The Golden Bough

"My-risk," grinned Rowland through his blood and sweat.

Rowland, thinking of Tanya and of Germany fought with cool desperation, his arms around Khodkine, crushing, crushing the very breath from his body. The man was weakening. Powerful as he was, his muscles had not been trained as the American's had been in three years of life in the open.

"A truce-Monsieur," Khodkine whispered hoarsely. But Rowland did not hear him and bore him back against the shelves to the left, where their feet stumbled over the pile of packages that Rowland had dropped, and they fell, Rowland uppermost, upon the floor.

All the fight was out of Monsieur Khodkine by this time, and he lay prone while Rowland, the fog of battle still upon him, clutched with his bony fingers even after the man had stopped resisting. It was only when the American realized how tired his fingers were that he sat upon Khodkine's stomach, somewhat bewildered as to what had happened, aware after a moment that his shoulder ached him badly and that his chest burned from his labored breathing, but otherwise that he was quite sound and cheerful.

"Do you give it up, you blighter?" he gasped in English, at last, relapsing into the argot of his platoon of the Legion. "You've got enough?"

A groan from the man beneath was the only reply.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked in a moment, in French.

"N-nothing," stammered Khodkine, struggling for his breath. "I-I am vanquished."

The situation was awkward. If Khodkine were strong enough, he might still slip away in the darkness. Rowland was groping about on the floor beside him for a weapon of some sort, when he heard a frightened whisper behind him.

"Monsieur Rowlan'-! You are safe?" Tanya was murmuring.

"Yes, thanks. But I'm afraid to get up. Can you find the light here-somewhere on the floor?"

"I'll try, Monsieur," she whispered. And he heard her groping about on her hands and knees among the scattered packages. In a moment she found the torch and threw its blinding glare into the eyes of the antagonists.

She stared at the sight of them, for the splinter wound in Rowland's cheek still bled freely and made dark discolorations upon his clothing and linen. But the American was sitting upon Monsieur Khodkine's stomach, blinking cheerfully at the light.

"You-you're hurt, Monsieur?" she gasped.

"Am I? It can't be serious. I'm feeling quite all right. And you, Monsieur Khodkine? Comfortable?"

The man groaned. "Enough, Monsieur."

Rowland straightened and released his wrists.

"There's about a million francs between his shoulder blades. Come, roll over a bit, Monsieur. The steel floor will be more comfortable."

Khodkine obeyed as Rowland relinquished the pressure, while Tanya stood dumb and motionless, as though the difficulties of their situation had driven her to her wit's ends.

"Let me-let me up, Monsieur," groaned Khodkine.

"Why? So that you can try to murder me again? Hardly. You've broken another Golden Bough-"

"And you-you have vanquished me," muttered Khodkine. "Kill me-or let me go."

Rowland chuckled. "Either alternative is pleasant to me-but one is dangerous."

"I am-am unarmed-also hurt," said Khodkine. "What harm can I do? You-you are stronger than I-"

"No. Merely more in earnest." As the flash-light wavered a moment in Tanya's hands it fell for a second on the rack of rifles. "Ah, Mademoiselle, I have it. If you'll give me the light," said Rowland calmly. And wondering, she handed it to him. "Now, if you please, take a rifle there and load. The clips, I see, are upon the shelf."

While Rowland held the torch, Tanya obeyed quickly and handed the weapon to Rowland, who after examining it and testing it carefully, got quickly to his feet and ordered Khodkine to rise.

"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Khodkine," he said easily, "not in cold blood, at least. And you're quite safe if you remain perfectly still, while Mademoiselle Korasov continues in the task you interrupted."

Khodkine, who had gotten to his feet with an appearance of great difficulty, now stood, quite subdued, still gasping for the breath which Rowland had squeezed out of him.

"Monsieur-" he muttered, his gaze shifting this way and that, "let me speak."

"By all means," said Rowland politely. "If you don't speak too long. We have other business."

"You blame me for-for protecting the Treasury of Nemi. How should I have known that your intentions and Mademoiselle Korasov's were innocent?"

"Merely by our guilelessness, Monsieur Khodkine," grinned Rowland.

Khodkine's smile was sickly.

"You are clever," he said. "I have done you an injustice. But why should we quarrel?"

"We won't. Our quarrel is ended. Is that all you want to say?"

