The Golden Bough

"As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me-"

He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead toward the front of the house, but the girl stood before him and faced her compatriot, who had sank again in his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.

"For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited voice. "For shame! That you should be so inhospitable! The man is dead upon his feet and you send him out into the night-to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"

"An escaping prisoner! A slave!" He rose from his chair, brushing his hair back with a wild gesture. "You were a slave, were you not-a slave to the Germans? Answer me."

Had the man suddenly gone mad? Or was the brain of the Légionnaire suffering from a delusion of its own weariness? What was the meaning of this extraordinary conversation? What the significance of this sudden and strange hostility? And what difference could it make to this man Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a slave or not?

The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.

"A slave?" he replied. "One might call it that. I worked like a dog upon a railroad. I was chained to the man next me, and would have been shot had I attempted resistance."

The result of this innocent explanation was still more surprising.

"There!" cried the Russian, wildly exhorting the girl. "Did I not tell you so? A slave-an escaping slave-here at Nemi. Let him go, I say, or I shall not answer for the consequences."

"Of course, Monsieur-" said Rowland.

But at a sign from the girl, the American paused at the door and stood, his weariness forgotten in the curious dialogue that followed, which seemed to plunge him deeper into the mystery of this strange couple and the house of the walled garden. The girl Tanya crossed the room swiftly and noiselessly and laid her hand upon the arm of Kirylo Ivanitch, who now paced to and fro before the fireplace, like some caged beast, his head lowered, seeming not to see but furtively watching the dusty boots of the astonished fugitive.

"It is not possible, Kirylo," she said softly. "He knows nothing. Would he not have broken IT at once? Who was to have prevented him? Not I. He is merely a boy and free from guile. Can you not see?"

"It is dangerous for him to remain," gasped the Russian.

"It is more dangerous for you to indulge these mad fancies. IT is safe yonder. Go and see for yourself. I, Tanya Korasov, will vouch for this weary fugitive. But you shall not turn a loyal ally of Russia out into the night. Tomorrow he shall go forth and you shall send him, refreshed and safely conducted to the border of France, when he will go and fight your battles and mine, with the common enemy of Humanity. Do you hear?"

He stared at her, sullenly.

"I shall conduct him nowhere. I wish him to go," he said.

But the girl stood her ground, continuing calmly:

"Tomorrow morning you shall give him a suit of civilian clothing and he will go upon his way, thanking you, Kirylo Ivanitch. That is all."

"A boy? Yes. No doubt… But Destiny is too strong. Italian! What if-"

He paused, running his bony fingers through his long hair.

"Impossible. It cannot be," she soothed him.

"I have much to do-tomorrow or next day they are coming-the conference is momentous. If anything should-"

"Sh-! He shall be gone."

The girl turned to the American as though to atone for the strange conduct of her compatriot, and smiled graciously.

"You will forgive the whim of Monsieur Ivanitch, I am sure. He works too hard, all day, and most of the night. You would understand, if you knew his problems, his suspicions, his labors."

"I'm still willing to go, Mademoiselle, if Monsieur still desires it-" said Rowland easily.

For a moment they had been lost in each other. A gasp from the direction of the fireplace, and as they turned, Kirylo Ivanitch fled past them silently and out into the darkness of the night. The look the American sent after him gave the girl a true vision of what was passing in his mind.

"You think that he is mad," she said soberly. "It is not so. An obsession-" she paused abruptly as though the words had been stifled upon her lips and shrugged lightly. "I can tell you nothing-but on this I am resolved. You shall not be sent forth tonight or taken tomorrow when France, my country's ally, needs you yonder."

He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. And then, with a joyous smile:

"I shall fight the better for the memory of this hour. Whatever your mission here, Mademoiselle, God grant you success in it. And for the part of one soul which passes yours like a ship in the night, I pray that we may meet again."

"It shall be so, perhaps," she said easily, though she flushed at the warmth of his words.

"When a razor and a bath shall have made me once more a gentleman," he added with a laugh.

"Perhaps that may be tomorrow?" she returned gaily.

