The Web of the Golden Spider

He hurled himself upon the first man he saw and the two fell to the floor where they tumbled about like small boys in a street fight. They kicked and squirmed and reached for each other’s throats until they rolled into the anteroom where they were left alone to fight it out. Wilson made his feet and the other followed as nimbly as a cat. Then the two faced each other. The humor of the situation steadied Wilson for a moment. Shot after shot was ringing through the old building, men fighting for their lives with modern rifles, and yet here he stood driven back to a savage, elemental contest with bare fists in a room built a century before. It was almost as though he had suddenly been thrust out of the present into the past. But the struggle was none the less serious.

His opponent rushed and Wilson met him with a blow which landed between the eyes. It staggered him. Wilson closed with him, but he felt a pair of strong arms tightening about the small of his back. In spite of all he could do, he felt himself break. He fell. The fellow had his throat in a second. He twisted and squirmed but to no purpose. He tried a dozen old wrestling tricks, but the fingers only tightened the firmer. Cheek against cheek the two lay and the fingers with fierce zeal sank deeper and deeper into Wilson’s throat. He strained his breast in the attempt to catch a single breath. He saw the stuccoed ceiling above him slowly blur and fade. The man’s weight pressed with cruel insistence until it seemed as though he were supporting the whole building. He heard his deep gulping breathing, felt his hot breath against his neck.

The situation grew maddening because of his helplessness, then terrifying. Was he going to die here in an anteroom at the hands of this common soldier? Was he going to be strangled like a clerk at the hands of a footpad? Was the end coming here, within perhaps a hundred yards of Jo? He threw every ounce in him into a final effort to throw off this demon. The fellow, with legs wide apart, remained immovable save spasmodically to take a tighter grip.

The sounds were growing far away. Then he heard his name called and knew that Stubbs was looking for him. This gave him a new lease of life. It was almost as good as a long breath. But he couldn’t answer–could make no sound to indicate where he was. The call came again from almost beside the door. Then he saw Stubbs glance in among the shadows and move off again. He kicked weakly at the floor. Then he heaved his shoulders with a strength new-born in him, and the fellow’s tired fingers weakened,–weakened for so long as he could take one full breath. But before he could utter the shout the merciless fingers had found their grip once more. The man on top of him, now half crazed, snapped at his ear like a dog. Then he pressed one knee into the pit of Wilson’s stomach with gruelling pain. He was becoming desperate with the resistance of this thing beneath him.

Once again Stubbs appeared at the door. Wilson raised his leg and brought it down sharply. Stubbs jumped at the sound and looked in more closely. He saw the two forms. Then he bent swiftly and brought the butt of his revolver down sharply on the fellow’s temple. What had been a man suddenly became nothing but a limp bundle of bones. Wilson threw him off without the slightest effort. Then he rolled over and devoted himself to the business of drinking in air–great gulps of it, choking over it as a famished man will food.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“Can ye stand up?”

“In a minute.”

“Pretty nigh the rocks that time.”

“He–had a grip like iron.”

“Better keep out in the open sea where ye can be seen.”

Wilson struggled up and, except for a biting pain in his throat, soon felt himself again.

“Where’s Danbury?” he asked.

“Dunno. But we can’t stop to look for him. That gang has gone wild. Guess we’ve pretty nigh cleaned out the place an’ now they are runnin’ free.”

“Won’t Otaballo reach here soon?”

“Can’t tell. If he doesn’t he won’t find much left but the walls. I’m goin’ arter them an’ see what I can do.”

“Better keep your eyes open. They’ll shoot you in a minute.”

“Mebbe so, mebbe not.”

He led the way along an intricate series of corridors to a broad flight of stairs. Above there was a noise like a riot.

“If I can git ’em inter one room–a room with a lock on ’t,” he growled.

As they hurried along, Wilson caught glimpses of massive furniture, gilded mirrors, costly damask hangings brought over three hundred years before when this was the most extravagant country on the face of the earth. They took the broad stairs two at a time, and had almost reached the top when Wilson stopped as though he had been seized by the shoulder. For, as distinctly as he had heard Stubbs a moment ago, he heard Jo call his name. He listened intently for a repetition. From the rooms beyond he heard the scurrying of heavy feet, hoarse shouting, and the tumble of overturned furniture. That was all. And yet that other call still rang in his ears and echoed through his brain. Furthermore, it had been distinct enough to give him a sense of direction; it came from below. He hesitated only a second at thought of leaving Stubbs, but this other summons was too imperative to be neglected even for him. He turned and leaped down the stairs to the lower floor.