"Let us be honest with each other. Our cause is the same-"

"Is it? Then I'm the worst scoundrel unhung. No, Monsieur Khodkine, we shall go our ways, you yours-I mine. And now," with an inclination of the head in excellent imitation of Monsieur Khodkine's satirical amenities, "if you will permit us, Mademoiselle shall continue our interrupted task."

Tanya saw his look of command, and setting the catch on the torch and putting it upon the shelf, and filling her arms with the bundles of bank notes, ran out through the door along the passage.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Khodkine, moving slightly toward the shelf behind him.

"Keep you safe until I can call the Council together." And then, as Khodkine moved another pace. "I would advise you to remain motionless. Another inch backward, Monsieur, and I'll fire."

Khodkine obeyed. The easy manner of the American had deceived him.

"What shall you tell them?" he asked, after a moment.

"That you had planned to rob the vault."

Khodkine laughed.

"This comes ill from you, Monsieur, who were already robbing it."

"No," said Rowland good-naturedly, "we were merely removing the notes to a place of safety."

"Safety! And you think these others will believe you?"

"They will believe Mademoiselle Korasov."

"Ah. Is not my word as good as hers?"

Rowland shrugged. "You're wasting your breath."

Tanya returned at this moment, gathered up more bank notes, and saying nothing, went running down the corridor again.

Khodkine moved his feet a little uneasily but did not move. And his expression which had been shifting through all the phases of uncertainty and apprehension, now broke into a smile.

"Monsieur Rowland, I admire your skill and sang-froid. You have a better genius for the game of intrigue than many more experienced. We should be friends, you and I. There is much we might accomplish together."

Rowland laughed and purposely lowered the muzzle of his rifle a few inches.

"Ah, yes, perhaps," he shrugged. He was a little curious for a peep inside Monsieur Khodkine's brain. "What might we accomplish?"

Khodkine's pale eyes examined Rowland narrowly. And after a pause.

"You are an American, a nation which has blundered into European affairs without cause. You, Monsieur, came to fight for France because you were born for the spirit of adventure-because you live upon excitement and have no fear. Is this not so?"

Rowland thought he saw where the fellow was driving but made no reply, for at this moment Tanya came into the room again, loaded her arms and departed.

"That's a correct statement," he smiled. "And I've surely found it here."

He lowered the muzzle of the rifle a few inches more and saw Khodkine's glance follow it.

Khodkine leaned slightly forward.

"You are taking this money to a place of safety, you say. That may or may not be. But you will not succeed in getting it out of Switzerland."

"Why not?"

"Because it is a long way to the French border. You dare not go into Germany. And the arm of Nemi is long."

Rowland looked aghast and the muzzle of the rifle dropped still further.

"I'm not afraid of the arm of Nemi-because," and he laughed, "it's my arm, Monsieur."

Khodkine paused a moment, shrugged his disbelief, and then in a lower tone,

"There is only one person who can help you get this money safely away, Monsieur Rowland," he said.

"And he is-"

"Myself. The German border is less than fifteen kilometers away. Once beyond it, I am safe. See!" And while Rowland watched him closely, he thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out some papers, one of which bore signatures, a photograph and a seal. "My laisser passer and yours, Monsieur, if you choose to accompany me."

Rowland's eyes opened wider and his jaw fell. This was the real Khodkine-stripped to the skin that had been born Hochwald. But the American made no reply and waited for the revelation to be complete.

Khodkine wasted no words, and his voice concentrated in a tense whisper.

"The money is negotiable, and will pave a broad highway from here to Holland, if one knows the ropes. You are not a rich man, Monsieur. Nor am I. Think what a great fortune like this means, even to you in America where there are many great fortunes. You will be a prince. I too. We will go together and the world will lie at our feet. Is it not a wonderful picture?"

Rowland heard him through until the end, when the look of astonishment upon his face-indeed more than half real-changed to sterner lines and the muzzle of the rifle slowly came up level with Monsieur Khodkine's breast.

"Why, you d- rascal!" he growled sternly. "You pig-dog of a thieving Boche!" he repeated deliberately. He paused a moment as Khodkine straightened. "You're a poor conspirator, Herr Lieutnant Gregory Hochwald!" he said with a malicious laugh, as Khodkine gasped. "Hochwald of the Guard!" he repeated, "Prussian Guard 1906-Secret Agent of General von Stromberg-Russian socialist! Bah, Grisha Khodkine. I've got your dossier. It's a sweet one."