The roguish smile that had died still-born upon her lips, there, earlier, in the garden, came suddenly upon the sweetness of her lips and gave them new lines of loveliness, which made him glad that she had saved it for the light where he might see.

She noted the look of admiration in his dark eyes, and turned quickly away, taking up a candle from the table.

"Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur," she said decisively. "For now you shall go to bed."

"I am no longer tired."

But she was already moving toward the stairway to the upper floors.

"If you will follow me-" she said calmly, and led the way up the stairs, her soft black robe caressing her slender ankles.

A lamp set in a bracket burned dimly upon the second floor, and he followed her heavily down the high, echoing corridor. A large hall, scantily furnished, dim and mysterious with many doors to right and left, a house, it seemed, more like a hotel than a villa, and more like a monastery than either. The girl led the way and opened at last a door near the end of the corridor, entering the room and setting the candle upon a table. In the flickering light which cast its shadows upward along her face she seemed to have taken again the character of the Priestess, the Shade of the garden, with the cowl and robe of mystery. Her expression too seemed to have grown more serious, though the golden nimbus of light was again entwined about her ruddy hair.

"Good night, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said gently. "Tomorrow morning you will find a change of clothing upon the chair outside the door. Sleep safely. If you fear-" she paused.

"Fear?" he asked. "Of what?"

"I forgot that you are a soldier. But when I go out, nevertheless, you shall bolt this door upon the inside." And as he turned to her in inquiry, "No. You must ask no questions, but only obey."

His smile met with no response. And so he shrugged and bowed.

"It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle."

And without a word, she was gone.

He listened for a moment to the light tap of her footfalls down the corridor until he heard them no more, when he closed the heavy door, bolted it and sank upon the small iron bed while he tried to ponder a solution of the events of the evening.

Out of the train of vague occurrences stood clearly the wholesome friendly figure of this girl, Tanya Korasov. Her robes, her cowl, the vestments of her strange association with the fanatic Kirylo Ivanitch, seemed only to bring her sanity, youth and kindliness into stronger relief. That she was a member of some secret association of which her compatriot was the head seemed more or less obvious, but what was the personal relationship between them? The man had intellectual power and doubtless held his sway as the official director of some sort of propaganda for the freedom of Russia, but his deference to the wishes of the girl made it also evident that she too was high in his councils. His niece? His cousin? Or was their relation something nearer, something-? Impossible. The man was fifty, the girl young enough to be his daughter. A relationship purely intellectual, more deeply welded by the bonds of a cognate purpose. But what of the robes, the vigils, the daïs in the garden, the strange dialogue about the escaping slave which seemed to have so large a part in determining his own status as a guest in this house of mystery? What was IT? And what the danger suggested by the final injunction of the girl to bolt the door of his bedroom? From whom? Ivanitch? From the shock-headed youth in the kitchen who had stared at him so curiously? Or from others whom he had not seen?

He gave up the problem and slowly removed his boots and tattered clothing which he tossed with some disgust into a corner. The order of the room reproached him, and tired as he was, he cleansed himself to be worthy of the immaculate linen, then blew out the light and with a sigh of delight at the luxury of sheets, he crawled into bed and tried to relax. He had thought of this moment for weeks, and how he would sleep if he was ever again offered a bed, but now strangely enough, his muscles twitched and his eyes remained open, staring into the obscurity.

Tanya! That was a pretty name-Tatyana probably. There was a fairy princess of that name who came to him suddenly from out of the mists of childhood-a princess with a filmy veil, a diadem upon her forehead and a magic white wand which accomplished the impossible. She was pure, she was beautiful and had happened long ago, before-before his rather variegated career across two continents. This new Tanya was a part of the night, a gracious kindly shade with a ruddy diadem and a roguish smile, which set aside the symbols of her strange servitude. He smiled as he thought of her and closed his lids again, but they flew open as though actuated by hidden springs.

He was aware of some movement in the house about him, the soft pad of footsteps in the corridor outside which went along a few paces and then seemed to pause just at his door. Then a murmur as though of voices in a low tone. Once he fancied the knob of his door was tried by a stealthy hand. So sure was he of this that he got out of bed and without striking a light, examined the bolt to reassure himself that the door was firmly fastened.

Then he smiled to himself and went noiselessly back to bed. The soldier Rowland was merely aware of a devouring curiosity. But presently the demands of his weary muscles vanquished even this, and he slept.

He awoke suddenly, as he had often done in the dugouts at the warning of the sentry, and started upright in bed, listening. The softness of the sheets perplexed him, and it was a moment before he realized where he was. No sound but the murmur of insects outside the house and the sighing of a breeze. What had awakened him? Noiselessly he got up and tried the bolt of the door. It was fastened. Then he stole cautiously to the window, and peered down into the garden.

By the star-light, he could dimly see the lawn, the path and the daïs beyond where he had first seen Tanya. His eyes, trained like a cat's to the darkness, during his weeks of night traveling, pierced slowly into every part of the obscurity beneath the trees. Something was moving there near the mound of earth, a dark figure with a cowled head and a robe. The figure moved forward slowly a few steps, peering from right to left and then darted suddenly around to the other side of the daïs, but always eager and watchful, near the mound of earth. Rowland seemed to identify the figure by its broad bent shoulders and shuffling walk as Kirylo Ivanitch. As the American watched, he saw the Russian turn and walk slowly toward the house. Beneath Rowland's window the Russian stopped with folded arms and looked upward. From beneath the black cowl the American seemed to feel the blazing eyes of Ivanitch upon his, but he knew that in his place of concealment he could not be seen and so he did not move. And presently, the man turned swiftly and went back to the mound of earth to resume his strange sentry duty.

Philip Rowland shrugged as he turned away from the window and went back to bed, grinning to himself.

"Batty," he muttered to himself. "Completely batty."

CHAPTER III

MYSTERY

Philip Rowland slept heavily until broad daylight when the sun pierced his window and cast a cheerful golden lozenge upon the white-washed wall above his iron bed. He stretched his arms luxuriously and as the events of the previous night came to him, rose and looked out of the window. A clamor of birds among the gilded tree-tops, long violet shadows along the dewy garden, and there on a bench upon the mound of earth which had perplexed him last night, a solitary black figure, quiescent but watchful. It was not Ivanitch or Tanya, but one that he had not seen before, for the figure wore no cowl and the head was clearly visible. So they had kept watch all night! The American laughed outright. The things that had seemed weird and even uncanny in the darkness were by the broad light of day little short of arrant nonsense. Mediæval flummery such as this in the fair sunlight of the summer morning! It was amateurish, sophomoric, and hardly worthy of the psychos of the intellectual mystic in the Prince Albert coat. Tanya, too-a dealer in magic and spells? He smiled to himself as he turned from the window. He knew women-they had a talent for the dramatic. But he wouldn't acknowledge even to himself that he was disappointed in Tanya. He wanted to keep last night's vision of her as a thing apart. She was his Goddess of Liberty. Whatever her share in this mumbo-jumbo business, she herself was never to be tawdry.

He was softly whistling "Tipperary" as he unbolted his door and peered out into the silent corridor. There upon a chair beside his door was the clothing that Tanya had promised him, a suit of dark clothes-not a Prince Albert, he was joyed to discover-underwear, a shirt and-blessings upon blessings-scissors and a razor! She had forgotten nothing. There is a delight in cleanliness that only the cleanly who have become filthy can ever really know. But this escaped prisoner found a secret pleasure in the fact that he was now to become Philip Rowland, gentleman, a person once known on Broadway and Fifth Avenue for the taste of his sartorial embellishments.

He bathed again, shaved and dressed in the clothing (which fitted him atrociously) and went down the stairs into the room through which he had passed last night. There was no one about and the door into the kitchen was closed, though an appetizing odor of coffee pervaded the air. He glanced at the books upon the table, a few novels, Turgeniev, Dostoievsky in French, some Russian newspapers and a miscellaneous lot of German and French socialistic periodicals. Socialism-of course-the veneer that might cover a rougher grain beneath.