In some way he must find the prison and in some other way get the keys and go through those cells. If he could find some member of the palace force, this would be simple. He wandered from one room to another but stumbled only over dead men. The wounded had crawled out of sight and the others had fled. A medley of rooms opened from the long halls and Wilson ran from one of these to another. Finally, in one he caught a glimpse of a skulking figure, some underling, who had evidently returned to steal. In a second he was after him. The chase led through a half dozen chambers, but he kept at the fellow’s heels like a hound after a fox. He cornered him at the end of a passageway and pinned him against the wall.

In the little Spanish he had picked up Wilson managed to make the fellow understand that he wished to find his way to the prison. But the effect of this was disastrous, for the man crumbled in his hands, sinking weak-kneed to the floor where he began to beg for mercy.

“It’s not for you. I have friends there I wish to free.”

“For the love of God, go not near them. It is death down there.”

“Up,” cried Wilson, snatching him to his feet. “Lead the way or I shoot.”

He placed the cold muzzle of his revolver against the nape of the fellow’s neck and drew a shriek from him.

“No! No! Do not shoot! But do not go there!”

“Not another word. On, quickly!”

“I do not know where,–I swear I do not know, signor!”

But hearing the sharp click of the weapon as Wilson cocked it, he led the way. They passed the length of several corridors which brought them to an open courtyard on the further side of which lay a low, granite building connected with the palace proper by a series of other small buildings. The fellow pointed to an open door.

“In there, signor. In there.”

“Go on, then.”

“But the signor is not going to take me in there? I pray,–see, I pray on my knees not.”

He slumped again like a whipped dog and Wilson in disgust and not then understanding his fear, kicked him to his feet. The fellow trembled like one with the ague; his cheeks were ashen, his eyes wide and startled. One would have thought he was on his way to his execution. Half pushed by Wilson, he entered the door to what was evidently an outer guardroom, for it contained only a few rough benches, an overturned table which in falling had scattered about a pack of greasy cards and a package of tobacco. Out of this opened another door set in solid masonry, and this, too, stood ajar as though all the guards had suddenly deserted their posts, as doubtless they had at the first sound of firing. Still forcing his guide ahead, they went through this door into a smaller room and here Wilson made a thorough search for keys, but without result. It was, of course, possible that below he might still find a sentry or turnkey; but even if he did not, he ought at least to be able to determine definitely whether or not she were here. Then he would return with men enough to tear the walls down if necessary.

They passed through an oak and iron door out of this room and down a flight of stone steps which took them into the first of the damp under-passageways leading directly to the dungeons themselves. The air was heavy with moisture and foul odors. It seemed more like a vault for the dead than a house of the living. Wilson had found and lighted a lantern and this threw the feeblest of rays ahead. Before him his prisoner fumbled along close to the wall, glancing back at every step to make sure his captor was at his heels.

So they came to a second corridor running in both directions at right angles from that in which they stood. He remained very still for a moment in the hope that he might once more hear the voice which would give him some hint of which way to turn. But the only sound that greeted him was the scratch of tiny feet as a big rat scurried by. He closed his eyes and concentrated his thought upon her. He had heard that so people had communicated with one another and he himself had had proof enough, if it were true that she was here. But he found it impossible to concentrate his thoughts in this place,–even to keep his eyes closed.

Then the silence was pierced by a shriek, the sweat-starting, nerve-racked cry of a man in awful pain. It was not an appeal for mercy, or a cry for assistance, but just a naked yell wrung from a throat grown big-veined in the agony of torture. Wilson could think of only one thing, the rats. He had a vision of them springing at some poor devil’s throat after he had become too weak to fight them off. The horrible damp air muffled the cry instantly. He heard an oath from his guide and the next second the fellow flew past him like a madman and vanished from sight toward the outer door. For a second Wilson was tempted to follow. The thought of Jo turned him instantly. He leaped to the left from where the cry had come, holding the lantern above his head. His feet slipped on the slimy ooze covering the clay floors, but by following close to the wall he managed to keep his feet. So he came to an open door. Within, he saw dimly two figures, one apparently bending over the other which lay prostrate. Pushing in, he thrust the lantern closer to them. He had one awful glimpse of a passion-distorted face; it was the Priest! It sent a chill the length of him. He dropped the lantern and shot blindly at the form which hurled itself upon him with the flash of a knife.