He paused in some satisfaction at the consternation he had created in the face of Monsieur Khodkine, who was struggling hard to regain his composure.

"My dossier, Monsieur!" he stammered, still staring incredulously. "You are mad."

"Not so mad as I seem-nor so guileless-nor so even-tempered, Monsieur Khodkine. I ought to kill you now as you stand and free Nemi of a spy and Russia of a traitor. But I won't. But I'll draw your sting."

And then with a gesture, "March toward the door. Hands up!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Wake Shestov and Barthou-Ah! would you-!"

Rowland fired as Khodkine leaped back, crashing the light to the floor, and turned toward where he had been, firing again at random, cursing himself for his stupidity. The rifle was awkward in the confined space and as he ran in the direction of the door of the vault to head the man off, his foot struck something on the floor and he stumbled against the shelves. When in desperation he found his way to the door of the vault, it clanged shut with a heavy crash, and he heard the tumblers falling into place.

He was locked in, and Khodkine-Khodkine had escaped!

The nature of this disaster did not for a moment occur to him. He hammered on the unresponsive steel for an unreasoning moment, and then stopped to upbraid himself.

"Silly fool," he muttered. "What did you go and do that for? You might have known. You can't shoot, either. H- of a soldier you are!"

Suddenly the terrible meaning of his position began to dawn upon him. The vault closed-with Khodkine outside-and the combination of numbers that opened it unknown to anyone but himself-Unless Tanya-! He put his ear to the steel door and listened. He thought he heard footsteps in the passage-way outside and shouted her name. Silence. The darkness seemed to be closing in on him, like the silence, heavy-oppressive-burdened with meaning.

A tomb! And unless Tanya contrived to find a way to come to his rescue, likely to be his own. And yet how could Tanya-? He dared not follow his thought to its conclusion. Khodkine would find her there in the darkness and … Surely he would find her, for she would be coming back to the vault for him. Picard-Stepan! Would they know what to do? And even if they knew what had happened, how would they be able to release him? One by one he thought of the various possibilities and at the last was obliged to dismiss them all. He was caught-like a bear in a trap, and like the bear, raged to and fro for a while, knocking himself and breaking his knuckles against the shelves in the darkness, and cursing his own stupidity, and the wits of Monsieur Khodkine, which after, all had proved cleverer than his own. Khodkine had won-Khodkine, whom not five minutes ago he had been laughing at for his stupidity! Was it only five minutes or was it an hour ago?..

This wouldn't do. No time to be getting "rattled" now. Bad business. Dark as the devil, too, but not hopeless. Nothing was entirely hopeless unless one thought it so. Something might happen. But what? Short of an earthquake that would tear the mound and vault to pieces, there seemed little chance of anything happening except Tanya-and Khodkine would see about her. Rowland was forced to admit that this was a beautiful vengeance for Khodkine to discover, one quite fitting the Boche idea of the eternal fitness of things. To imprison a man, to starve him, to let him beat out his brains in madness against a steel wall, to smother him-

Rowland frowned into the darkness and whistled thinly. To smother him! The phrase seemed to have a new significance, the more terrible because of its simplicity. Suffocation, slow but certain, as he struggled for the exhausted oxygen. A matter of hours. The acid fumes of rifle and pistol smoke still hung in the air-already he seemed to feel that breathing had become difficult…

Imagination! He breathed quite easily and well. What time was it? Something after two, perhaps. He didn't know. What he did know was that he was tired as the devil standing up and that he wanted to sit down somewhere, and have a smoke. He felt in his pockets. Cigarettes of the luckless Ivanitch-and a box of matches. He struck a match and lighted a cigarette. The skull on the shelf grinned at him. "Silly beggar, to grin on and on for a thousand years. Happier though." He always grinned when he could. It helped a lot. But he didn't seem to feel like grinning now.

A thought came to him, and striking another match, he found the electric torch upon the steel floor, – smashed this time beyond hope of use. He threw it away from him in disgust and sat down on the hard steel floor, his hands clasped over his knees, gazing at the light of the cigarette. It was a singularly cheerful spot of light in the denseness of the obscurity…

Fool that he was-smoking here, poisoning the little oxygen that was left to him! Angrily he extinguished the cigarette upon the floor-and then clasped his knees with his aching fingers and sat uncomfortably waiting-waiting for what? A miracle? Could anything be expected of Tanya? And even if she succeeded in eluding Khodkine, how could he hope that she would know the numbers of the combination? He was sure that she had not even committed them to memory. And if she succeeded in reaching Shestov or Barthou and telling them of his predicament, it would take a long while to break into the vault, at the end of which he, Rowland, would be dead of suffocation.

He got to his feet, steadying himself by holding to the shelves. In the darkness it seemed less easy to coordinate the movements of his muscles… Suffocation must be something like being "gassed" – only less painful. He had seen fellows in the hospitals struggling for their breath and remembered how they looked-livid-green. This was different but it wasn't going to be pleasant. The pounding of his pulses seemed to echo in the still chamber. He moved slowly to one end of the room and reached upward. The ceiling was low, he could touch it easily with his fingers. Stupid to build a vault with a ceiling as low as that.

What time was it? Four o'clock-five? It seemed as though he had lost all notion of the passage of time. Was it daylight outside? He walked around slowly, peering into the corners, seeking a glimpse of daylight which would mean a breath of air for his lungs and a respite at least until starvation came. Everywhere-blackness. The steel of the vault was continuous. Kirylo Ivanitch had planned well.

Poor old Ivanitch. Good sort of a well-meaning lunatic! He was sorry for Ivanitch … but it hadn't been Rowland's fault. If Ivanitch had only been Khodkine!

Rowland leaned against the gun rack and fingered the muzzles of the rifles. He had wanted to die out there in the open with a weapon in his hand, rushing a trench and yelling Vive la France. That was the kind of a death for a good fellow-

Oh, well. He'd had a good time. He had taken his fun where he found it… But it was rotten luck that he couldn't show Tanya that he had been worthy of her confidence. There was no use crying about it. Somebody might come and let him out. If they didn't this was the end of P. Rowland. He lay flat on the floor where the air seemed very good. Might as well sleep as do anything else. Perhaps tomorrow something would turn up. The ceiling seemed to be closing in on him, like the Pendulum in the Pit. Poe was great on this sort of stuff-but Poe didn't have anything on him.

Once or twice he straightened, thinking that he heard a sound-a dull sound, somewhat like the throbbing of the blood in his ears, only … Imagination again. He didn't want to think-everything was black-even thought… He was very drowsy. It wasn't so bad, after all. Tomorrow perhaps Tanya would come… Princess Tatyana … Pretty name…

Then suddenly in his dreams the air was riven and his eardrums hurt him horribly as though the blackness in his brain were striving toward the light … And then-nothingness.

CHAPTER IX

SURPRISES

Zoya Rochal had watched the figure of Rowland until it disappeared among the shrubbery. Her brows were slightly drawn and her eyes, shadowed by her dark hair, peered eagerly into the half light of the garden. Monsieur Khodkine, it seemed, respected her intelligence. But it was a pity that he had sent out for Monsieur Rowland so soon. It would have required but ten minutes more to have hitched this handsome American to her chariot wheel. He was a nice boy and it would be a pity if anything happened to him, for it seemed quite certain that something was on the point of happening at Nemi, and whatever happened it was Monsieur Rowland who would be the loser. Against the will of Max Liederman she had chosen to throw her lot in with the new President of Nemi, because he seemed quite young, quite inexperienced and with good management could be made quite useful for her own ends. But she hadn't reckoned upon the speed of Monsieur Rowland's wooing and the sudden culmination of the adventure. She wasn't sure that she hadn't liked the spontaneity of his caress-hurried, boyish and quite ingenuous. She must do what she could to save this newly found admirer from the wiles of Monsieur Khodkine, and with this object in her general plan, she moved slowly in the direction of the house and encountered on her way Max Liederman, walking alone in a bypath and furiously smoking a long cigar.

"Ach, Madame," he growled. "So you've at last condescended. It's time-"

"Don't be a beast, Max," she said coolly.

"Well, this is no time for trifling," he growled.

"Sh!" she warned. "I'm not trifling. I've wasted no time. I've learned what I wanted to find out. Monsieur Rowland knows nothing."

"Does he look as if he knew anything?" he said contemptuously. "I could have told you that much. Khodkine twists him around his thumb."

"And so do I."

"Ach-and at what cost?" he muttered suspiciously.

Madame Rochal smiled up at Khodkine's lighted window.

"That's my affair," she said coldly.

"And in the meanwhile," he went on, "this precious Khodkine will get into the vault. Tonight, perhaps-How do I know that even now he hasn't the combination to the doors in his pockets. And I don't trust Fräulein Korasov."

"Nor I. She is much too quiet."

Liederman threw his cigar into the bushes, thrust his fists into his trouser pockets and swayed heavily from one foot to the other.

"Zoya Rochal," he said hoarsely, "you see how things are here at Nemi. While Ivanitch led our committee we were sure at least of a man pledged deeply to Internationalism and the socialist cause. It was his fetish. He was orthodox. He even gave his life for his convictions. And now whom do we find as Priest of Nemi-a friend of France, full of meaningless catchwords about Peace and Liberty-a boy from America, now the enemy of my country, ready to be caught by the first wind that blows. You, Zoya, voted for him. You have placed yourself on his side, – why, God knows, when with Khodkine he may work our ruin."

"Nonsense."

"I know what I am talking about. Khodkine comes with credentials from Russia, but that means nothing. You carry credentials from the Central Committee of Munich. He may be a Russian or a Roumanian, an Austrian or an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse-"

"That is not possible. I know-"

"What difference does it make to me? I distrust him. You may turn hither and yon for advisers, but no one may say that I'm not loyal to those who sent me here. In Germany I was born and bred, but the cause I serve is greater than nationality, greater than patriotism. And whatever others may do I am ready to give my life for that cause."

Zoya Rochal smiled at him charmingly and laid her slim fingers along his hairy cheek and their touch seemed to quiet him.

"No one doubts your honesty, my great bear," she said with a laugh. "You may not always be pleasant, but you always have the courage of conviction."

"And what thanks do I get?" he growled.

"Mine," she whispered, running a hand through his arm.

"Bah!" he shrugged.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Nothing, except not to play with fire."

"You've planned something?"

"Yes," he growled. "And I'm going to do it, to-night."

She turned up toward him in eager inquiry.

"What?"

"I'm going to take no further chances with this situation."

"Are you serious?"

"Am I ever anything else? The money in the vault belongs to the Society of Nemi and the essence of the Society of Nemi-is Socialism. While I live, that money shall be spent in no other service."

"That is right, but you're not sure-"

"I trust no one here. And as the Council stands I can be out-voted. Shestov, Barthou, Colodna, Khodkine-and this young sprig of a Yankee. And the others-? We can't be sure of them. Most of this money should be appropriated for immediate use tomorrow, in Germany, in Austria, in Russia and Italy. And yet what assurances have we that it will not be wrongly used even, if used at all-or that Monsieur Khodkine this very night may not make away with it."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Take it, tonight-myself."

"You-!"

Max Liederman shook his massive shoulders and tapped her with a kind of elephantine playfulness upon the hands.

"Did you ever know me to make a boast that I couldn't fulfill?" Then in a hoarse whisper. "I'm going to break into the vault."

"You are prepared?"

"Yes. I've been prepared for a long time. I always believe in being ready for emergencies."

"Do you need my help-"

"Your society, chère Zoya, let us say-"

"When will you do this?"

"Toward morning. I have a drill and explosives. With luck I should succeed in something over an hour."

"And the money? Where shall you take it?" Zoya asked.

"Away from here to a safer place. Will you go with me?"

"Suppose you fail?"

He smiled grimly. "I won't fail. There's no watch kept upon the Tree. Will you meet me here?"

"At what hour?"

"At three. It is the hour of deepest slumber. Your room adjoins mine upon the other side of the house. You must sleep soundly, for we may have to travel far."

Madame Rochal stood in a moment of silence and then assented.

"I see I've not put my faith in you for nothing, Max," she said quietly.

"I've told you," he muttered, "that I've always been worth considering. You shall see- Will you kiss me, Zoya?"

She made a little moüe at him and then obeyed with the deftness of one skilled in illusions.

"There, my great bear," she laughed. "And you'll wake me?"

"Yes. Now go and get your beauty sleep."