But the most extraordinary object in the room, one which the visitor had not noticed last night, was a piece of ancient sculpture upon a pedestal in a corner of the room, a double-headed bust, one face young and beardless with shut lips and a steadfast gaze, the other older with wrinkled brows, a wild, anxious look in the eyes and a mouth open as though in horror. Around the neck of the double-head a garland of what seemed to be oak-leaves was carved into the stone and upon the pedestal, the inscription REX NEMORENSIS. That the sculpture was of a great antiquity was indicated by its worn surfaces and discolorations, and Rowland paused, studying it attentively, lost in speculation as to what if any connection this curious work of ancient art could have with the mystery of this house. Nemi-Ivanitch had mentioned it last night. REX NEMORENSIS-King of the Wood. But what was the symbolism of the two heads-the young man and the old, the young one, eager and fearless, the other old, anxious and terrified. Nemi!

Where had he come upon the name before? It seemed to echo to him out of the past. Nemi! A name out of a legend, written as though with fire against the darkness of a childish nightmare and then extinguished. A name of something beautiful and something unhappy, something dreadful and something fascinating-the name of a blessing or of a curse! He shrugged at last, winked cheerfully at the hideous face on the pedestal, and gave the problem up. Then, turning, he sauntered toward a door which seemed to lead to the front of the garden, but before he reached it a voice came from over his shoulder, and turning quickly, he saw the girl Tanya, standing on the stairway giving him good morning. Her black robes had been discarded and she was dressed quite simply in a white morning frock which accentuated the lines of the strong slender figure and answered some of the questions that her sober garb had denied him. She was young, resilient, full of the joys of the awakened day, and wonderfully good to look at. The two of them stood for a moment staring at each other as though they had never seen each other before, Rowland's eyes full of admiration which he made no effort to conceal.

It was Tanya who first spoke.

"You are so different, Monsieur Rowlan', that I wasn't quite sure-" she laughed. "If I hadn't known the clothes-"

"And you, Mademoiselle." He paused seeking a word. "You-are the morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead. I was not disturbed." He smiled significantly, but she seemed not to notice, as she crossed to the door of the kitchen and ordered the coffee. And in a moment they were sitting at a table in an adjoining room where the shock-headed man brought the urn from the kitchen and a tray upon which were eggs, butter and petits pains. Rowland studied the man carefully and noted a sharp look from the fellow as their glances crossed. But in a mirror opposite him he saw the man pause as he went out and turn and stare at him with so malevolent a look that the American recalled quite vividly his impressions of the night before. He was not wanted here. Whatever the affairs of this place it was obvious that to all except the girl Tanya, Rowland was de trop. As he ate he found his curiosity as to the strange actions of the men of Nemi gathering impetus. They were like a lot of Boches having a morning "hate." However hospitable the girl, it was clear that they resented his presence, and from a window, even as he sat, he could see the ridiculous black figure of the third man mounting guard over the absurd tree at the other side of the garden. But Rowland grinned and drank of his coffee, sure now that the eyes of Tanya Korasov had something on all those of a Winter Garden chorus rolled into two. But they weren't bold eyes like some others he had known. They appraised him frankly but without the least timidity. She had given him her friendship last night and until he went on his way he was her guest to whom the hospitality of the house was open.

"Monsieur Ivanitch," she said after a moment, and with as he fancied a slight air of constraint, "begs that you will excuse him, as he will take his coffee upstairs."

"Of course. I hope that I haven't interfered-"

"It doesn't matter," she put in quickly. "Something happened which disturbed him. He is overworked and often distraught with nerves."

"I'm sorry."

"He is accustomed to being much alone," she added with an abstracted air.

"I won't bother him much longer. I'll be off in a moment. But I regret to go without knowing something more of you, Mademoiselle. Your kindness in spite of the hostility of Monsieur Ivanitch, your fear for my safety last night-"

"I-I merely thought that-that if you bolted your door you would be able to pass a night of rest."

Her manner was not altogether convincing. He looked at her soberly and went on softly.

"I'm not a meddler by nature, Mademoiselle," he continued, "but I do confess to a devouring curiosity. The organization to which you belong is secret. I can perhaps guess some of its purposes, but the mystery which I have met on every hand-"

"I can tell you nothing," she said, her eyes averted.

"Not even that what you do is not distasteful to you?"

She lowered her voice a note.

"I'm not unhappy," she said slowly.

"Nor contented. There is a danger in the air, a nameless danger which if it does not threaten you, menaces those about you."

"Danger!" she said quickly. "What does that matter to me, when Russia, when all Europe is bleeding to death. I fear nothing-"

"Not even an escaping slave?"

The words uttered quickly, almost at random, had a most startling effect upon her. She drew back quickly from the table and then leaned forward, whispering.

"Sh-! You knew-?" she asked.

"You came here-" she paused and was silent again.

"Was it not that phrase which so profoundly affected Monsieur Ivanitch?" he asked.

She made no reply.

He rose from the table and straightened.

"You wish me to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment and then with a gasp,

"Yes. You must go-at once."

He shrugged, smiled and turned away. It was too bad.

"Of course I have no right to question you. But I should like to put myself at your command for any service-"

"You can do nothing. Only go, Monsieur."

He looked at her eagerly. There was a change in her manner. She too had at last turned against him. It seemed that she had grown a shade paler, and he saw her eyes staring in a startled way as at some object behind him.

Instinctively he turned. The door into the kitchen was partly open and half through the aperture, distorted with some strange agony, was the face of Kirylo Ivanitch. In the fleeting moment before the Russian emerged it seemed to Rowland that this was the exact expression on the face of the anguished half of the double-bust in the adjoining room, the face of the older man in terror and fury. But he had to admit that in the flesh and blood it was far more convincing.

Ivanitch now thrust the door open with a bang and stood, his arms, long like an ape's, hanging to the knees of his trouser legs at which the bony fingers plucked unpleasantly.

He did not speak to Rowland, though his gaze never left his face, but he muttered something hoarsely in Russian to Tanya-an angry phrase, the tone of which sent the hot blood flying to Phil Rowland's temples. He did not know what she replied, but her voice was pitched low and had a note of contrition that still further inflamed him. Last night he had thought Ivanitch merely an eccentric zealot unnerved by too much work. Now he seemed surely mad, a maniac not far from the verge of violence.

The Russian took a pace forward toward the American who stood his ground, conscious of a rising anger at the inhospitality and a growing desire to see the thing through, whatever happened. But a glance at Tanya found her gaze fixed on him with a look so earnestly appealing, that he suppressed the hot words that had risen to his tongue.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Ivanitch," he said coolly, taking refuge in the formal French phrase, "to have so far strained the hospitality of Nemi-"

"Go then-" growled the Russian, pointing toward the door.

The voice was brutal, harsh, inhuman and challenged all that was intemperate in Rowland, aroused again the reckless venturing spirit that had sent him forth to deal with the primitive forces of evil. He leaned forward toward the distorted face, his arms akimbo, and stared the Russian in the eyes.

And then a strange thing happened. The blaze in the Russian's eyes was suddenly extinguished. It was as though a film had passed over them, leaving them pale, like a burnt out cinder. His jaw fell too, his arms flapped aimlessly a moment and then fell to his sides as he retreated through the open door into the kitchen.

"Go!" he whispered querulously, as though his voice too had been burnt out. "Go!"

As the man disappeared, Rowland relaxed and turned toward Tanya with a shrug.

"A madman!" he muttered. "You can't stay here, Mademoiselle Korasov."

"It's nothing," she said breathlessly. "When you are gone, he will recover. You must go now, Monsieur. Hurry, or harm will come-"

"To you?" eagerly.

"To you, Monsieur."

"I'm not frightened," he said with a grin.

"I know. But you must go at once. Here. This way. The gate is in the garden wall." And she opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. He took up the cap she had provided for him and paused a moment to offer her his hand.

"I thank you again, Mademoiselle."

She touched his fingers lightly but he caught her own and held them a moment.

"Good-by," he said gently.

"God bless and preserve you, Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered.