CHAPTER XIV.
THE NEW CAPTAIN--HUNSTON'S TROUBLE--THE ARM AND ITS LEGEND--HOWEMMERSON'S VENGEANCE WORKS STEALTHILY ON.
"What do you say, men, now?" demanded the huge Italian, as he wiped hissword.
"Huzza for Toro!"
"Have I fairly earned my right to take the lead here?"
"Yes, yes."
"I want you to be unanimous," he persisted.
"We are."
Toro fixed his eyes upon one or two of the disappointed supporters ofTomaso, who had not uttered a word since the discomfiture of theirchampion, and said to them especially--
"If any of you object to me as a leader, let them come forward now andspeak up."
There were one or two murmuring voices.
"Look," cried the giant Toro, "men all, if any here still denies mypower, let them step forward, and this sword shall prove my right."
This was final.
After the manner in which Toro had just dealt with their friend Tomaso,they were not encouraged to provoke a quarrel. And so, by his daringaudacity and brute strength, Toro the Italian raised himself to theleadership of the Greek brigands.
None dared to dispute his sway from that moment.
Some had a difficulty to swallow the bitter pill, but the alternativewas so very unpleasant that they got over it.
* * * * *
And Harkaway's enemy Hunston?
Why has he fallen so into the background of late?
His sole thoughts have been engrossed by the fearful sufferings towhich he is subject.
That dreadful arm--the legacy of vengeance of the murdered Emmerson.Where the evil was it baffled all his skill to discover.
Slowly yet surely this horrible piece of mechanism was eating away itswearer's life.
"It seems almost as though some subtle poison were slowly injected intomy body through this arm," thought Hunston, "and yet I can not workwithout it."
Never was vengeance more terrible than that of the dead RobertEmmerson.
The wonder was that Hunston lived through it.
His constitution must have been of iron.
The arm was removed, but only with infinite trouble and suffering; andthen, after some considerable time, Hunston began to experience a faintsense of relief.
The sufferings slowly diminished.
This convinced Hunston that he had been correct in supposing that thepoison was concealed in the mechanical arm.
He laid bare as much of it as he could without permanently damaging it,and pored over it for hours at a stretch.
To what good?
None.
Now this limb was the work of no common artificer.
It was the work of a hand of rare cunning.
A master spirit had invented it, and its mystery was far too deep to bepenetrated by a common bungler.
Hunston was at last so tortured that, disguising himself, he one dayleft the mountains, and sought the advice of a surgeon.
"The man who planned this arm," said the surgeon to whom Hunstonsubmitted it for examination, "must have devoted a lifetime to themanufacture and perfecting of this mechanical limb."
Hunston smiled.
He knew too well how little time the wretched man Emmerson gave to anything like industrial pursuits.
"What is this?" asked this same surgeon, pointing to the flat of thearm, where the engraved legend was almost obscured with a dark stain.
Hunston changed colour and fidgeted about.
"I don't know."
"There is something written."
"Yes, yes, so I believe, but it is obscured by that stain--a stain--"
He peered closer into the arm yet, and looked serious, as turning toHunston, he said--
"Why, it is a blood-stain."
"No, no!" replied Hunston, hurriedly; "impossible. It can not be."
"Impossible or not," said the surgeon, "blood it is, and nothing butblood. Yet I see that, in spite of this stain, the reading is clearenough."
"Scarcely," said Hunston.
"It is, though, and it is in English, I should say, too."
"Yes."
"Can't you read it?"
"No."
"Strange. Yet you are English."
"Yes."
"Well, I have some English friends here to whom I will show it, and--"
Hunston broke in impatiently at this.
"English here!" he exclaimed. "Where do they live?"
"At the villa--"
"What, the Harkaway family, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"And you would take it there?"
"Why not? Mr. Harkaway is a clever man. He is surrounded also by cleverpeople; there is a curious old gentleman there, too, an old gentlemanof great learning, and he might be enabled to throw some light upon thesecret, which even the closest scrutiny can not penetrate."
Hunston listened to the end, but not without having to exercise acertain amount of self-control.
"How is this old gentleman called--this clever, learned old gentleman?"
"You seem to say that with a sneer, sir," said the surgeon; "but youmay rely upon it he is a very great _savant_--a man of greataccomplishments--and a warrior who has--"
"Who has lost two legs!"
"Yes. You know him?"
"Slightly; his name is Mole."
"It is."
"And you would take my arm to these people for them to stare and gapeat. No, sir; I am foolish enough to seek to conceal my affliction fromthe world, and by the aid of this wonderful arm I have been hithertosuccessful."
The doctor bowed.
"So I beg you will keep my secret."
"Rely upon it."
Hunston showed all his old cunning in this speech. Yet all hisinquiries, all his researches, availed him nothing.
The work of the dead Robert Emmerson remained as before, an inscrutablemystery. It remained the silent executor of its creator's vengeance.
Slowly, yet surely fulfilling the blood-stained legend on the steelarm.