A moment later Constans saw him bringing upthe rear on a big bay horse. He had a bandage about his head, and lookedthin and careworn, but he was alive, and Constans felt glad at heart forhis friend. He managed to catch Ulick's eye as the train swept by, andfor an instant the latter drew rein, bending low over his saddle-bow ashe whispered to Constans, standing in the shadow of the guard-hut:
"In half an hour at the old library," and then, with passionateeagerness, "Esmay--have you seen her?"
"Yes," answered Constans, and the next instant could have bitten hisunthinking tongue in twain.