The Web of the Golden Spider

The girl told him as much of the odd story as she had gathered, beginning with her own arrival in the hut. Manning’s memory dated from the blow on the raft. Back of this he skipped an interval of fifteen years. Even there his memory was cloudy. He recalled vaguely having joined an expedition which had for its object prospecting in these mountains, but who the others of the party were he did not know. He remembered hazily the trip over the mountains and a battle with a party of natives. He was injured and after this was sick a long while. As far as he was concerned he had been unconscious ever since that time. Of his recovery, of the strange sequence of events which caused him to take up a life among the Chibcas, who elevated him finally into the position of high priest, of the fanatical devotion to his trust which had driven him across the continent and then across an ocean to recover the image, he recalled nothing. He did not know of the existence of an idol or of any superstition in connection with it.

Wilson, listening, marveled, but he quickly associated this with similar cases of dual identity brought about by brain trouble following an accident to the skull. The psychology of the case, however, did not at present so much interest him as the possible consequences to them all which might follow this dénouement. It instantly occurred to him that it was doubtful if Manning in his present condition was anything but an added menace to the party. A half hour’s questioning convinced Wilson that it was literally true that the last fifteen years were a blank to the man and that his mental condition at present was scarcely superior to that of a child. Consequently, in the event of an attack by the aroused natives either Manning would be thought to have been captured by the party, which would bring down swift vengeance, or he would be thought to have deserted them, which was equally sure to bring about the annihilation of them all. The only thing to do seemed to be to keep the man out of sight as much as possible on the journey and in the event of trouble to hide him altogether. It seemed to him wisest not to allow them to rest even that night but to push on. Flores, eager to do anything for the Priest, agreed to guide them. He aroused Stubbs, and after a good meal the party started and without incident made eight miles before they stopped.

They found a good camping place–a sort of crude cave near a brook and just off the trail. They built a fire and cooked a portion of the leg of mutton which Flores had brought for them before returning. So far they had not caught a glimpse of a native. This fact and the excitement of actually being upon the home path banished them completely from their minds. But that night both men agreed that each had better take his turn at watching.

“I’ll take the first watch,” insisted Wilson to Stubbs. “I wouldn’t trust you to wake me up.”

With a good-natured grin Stubbs submitted and threw his tired body on the turf, making a pillow of the bags of jewels. He slept as heartily as though snug in the bunk of a safe ship. But both the girl and her father refused to take Wilson’s advice and do likewise. Both insisted upon sharing his watch with him. The father sat on the other side of his daughter staring, as though still wondering, into the shadows of the silent wood kingdom about him. He spoke but little and seemed to be still trying to clear his thoughts.

At their backs rose the towering summits which still stood between them and the ocean; above those the stars which from the first had seemed to watch their lives; before them the heavy, silent shadows which bade them be ever alert.

Wilson sat upright with his rifle over his knees. The girl nestled against his shoulder. All was well with the world.

CHAPTER XXVII

Dangerous Shadows

In the narration of what had befallen her while in the care of Sorez, Wilson came to have a new conception of the man. With the exception of the fact that Sorez had considered his own interest alone in bringing the girl down here, and that he had lured her on by what he knew to be a deliberate lie, Sorez had been as kind and as thoughtful of her as her own father could have been. After their imprisonment in Bogova and while in hiding from Wilson he had supplied the girl with the best of nurses and physicians. Furthermore, in order to make what recompense he could to her in case of an accident to him or in the event of the failure of their mission, he had, before leaving Bogova, made his will, bequeathing to her every cent of his real and personal property. The chief item of this was the house in Boston which he had purchased as a home for himself and niece, a few months before the latter’s death. In addition to this he had in the end made the supreme sacrifice–he had given his life.

Sitting there in the starlight she told Wilson these things, with a sob in her voice.

“And so he kept his word after all–didn’t he? He brought me to him.”

The older man by her side looked up at her.

“My daughter,” he murmured. “My daughter.”

She placed her arm over his shoulder scarcely able to believe the good fortune which had at once placed her here between her father and her lover.

“The golden idol did some good after all,” she whispered.

“The idol?” asked her father. “What idol?”

“You remember nothing of an image?” broke in Wilson.

“An image? An idol? I have seen them. I have seen them, but–but I can’t remember where.”

He spoke with a sort of childlike, apologetic whine. Wilson hesitated a moment. He had brought the idol with him after finding it in the hut where Manning had carried it from the raft–apparently unconsciously–and had taken it, fearing to leave it with Flores. He had intended to throw it away in the mountains in some inaccessible place where it could never again curse human lives. This image ought to be final proof as to whether or not Manning could recall anything of his life as a priest of the Sun God or not. If the sight of this failed to arouse his dead memory, then nothing ever could. Of all the things in this life among these mountains no one thing had ever figured so prominently or so vitally in his life as this. About this had centered all his fanatical worship–all his power.

As Wilson rose to get the image from where he had hidden it near Stubbs, the girl seized his arm and, bending far forward, gasped:

“The shadow–did you see it?”

Wilson turned with his weapon cocked.

“Where?” he demanded.

But underneath the trees where she had thought she saw a movement all was quiet again–all was silent. With a laugh at her fears, Wilson secured the image and brought it back. He thrust it towards Manning. It was clearly visible in the moonlight. The girl shrank a little away from it.

“Ugh!” she shuddered. “I don’t like to look at it to-night.”

In the dull silver light it appeared heavier and more somber than in the firelight. It still sat cross-legged with the same cynical smile about its cruel mouth, the same bestial expression about the brow, the same low-burning fires in the spider-like eyes. As Wilson and her father bent over it she turned away her head. Once again she seized Wilson’s arm and bade him look beyond the thicket in front of them.

“I saw something move. I am sure of it.”

“You are a bit nervous, I’m afraid,” he said tenderly. “If only you would lie down for the rest of the night.”

“No, no, David. I am sure this time.”

“Only a shadow. There is a light breeze.”

“I couldn’t see anything but–it didn’t feel like a shadow, David.”

“You felt it? Has the image–” he asked a bit anxiously.

“No–oh, I can’t make you understand, but I’m sure something moved in the bushes.”

“Stay close to me then,” he laughed quietly.

He turned back to Manning who was turning the image over and over in his hands with indifferent interest. To him it was nothing more than a curio–a metal doll. But when he caught the glint of a moonbeam on the jeweled eyes, he bent over it with keener concern. He raised it in his hands and stared steadily back into the cold eyes. This stare soon became fixed and Manning began to grow slightly rigid. Wilson snatched the object from his hands. For a moment the man remained immovable; then he rubbed his hand over his brow, muttering incoherently to himself. This nervous symptom disappeared and Manning apparently instantly forgot the idol again. He called for his daughter. She came closer to his side and he rested his head against her shoulder.

“Dear father,” she murmured affectionately.

“I–I can’t think,” he said.

“Don’t try, Daddy. Wait until we get out of here and you are all well again.”

“If I could reach my ship,” he muttered.

“What ship, Daddy?”

“Why, my own–the ‘Jo Manning.’”

That took her back to the time she was a very little girl. She remembered now that he had named the ship after her,–the last ship which he had sailed out of Newburyport. Poor old daddy! What a different man he was this moment from him who had held her in his arms and kissed her with tears rolling down his bronzed cheeks. It wrenched her heart to watch him sitting there so listlessly–so weakly–so little himself. The fear was growing in her heart that he never would be the same again. Almost–almost it was better to remember him as he was then than to know him as he sat there now. Had it not been for the comfort, for the joy of another order, for the safety she felt in this younger man by her side, her heart would have broken at the sight. If only she could have found him during those few days he was in Boston–when the crystals had first shown him to her–when he must have passed within a few feet of her, it might not then have been so difficult to rouse him. But at that time he would not have known his own.

A bedlam of raucous, clamorous shrieks settling into a crude sort of war cry brought all four of them to their feet. Wilson thrust the girl back of him towards the cave-like formation behind them. This effectually protected them in the rear and partly from two sides. Stubbs swept the bags of jewels into his arms and carried them to one corner of this natural excavation. Then he took his position by the side of Wilson and Manning, who was unarmed. The three waited the approach of the unseen demons. Not a light, not the glint of a weapon could be seen. But before their eyes, in and out among the trees making up the dense growth, shadows flitted back and forth in a sort of ghost dance. In addition to the hoarse shouting, the air was rent from time to time by the sound of a blast as from a large horn.

The effect of this upon Manning, who had been thrust behind them by Wilson, was peculiar. At each blast he threw back his head and sniffed at the air as a war horse does at sound of the bugle. His eyes brightened, his lean frame quivered with emotion, his hands closed into tight knots. The girl, observing this, crept closer to him in alarm. She seized his arm and called to him, but he made no response.

“Father! Father!” she shouted above the din.

He started forward a pace, but she drew him back. Seeing her he came to himself again for a moment. She scarcely knew him; the old look of intensity which strained almost every feature out of the normal had transformed him. He stood now as it were between two personalities. He partially realized this, for he stepped forward behind Wilson and shouted:

“They come! They come! I–I think I can stop them–for a little. If–if I do, don’t delay–don’t wait for me.”

Wilson thought he rambled.

“Do you hear? Quick–tell me?”

“Yes,” shouted Wilson.

The din seemed to be approaching in an ever-narrowing circle. It came from all sides–a noise so deafening, so full of unusual sounds that it was in itself terrifying. Again came the blast, followed by another and another. Manning caught sight of the image upon the ground. It acted like magic. He snatched it up. But the girl, regardless of danger, ran to his side.

“Don’t,” she cried in a panic. “What is the matter, father?”

He looked down at her with eyes which scarcely reflected any recognition.

“Don’t go, father. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know your daughter? See, I am Jo–Jo! Do you understand?”

Even in the midst of this other danger–the noise and imminent peril, the two men heard and turned away their heads at the sight with throats straining with emotion. Manning looked back with hardly a gleam of his true self showing in his eyes. And yet there was something left which made him pause–which in one flash brought him back for a second. He stooped and kissed her. Then he raised himself and facing the two men pointed towards the woods behind them.

“Go,” he commanded.

Another blast and he clutched the idol to his breast. He raised his eyes to the East and the three stood dumbfounded–from his throat there issued a cry so wild, so weird, that it checked their breathing. Instantly following there was silence from the shadows. One, two, three, four seconds passed–still that silence which was nerve-racking in its intensity. Then a cry rang out from among the trees so piercing that the girl put her arm up over her eyes as though to ward off a blow. A hundred forms appeared from the trees. Stubbs and Wilson raised their rifles. But with a sweeping motion back with his hand, the Priest bade the two men pause. He disappeared into the shadows where he was greeted with a sort of pæan of joy. Then silence. Then a few sharp-spoken words. Then silence again.

Wilson, scarcely believing this was not some evil dream, gripped Stubbs’ arm.

“Come,” he gasped. “Let’s get out. This–this is hell.”

He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.

“Get a grip on yourself, Jo–just for a little. We must go–at once.”

“But Daddy–Daddy–”

Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.

“It is better–as it is.”

Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.

Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,–on–on–on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.

For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope for one bit of good luck more–that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl’s father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.

But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.

The girl, to be sure, sobbed at first a good deal in the dark but the two men knew nothing of this. Soon, after the first acute pain of the personal loss, she was able to reason a little with herself. It seemed to her then, remembering how much a child he was when with her and how strong and powerful he looked as he stepped into the woods, that perhaps, after all, he would be happier with his many children than with her. Then always there was the opportunity of coming back to him,–coming under better auspices and with better opportunities for really bringing him to his own. It was this last thought that finally brought her real consolation.

“Perhaps,” she said to Wilson, hesitating a trifle in fear that he might not approve of the suggestion, “perhaps some day we can come back here to him, David.”

“I had thought of it, dear. He saved our lives; if he had remained, not one of us would have got out of here. That in itself is enough to make us everlastingly beholden to him. But–” he paused, “I think, dear heart, that it is kinder to let him remain even among heathen people a strong man with power, than to bring him back, a child, to die.”

“He chose for himself, David.”

“Yes–and was able to realize and be glad that he had been given another chance to do for his daughter.”

The girl thought a moment. Then her face brightened.

“That–that alone makes the trip worth while.”

“That–and this,” he answered, drawing her to his side.

“Yes,” she whispered, “and in a way he gave me you–he gave me you.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

A Dash for Port

The Queen of Carlina, after a restless night, rose one fair morning early in October and dressed herself long before the appearance of her maids. There had been much to disturb her sleep, rumor upon rumor and arrest after arrest during the last few days, and last night a long conference with her advisers. Before she retired she had turned wearily to Otaballo, who remained a few minutes after the others departed.

“My General,” she said, “I’m tired of it all. Let them do as they will.”

“Not so long as there is a loyal man to carry a gun,” he answered stubbornly.

“You are old, General; it is time you had peace.”

“I am as young as my queen.”

“She is very old to-night,” she answered, with a weary smile. “I fear I am not a real queen,–just a woman. And women grow old quickly–without love.”

The General bit his moustache. He had long seen that it was more this than the plotting of the Revolutionists which was undermining his power. He did not know how to answer.

“You have the love of your people.”

“Not even that. The sentiment of love for their queen is dead. That is the root of the whole matter. There is but one thing, then, for me to do: to retire gracefully–to anticipate their wishes–to listen to their cry and declare a republic. Then you and I will go back to the cottage together and drink our tea in peace.”

“You are wrong. That is not the wish of the people; it is the wish only of a few hundred blackguards led on by those devils brought here from over the sea.”

“You mean Dick’s men?”

“The devil’s men. If you give me authority, I’ll have every mother’s son of them shot before morning.”

She shook her head.

“Not even to please my bloodthirsty general. They have played us false but–still they are countrymen of his.”

“You insult him. They belong to no country.”

“Why,” she asked thoughtfully, “why should I expect them to fight for me? Perhaps they think I played Dicky false. They have reason–he is not here where he won his right to be.”

“Then for the love of God, bring him here,” he answered, forgetting himself. She started at that.

“No! No!” she cried hastily, as though fearing he might make the attempt to find him; “not to save the kingdom. You should listen to me to-night, General; I am very wise. The reports which have come in are without exception bad. You arrest here, you arrest there, but still the people gather and still they state their wishes. I know how it is; at first they were amused to have their queen,–it was like a holiday. Especially when Dicky talked to them. But freedom is in the blood and it is as foolish to fight against it as against the foreign ships we once tried to keep out of our harbor. Carlina–the old Carlina, your Carlina and mine, is no more.”

She paused at the look of horror which had crept over his withered face. She dropped her hand to his arm.

“Do I sound disloyal? It is only because the kingdom remains as it used to be in your dear heart and yours alone. I am your queen, General, because you are still in the past. But the others are not. They are of the present and to them I am only a tradition. If they were all like you, my heart and soul, my life and love would all be theirs. It is to save what is left of the former things–to save you and the few others of that old kingdom–to have our dear Carlina as we used to have it out there in the sunshine of the garden–that I would leave this turmoil before it is too late.”

The white head drooped as she spoke,–drooped low over the wrinkled hands clasped upon the jeweled sword handle. Dreams–dreams that had seemed about to come true in these his later years now faded before his misty eyes. He had thought to see, before he died, the glory of the former times returned; and now his queen was the first to call them dead. For the moment he felt himself as solitary as one returned from the grave. But, as she had said, if there were more like Otaballo, the kingdom would still be, without all this strife. His stubborn thoughts refused to march into the present. He raised his head again, still a general of Carlina.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “there is but one way in which a servant of the house of Montferaldo may save himself.”

And clicking his heels together, he had turned with military precision and left her. Then she had tossed the night long, dreaming horrible things. Now she sat in her private apartments staring with troubled eyes over the sunlit grounds. So an hour passed, when without warning, the door snapped open, closed, and she looked up, startled, to see Danbury himself.

Her breath was cut off as though her heart had been stopped, as when one thrusts in a finger and halts a clock. There was the same dead silence that closes in upon the cessation of the long-continued ticking–a silence as though the whole world paused a moment to listen. He limped across the room to her side. She saw that his hair was dishevelled, his coat torn, as though he had been in a struggle. Then his arms closed about her and she felt a great sense of safety, of relief, as though everything had suddenly been settled for her. There was no kingdom, no throne, no Otaballo, no cityful of malcontents,–nothing but Dicky. She felt as much at peace as when they used to sit in the garden together. All this other confusion had been only some story which he had told her. But in a minute he drew back from her and thrust the present in again.

“Come,” he whispered, “we must hurry.”

“But Dicky–what is it?”

“The city is up in arms. We haven’t a second to spare.”

“And Otaballo–my general?”

He clenched his fists at the memory.

“Dead. They killed him and a handful of men at his side.”

“Dead–my general dead?”

“Like the brave general he was.”

She put her hands to her face. He drew her to his shoulder where he let her weep a moment, his own throat big.

“Oh, but they shall answer for it!” he cried. “Hush, dear. I’m coming back with a thousand men and make ’em sweat for that.”

His quick senses caught a sound without.

“Come,” he commanded, “we shall be cut off here.” He took her arm and hurried her along. They scurried down the stairs and across the palace grounds to a small gate in the rear. Here a carriage was waiting for them. Danbury helped her in and stooped to kiss her lips before he jumped up beside the driver.

“Now drive for your life!” he commanded.

The whip fell across the quivering flanks of the nervous animals and they leaped forward. The driver kept to the deserted side streets where they raced along unchallenged, but soon it became necessary to turn into the main thoroughfare in order to reach the water front and the boat. In the four minutes it would require to go those dozen blocks their fate would be decided. If the army had not yet advanced that far, they would be safe; otherwise he must depend upon a dash for it, covering the mob with the two revolvers he had. Eight shots to ward off the attack of a thousand men!

Danbury leaned far out over the box as the horses took the turn at a speed which almost swung the rear wheels clear of the ground. The animals had become panic-stricken now and were bolting madly ahead like horses from a burning stable.

But though the road looked clear they had not advanced a block before men sprang up as though from the ground. The populace had heard of the advancing column and such as had not already joined it prepared to meet it here. In order to avoid immediate suspicion, they were forced to steady the horses down to something like a walk. To Danbury it seemed as though they had stopped stock-still. He was not a good man in such a position as this; he was all for dashing action. He could hardly sit still. They received many side glances from the excited groups, but they passed merely as a carriage full of nervous foreigners. Danbury himself was not recognized. So they crept along and Danbury gained hope, until they were within two hundred yards of the turn which would take them out of the line of march. Then with hoarse shouting, the advance line of the revolutionists swept around a corner and directly towards them.