Wilson felt a slight sting upon his shoulder; the Priest’s knife had missed him by the thickness of his shirt. He closed upon the skinny form and reached for his throat. The struggle was brief; the other was as a child before his own young strength. The two fell to the floor, but Wilson got to his feet in an instant and picking up the other bodily hurled him against the wall. For a second he tasted revenge, tingled with the satisfaction of returning that blow in the dark. The priest dropped back like a stunned rat.

The light in the overturned lantern was still flickering. Snatching it up he thrust it before the eyes of the man who now lay groaning in the aftermath of the agony to which he had been subjected. The lantern almost dropped from his trembling fingers as he recognized in the face distorted with pain, Don Sorez. In a flash he realized that the Priest had another and stronger reason for joining this expedition than mere revenge for his people; doubtless by a wile of some sort he had caused the arrest of these two, and then had led the attack upon the prison for the sake of getting this man as completely within his power as he had thought him now to be. The torture was for the purpose of forcing the secret of the hiding place of the image. For a second Wilson felt almost pity for the man who lay stretched out before him; he must have suffered terribly. But he wasted little thought upon this; the girl was still to be located. Wilson saw his eyes open. He stooped:

“Can you hear?” he asked. “Is the girl in this place?”

The thin lips moved, but there was no distinct response.

“Make an effort. Tell me, and I will get you out of here too.”

The lips fluttered as though Sorez was spurred by this promise to a supreme effort.

“The key–he has it.”

“Who?”

Wilson followed the eyes and saw the brass thing lying near the Priest.

He turned again to Sorez–

“Can you tell me anything about where she is? Is she near you?”

“I–don’t know.”

There was nothing for it but to open each door in order. It was of course likely that the two had been thrust into nearby cells, but had these been filled she might have been carried to the very end of the passageway. He fitted the ponderous brass thing into the first lock. It took a man’s strength to turn the rusty and clumsy bolt, but it finally yielded. Again it took a man’s strength to throw open the door upon its rusted hinges. A half savage thing staggered to the threshold and faced him with strange jabbering. Its face and hands were cruelly lacerated, its eyes bulging, its tattered remnants of clothes foul. Wilson faced it a second and then stepped back to let it wander aimlessly on down the corridors.

The cold sweat started from his brow. Supposing Jo had gone mad? If the dark, the slime, the rats, could do this to a man, what would they not do to a woman? He knew her; she would fight bravely and long. There would be no whimpering, no hysterics, but even so there would be a point where her woman’s strength would fail. And all the while she might be calling for him and wondering why he did not come. But he was coming,–he was! He forced the key into the next door and turned another creaking lock. And once again as the door opened he saw that a thing not more than half human lay within. Only this time it crouched in a far corner laughing horribly to itself. It glared at him like some animal. He couldn’t let such a thing as that out; it would haunt him the rest of his life. It was better that it should laugh on so until it died. He closed the door, throwing against it all his strength with sudden horror. God, he might go mad himself before he found her!

At the end of a dozen cells and a dozen such sights, he worked in a frenzy. The prison now rang to the shrieking and the laughter of those who wandered free, and those who, still half sane, but savage, fought with their fellows, too weak to do harm. The farther he went the more hopeless seemed the task and the more fiercely he worked. He began to sicken from the odors and the dampness. Finally the bit of metal stuck in one of the locks so fast that he could not remove it. He twisted it to the right and to the left until his numbed fingers were upon the point of breaking. In a panic of fear he twisted his handkerchief in the handle and throwing all his weight upon it tried to force it out. Then he inserted the muzzle of his revolver in the key handle and using this for a lever tried to turn it either way. It was in vain; it held as firmly as though it had been welded into the lock. In a rage he pounded and kicked at the door. Then he checked himself.

If ever he hoped to finish his task, he must work slowly and calmly. With his back to the door, he rested for so long a time as a man might count five hundred. He breathed slowly and deeply with his eyes closed. Then he turned and began slowly to work the key back and forth, in and out. It fell from the lock. He reinserted it and after a few light manipulations, turned it carefully to the right. The bolt snapped back. He opened the door.

Within, all was dark. The cell seemed empty. In fact, he was about to close the door and pass on to the next cell, when he detected a slight movement in the corner. He entered cautiously and threw his light in that direction. Something–a woman–sat bolt upright watching him as one might watch a vision. He moved straight forward and when within two feet paused, his heart leaping to his throat, his hand grown so weak that he dropped the lantern.

“Jo!” he gasped tremblingly, still doubting his own senses.

“David. You–you came!”

He moved forward, arms outstretched, half fearing she would vanish.

CHAPTER XVII

’Twixt Cup and Lip

He took her in his arms and she lay there very quietly, her head upon his shoulder, in the lethargy of exhaustion. She clasped her hands about his neck as a very tired child would do. The curve of her cheek lay near his lips and, though he yearned to do so, he would not kiss it. He did not speak to her, but was satisfied to hold her there in silence. The feel of her heart beating against his, the warmth of her breath as it brushed his bare throat, the perfume of her hair–those things were enough now. After the last long weeks of doubt, after the last day of gruelling fear, after the terror of the last half hour, such things as these were soul-satisfying. So he allowed himself to stand a few minutes there in this dark cell which to him had become suddenly fairer than any garden. Then he spoke softly to her:

“Come,” he said, “we will go out into the sunshine now.”

She raised her head, looking at him through half-closed eyes.

“I–I don’t want to move, David.”

He unclasped the hands from about his neck and, placing an arm about her waist, led her slowly out into the corridor. She followed his guidance, resting her weight upon him. And he who had come into this foul place in terror and despair walked out in a dizzy bewilderment of joy. As he passed the open door of Sorez’ cell he hesitated. The evil prompting of his heart was to pass by this man–so to let him go forever out of his life. He had but to move on. He could find a refuge for the girl where she would be safe from this influence, but this would not be possible if he stopped to take Sorez with them. Once the girl knew the man was alive and in this condition her sympathies would be so aroused that she would never desert him. Wilson knew that he must decide instantly. To leave that prison without him was to leave him to his death. He turned towards the cell door; he had promised.

The man had evidently recovered his strength somewhat, for he sat upon the edge of the wooden bunk staring about him. He was alone in the cell–the Priest was gone! On the whole, Wilson was glad of this. He felt the better for not having the burden of his death, however richly it was deserved, upon his hands. The girl apparently was still in too much of a daze to recognize Sorez. Wilson spoke to him.

“Can you walk?”

“God,” he cried. “Who are you? You speak English!”

Wilson repeated his question impatiently.

“If you can walk, follow me and I’ll take you out of this hole.”

The man tottered to his feet, groping with his hand along the wall.

“Here,” said Wilson, overcoming a shrinking repugnance he now felt for the man, “take my arm.”

Sorez grabbed it and with this much help was able to get along. And so, with the girl he loved upon one arm and the man he hated upon the other, Wilson made his way along the slippery subterranean galleries. He was practically carrying them both, but the lightness of the one almost made up for the burden of the other. The only thing for which he prayed was that none of those whimpering things he had loosed from their cells should cross his path. This was granted; for all he saw or heard he might have been treading the catacombs.

When he came again into the sunlight he was blinded for a second, while the other two clapped their hands over their eyes, suffering for quite a few moments intense pain. Except for being a bit pale, the girl did not look badly. Her hair had become loosened and her gown begrimed, but Wilson still saw her as she was that night when she lay curled up asleep in the big chair. As for Sorez, whether it was the pain of the torture or what, his hair, which before was an iron gray, had turned almost white.

The three made their way across the courtyard and again into the palace. He heard noise and confusion on the floors above. The halls were rank with the smell of powder. As they went on they found the floor covered with splinters, and on either side saw the panels rent and torn as though by a huge iron claw. There was still hoarse shouting and the occasional snap of a pistol above, which showed that Stubbs had not yet succeeded in controlling the men.

He had no idea as to where it was possible to take the girl and Sorez, but he hoped that he might come upon a room in the palace here where it would be safe to leave them until it was possible to get out into the city. Perhaps, too, if he reached the entrance, he might find Stubbs. Sorez was beginning to weigh heavily upon his arm, and he resented having to sacrifice to him any of the strength he needed for the girl. So he staggered on to the very room where a short while before he had fought for his life. But here he was checked by a noise from without–cheering as from the advance of several hundred men. Was it possible that reënforcements had arrived for the government? If so, this meant immediate danger. They would exact vengeance swiftly and surely upon any man known to be associated with the revolution. This would leave the girl in as bad a plight as that from which he had just rescued her. He shook off Sorez and, picking up the girl, started into the small anteroom; but before he was out of sight the first of the soldiers had sprung up the steps. With an oath three of the men seized him and drew him back, the girl still in his arms, to the door. Jo roused herself and struggled to her feet, facing the strange soldiers without a sign of fear. Wilson reached his holster, but the girl checked his hand, realizing, even in her torpid condition, the uselessness of it. In a minute others flocked up the stairs and around them with noisy demonstration, and soon, following these, the main body of the regiment with a snappy gray-haired officer at their head. The crowd, save for the two guards, gave way from before the trio and left them confronting their leader. By some description of Danbury’s or by instinct, Wilson recognized him as none other than Otaballo. This then was the main body of the Revolutionists! Before he had time to speak Wilson saw that his own identity was beginning to dawn on Otaballo. He stepped forward and spoke the single word:

“Americans?”

The effect was magical. The soldiers drew back to respectful attention.

“Americans,” answered Wilson.

The general spoke in broken English.

“How came you here?”

“I am with Danbury,” answered Wilson. “The girl and the man were in the dungeons below.”

“Ah! These are the two captured by the–the late government?”

“Yes. I would like shelter for the girl. She is very weak.”

“Dios! you shall have refuge at once.”

He turned to one of his lieutenants and in Spanish gave his command.

“In the name of the Queen seize the house opposite.”

He turned back to Wilson.

“I will leave you five men; is that enough?”

“Thanks.”

Otaballo at the head of his men proceeded to sterner business, throwing out guards through the palace and making the victory secure.

Half carrying the girl, Wilson followed the soldiers across the street. Two of them supported Sorez. The house opposite was empty, the occupants having deserted it at the approach of the enemy. It was a rambling, story-and-a-half structure, somewhat elaborately furnished. Wilson placed a guard at the front and rear of the place with orders to admit no one until he had first seen them, and then carried the girl upstairs. She was not asleep, but so nearly numb with the strain that she could neither think nor speak. It seemed to him that there was only one thing to do–let her sleep. Rest at present was more necessary than food. On the second story there was a fine large bedroom, with a big bed covered with snow-white linen. He placed her upon this.

“Sleep as long as you wish,” he bade her, though he knew she scarcely heard his voice. “I shall be outside.”

Before he closed the door he turned and saw her breathing deeply with closed eyes. It seemed only humane to care for Sorez. On the first floor he found a divan and, with the help of the soldiers, arranged him upon this, where he, too, was soon fast asleep.

Then he returned to the second floor and, lying down before her door, was soon unconscious himself. How long he lay so he could not tell, but he was aroused by the sound of shouting outside the house. Springing to his feet, he listened at her door; there was no sound. He opened it and looked within; she lay where he had left her, still sleeping. Going to the window he looked out and was surprised to find the street crowded with citizens. It must have been long after noon, as he could tell by the sun. From all appearances this was some sort of a patriotic demonstration before the old palace. He watched it with indifferent interest until a closed carriage drove up. At this moment he saw Stubbs himself step from the palace and at the side of Otaballo approach the carriage. Here was his opportunity to make known his whereabouts to his partner. He tiptoed to the stairs and descended to the first floor. He warned the guard at the exit once more to admit no one and hurried out to push his way to Stubbs’ side. The crowd recognized him as an American from his dress and opened up a path for him. But even so he would not have reached his goal had not Stubbs seen him and, with a glad shout of welcome neglected his diplomatic duties to grasp the hand of the man he thought dead. At this moment the princess herself stepped from the vehicle and, ignoring the applause of the multitude, turned her attention to Wilson. She hesitated a moment, and then addressed him, speaking faultless English: