The Secret Witness

"In the keep, along the passageway outside."

"I see," thoughtfully; and then, "Do you know where I can find a rope—several ropes, stout ones?"

"I do not know. There is a storeroom."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And you can find it—in the dark?"

"I think so."

"Is there any way of telling when Goritz goes to bed?"

"I hear his steps sometimes in the corridor outside."

He went noiselessly over to the door, listened a moment and then returned.

"No sounds. There isn't much sleep for anyone here tonight. The noise and the knowledge that Herr Windt is somewhere near–"

"Herr Windt!"

"He has followed us here. I think he found a trace of me at Bartfeld—the village beyond the mountain," he whispered.

"But we might go down through the castle and the courtyard—if we could pass the man at the drawbridge. Does it make a noise when it is lowered?"

"Oh, yes, Hugh—a dreadful noise."

"That's awkward." He crossed to the door into the wainscoting and listened there, then at the other door into the corridor, and returned to her.

"For the present, at least, we're safe."

He caught her in his arms and held her silently. Her arms clinging to him, she raised her head and found his lips.

"Belovèd," she whispered, "how did you–"

"I followed you here—on a mere fragment of a clew—but it was enough."

"But he shot you–"

"I was well cared for—in a hospital."

"You were wounded—dangerously?"

"Yes, but I don't die easily. I'm quite well again."

"Are you sure?"

He laughed. "Could I be here, else? Your cliffs are steep–"

"You climbed–?"

"Yes, up a fissure and through the ruins. I saw you—there in the window—from across the gorge. I heard you call, Marishka–"

"Call–?"

"That you were not afraid to die."

"But I was afraid, Hugh—it was so far—so dark below." She shuddered.

He pressed her closer to him. "Has he—has Goritz–"

"Until tonight, Hugh—he has not been unkind," she said slowly. "I was sick; he nursed me. But I've feared him—I fear him still–"

He felt her body trembling against his own, and reassured her gently, pausing a moment to listen tensely for sounds at either door. And then–

"Don't worry, dearest. He cannot harm you. I was not spared from death for nothing."

"I am not frightened now, but tonight has been horrible—the noise—my terror of I know not what. It has been like the end of the world to me."

"The beginning of our world, yours and mine," he said confidently.

She straightened, drew away from him and put a hand before her eyes again. "Even yet I cannot believe." She looked up at him with a wide gaze that still held in it something of the reflection of the long days of helplessness and misery—something more deeply spiritual than he had ever seen. "Hugh, dear," she went on softly, "you will think it strange, but I—I have heard you calling to me—speaking to me, like a living presence here in this room. Not as you are now, belovèd, but paler.... I thought that you were dead.... And so when you came—at the door—I thought—I must have dreamed–"

"You were frightened, dear."

"Yes—terribly frightened, Hugh," she confessed, "by him—and by the firing. It seemed at times as though the castle were rocking under me. Listen!"

A terrific cannonading began again—louder, more continuous than any that had gone before.

"Yes—they are fighting for the end of the Pass," he muttered; "the Russians–"

"And will they–?"

"God knows. I pray–" he paused and scanned her face anxiously.

"What, Hugh?"

"That the Russians may win."

She started away from him, her eyes widely inquiring.

"Why?"

He smiled slowly.

"It's simple enough. Because if I am taken by the Austrians I shall be shot as a spy."

"You—a spy!"

"No, not really," he said soberly. "But I'm an Englishman, an enemy of Austria armed and in disguise. That is enough–"

"They—my people would shoot you!" She whispered, horror-stricken.

"I have no illusions about my fate—if taken–"

"But you have come here—to help me–"

"Unfortunately that does not change matters."

He put her gently aside and went for a while and listened at the doors, and then came back to her.

"Silence. But we will wait a little longer," he whispered.

Marishka caught him by the shoulders and looked up into his eyes.

"Hugh, what you have said frightens me. You mean that you—that we are enemies—you and I—because our nations are at war–!"

She drew away and held him at arm's length while she scrutinized him in the light of the guttering candle.

"You—my enemy, Hugh? I—yours?" A wan smile came proudly to her lips. "If I am your enemy, belovèd, then love and loyalty have perished from the earth. And you, who have risen from the grave to come to me–!"

"Sh–, dear," he whispered. "You must know the truth. Whatever happens—here in the castle, the Austrian troops are all around us. Herr Windt, too. There is no escape for me unless the Russians come through. That is why I hope–"

Marishka put her arms around his shoulders quickly and kissed him on the lips.

"Then I, too, pray that they may come through," she whispered fervently.

"Marishka! I do not ask you to give up your allegiance–"

"No, Hugh. I give without asking. Belovèd, I want you to understand," she said solemnly. "Those that are your enemies are my enemies. You would have died for me—and I, can I do less for you?"

"Sh–, Marishka," he murmured, "there is no death–"

"Death can be no worse for me than the horrible utter loneliness without you; but whatever comes, I am yours, Hugh—in life—in death. I owe no allegiance, no fealty, but to you, and I have kept the faith, Hugh, even here. I can have no country that you may not share, no compatriots that are not yours also. My kingdom is in your heart, belovèd, there to live while you will have it so."

"Marishka!" He caught her in his arms and held her long in his embrace, and she clung close to him, her lips on his in this final test of their plighted troth. About them the thunder of battle, ever approaching nearer; the rumble and din of groaning wagons on the road below; the hoarse cries of men; the whine and sputter of laboring motors trying to pass in the narrow road—confusion, disorder, chaos; but now they heard nothing. For them the earth stood still. Nations might totter and crash, but their Empire was in each other....

Renwick raised his head at last. "Marishka," he whispered, "it is time that we made a move." He released her suddenly, listened at the doors, and then moved to the table beside her.

"First, we had better put out the light—then perhaps we can see if there is anyone outside."

Marishka snuffed the candle, and they went to a window overlooking the courtyard, drew the hangings and peered out. The din in the valley below them was increasing, a hurrying of wagons, horses and guns in the narrow road. Were more Austrian reinforcements coming up? It seemed so. From the mountains beyond, the rattle of small-arm fire had risen to a steady roar, but the detonations of heavy ordnance were less frequent.

"The Austrians—may be winning," he said calmly.

She pressed his hand. "I am sorry," she said bravely.

But there was a world of meaning for Renwick in the way she whispered it.

"Your people shall be my people," she murmured again. "And your God, my God."

He could only return her pressure in silence.

He would have been little happy if he could have said how much.

Together they peered through the slip of the silken hanging to the rampart below. Flashes of reflections from the end of the Pass played like sheet lightning, and in the fitful illuminations they could see the figure of the old man, Strohmeyer, reclining in the shadow by the postern gate. The drawbridge was still raised, and beyond it they could see in the flashes, the length of the causeway stretching out into the darkness of the mountainside beyond. Strohmeyer did not move. It almost seemed as though he were asleep.

"What makes you think that Herr Windt is here?" asked Marishka suddenly.

"I saw him with Spivak yonder," and he pointed to the north beyond the gorge.

Marishka was silent, her eyes eagerly searching the shadows. Her hand was trembling a little with the excitement of their situation, but her voice was firm as she whispered:

"Perhaps tonight my eyes are uncertain, Hugh. But do you not see something moving in the shadow of the wall?"

"Where?"

"Of the causeway—there, beyond the chain of the drawbridge–"

He peered eagerly in the direction she indicated.

"A shadow–?" he questioned. "I can't—no—yes—it moves—there!"

"Yes—another and still another. And they are carrying something."

Renwick watched again for a tense moment.

"Windt—and his men," he said with conviction. "They are going to try to span the abyss."

"Strohmeyer–"

Here at least was a community of interest with Goritz. "They will win their way across, unless he wakes," said Renwick tensely.

"What is it that they are carrying?"

"Timbers—see! There are at least four men to each. They are putting them in the shadow of the wall. Will the man never wake up?"

"What can we do?" she whispered desperately. "I could call out to him."

"No–" he said, "I don't want to arouse Goritz yet. Ah! They have slunk away again to get more timbers, I think."

"And if they should succeed–?"

"They must not. One man could hold the place indefinitely from the protection of the gate. If the man would only wake!"

But Strohmeyer slept on.

"And Goritz?" she said anxiously. "Surely tonight he cannot be sleeping."

"Perhaps he is so sure of himself—yes—in the passage below I heard—there was to be a signal—one stroke of the postern bell–"

"But if the man sleeps–"

"If they come again—no matter what happens, we must warn him," he decided.

"Sh–"

Renwick felt his arm seized suddenly by Marishka's icy fingers and turned, following her wild gaze into the room behind them listening. The anxieties of the night had made Marishka's senses keen. "The door!" she whispered. "The secret door by which you came!"

Renwick listened. In a brief lull in the commotion outside, he heard a slight sound, near and startlingly distinct like that of a rat in a partition. Then in the blackness of the room, a gray streak appeared, slowly widening. The door into the secret passage had opened, and the starlight from the loophole beyond now showed a dusky silhouette. Renwick felt Marishka's arm clutch his in terror, as Goritz noiselessly stepped forward into the room. Renwick had instinctively drawn the hanging behind him, and he and Marishka were in deep shadow while every move that Goritz made was clearly defined. First he took a pace toward the bed, then paused and turning struck a match and searched for the candle.

He was in shirt sleeves. Renwick had drawn his automatic and could have shot him easily. But murder, in cold blood—even when his life and Marishka's depended upon it! Renwick could not. He saw Goritz turn from the lighted candle and stare toward the empty bed and then quickly search the shadows of the room. It was a long moment before he saw the blaze of the candle beside him reflected in Renwick's eyes which peered down the barrel of his automatic.

"What nonsense is this—Marishka–?" he began.

But Renwick's voice cut the darkness like a steel blade.

"Don't move—Goritz. Hands up—high!"

"Who–?"

"Hands up, I say–" And as he slowly obeyed, "Now turn toward the bed–"

Goritz was now staring at Renwick as though he had seen a ghost, but he knew better than to take his hands down.

"You–" he muttered. "You're–"

"I'm Renwick," said the Englishman crisply. "Now do as I tell you or–"

He paused uncertainly, for at that moment, behind him through the window came the deep boom of a bell.

"The drawbridge!" cried Marishka.

"Ah!" came from Goritz's throat as with an incredibly swift movement he smothered the candle. Renwick fired twice and then threw Marishka to one side, but there was a crash of the door in the wainscoting, and then silence.

"He has gone!" cried Marishka somewhere in the darkness.

"Wait!" shouted Renwick. Some instinct warned him of the trick, and he sprang aside just as Goritz darted at the spot where he had been. He felt the rush of the man's body and turned, but did not dare to fire, for fear of hitting Marishka, so he ran forward toward the window and presently they met, body to body, clutching in primitive combat. The man's hand went at his throat, but he wrenched it away again—again. His arms went around the waist of his adversary low down, in the attempt to raise him and bear him to the ground. Goritz was now striking furiously at his head, and by this token Renwick knew that the man was unarmed. Renwick's furious rush brought them with a thud against the wall, where they fell, oversetting a table to the floor. Amid the broken furniture they struggled, in the pitch blackness, with their bare hands, for Renwick's weapon had been knocked from his fingers. In the rebound from the wall Renwick fell beneath, Goritz with one hand upon his throat with a grip which was slowly tightening, but Renwick managed to tear it away and release himself, striking furiously at the man's face. Goritz was young and strong, and Renwick's struggle up the cliff had taken away some of his staying power, but he fought on blindly in the darkness; grimly, like the bulldog that holds and ever tightens his jaws, no matter what the punishment he suffers. The bulldog against the wolf. Goritz was agile, and his arms were strong and wiry. He struck and tore, but Renwick's arms were cracking his ribs, squeezing the breath from his body. He struggled with an effort to one knee, and in the change of position managed to get the fingers of one hand around Renwick's throat again. They rolled over and over upon the floor, first one uppermost and then the other, but the fingers on the Englishman's throat were strong. Fires flashed before Renwick's eyes and the blood seemed to be bursting from his temples.

His grip was relaxing.... He felt his strength going. Then with his remaining consciousness he was aware of a warm moisture upon one of his wrists. Blood! Goritz had been struck by one of his bullets. With a desperate effort, he let go one arm and struck. The man's grip relaxed and he tore it away, gasping greedily for breath.

Marishka in terror had at first slunk into a corner, listening to the fearful sounds of the combat—following it with her ears from one part of the room to another. What must she do? Gathering courage, she passed the foot of the bed, and grasping for the table found the match box and managed to light the candle.

They were upon the floor near one of the windows over the valley, locked in a deadly grip, breathing in terrible gasps. She must do something to help—something—for as the glow fell upon them they seemed to struggle upward against the wall by the window, upon the sill. She could not make out which was which—but instinctively she seemed to realize their deadly purpose—death for one or both on the rocks below! The hanging at the window came crashing down and enveloped them, but they did not know. They were drunk with the lust of killing—mad!

Out of the confusion she saw Goritz rise smiling, straining with his arms, hauling Renwick over the sill. Death! Hers, too, then! With a cry of despair she reached them, clinging with her arms around Renwick's waist.

Goritz opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. He might have struck her down but he did not. Instead he rose with one foot upon the sill in one supreme effort to throw Renwick over, but the Englishman, already half out of the window, got his right arm loose, and swinging with all the strength left to him, launched a terrible blow at his adversary. It struck him on the point of the chin. Goritz staggered, lost his balance, toppled for a moment in the air, his grip on the Englishman's collar, which tore loose as he fell—out—into the black abyss....

Renwick sprawled half across the wide sill, but Marishka clung desperately, dragging him in—to safety. He toppled in upon the floor and lay motionless while Marishka hovered over him.

"Hugh–!" she cried. "Hugh!"

Renwick struggled up slowly, trying to speak, but his chest heaved convulsively, and he could only gasp meaninglessly.

"All—right," he managed to utter after a moment.

She got water and he drank of it.

"You're hurt—you're covered with blood."

"No, no–" he gasped, "winded."

"But the blood!"

"His. I had shot him—through the body."

Marishka peered toward the window and shuddered.

"His face—Hugh—I can't forget."

Renwick struggled painfully to his feet.

"Nor I. He almost did for me. If it hadn't been for you–"

"You'd have followed him, Hugh!" And then almost inaudibly, "Holy Virgin!" she whispered.

Renwick moved his limbs to be sure that they were sound.

"Close thing, that," he muttered. "Beastly close."

CHAPTER XXVII

BESIEGED

So desperate had been the struggle that they had forgotten the peril of the drawbridge. Shots had already been fired in the courtyard but they had not heard them. Now, as an awed silence fell upon them, at the passing of Goritz and at their relief from immediate danger, they were suddenly aware of the sounds of commotion outside near at hand, the sharp crack of small arms, the cries of men and the booming of the postern bell—calling Goritz—who would never come!

Renwick staggered to the window over the courtyard, Marishka's hand in his, and peered out. Somewhere a great fire was burning, for overhead the sky was copper-colored with its reflections, and below they saw dimly two figures crouching in the shadow of the postern gate. As they looked, three men emerged from the wall of the causeway, carrying a timber with which they approached the abyss, but as they neared the edge a flash darted from the postern and the foremost man fell. The others, with a rush, tried to cast an end of the heavy plank across the intervening space, but it fell short and went crashing down into the void below.

"They may be able to hold out for a time," whispered Renwick, "long enough to let us get away—come, Marishka—the ropes!"

He took the candle, and she opened the door into the corridor which led to the keep. Outside they met the old woman Ena, who was crouched upon the floor by a window, wringing her hands, half dead with fear. But she started up at the sight of Renwick, who led the way, and then looked in astonishment at Marishka.

"Who–?" she gasped, and paused.

"A friend, Ena," said Marishka. "Do not fear."

But she still regarded Renwick in terror, for his appearance, disheveled, torn and bloody, was not one to inspire confidence.

"The Herr Hauptmann–!"

"He is dead," said Marishka quietly.

"Dead! Herr Gott!" And she shrank back into her corner, her head in her hands.

But there was no time to delay. Renwick hurried Marishka down the stone stairway to the Hall, whence they descended to a lower floor to the storeroom.

It was filled with a conglomeration of dusty odds and ends, boxes, barrels, bottles innumerable, the relics of the hospitality of Baron Neudeck, but at first they could see no sign of what they were seeking. Above them shots sounded intermittently, and the roar of the distant battle never ceased. Renwick searched feverishly while Marishka held the candle above his head, overturning the dusty objects, and at last with a cry of triumph found what they sought, a coil of heavy rope in a far corner. He dragged it forth and examined it carefully. It was heavy and long. Was it long enough? There was no way of telling except by measuring in yard lengths, and no time to risk that.

There had been a long interval of silence on the rampart above. Had Windt succeeded in winning his way across?

He raised the coil of rope from his shoulder with an effort and took the candle from Marishka's hand, moving toward an arch to their left, seeking a direct way to the boarded door into the crypt. It should be in this direction—yes, the wine cellar—here it was—the boarded partition. Marishka took the candle from his hand again while he examined the fastenings—nails somewhat rusted, which would not resist leverage. He found a piece of plank which he inserted in the edge of the door and managed to pry it open a little, and then bracing a foot against the stone wall, made an opening wide enough to admit them.

So far, so well. They were within the crypt, but while Marishka waited, Renwick pulled the partition back into place to hide their mode of retreat if the gate above were taken. Then moving rapidly along the tunnel they reached the steps which led to the watchtower, where Renwick snuffed the candle; and they climbed, emerging at last among the ruins with their precious rope. If they could get down they would crawl through the bushes and undergrowth, making their way before daylight to the house of the peasant who had sheltered him last night. Another sum of money would secure their immunity—at least for the present.

To the northward, the sky was vividly aglow with the reflection of the flames of a burning house—fired perhaps by the shells of the Russians, which still seemed to be bursting not far away. And now their acrid fumes were poisoning the clean night-wind from the north. Below them in the valley they still heard the sounds of passing transport, and the hoarse calls of men. The battle for the head of the Pass was desperate—but with such reënforcements, the Austrians would hold it. The crackle of small arms after a slight lull rose in intensity to a continuous roar. And while Renwick was making the end of his rope fast around a huge granite block, there was a tremendous explosion which seemed to tear the bloody sky to tatters.

"A magazine or a mine," muttered Renwick.

She smiled at him bravely, and resumed her watch of the windows of the castle. Here in the open, hidden from the courtyard beyond the bulk of the buildings, they could hear nothing of what was passing at the drawbridge gate. The silence seemed ominous. Had Windt's men succeeded in bridging the gap? As yet there were no signs of light in the castle windows, except the lurid reflections of the northern sky. But in any event there was no time to spare. Renwick tied a large knot and a loop in the end of the rope and then carefully lowered it over the northern wall, measuring its length by his arms, as it went over. Fifty yards, sixty, seventy, eighty—when it stretched taut. Eighty yards! Sick with anxiety, he crawled upon his stomach to the edge of the precipice and peered over into the abyss.

The rope swung like a giant pendulum from side to side. By the luminous heavens he could just see the loop at its end—at least seventy feet from the counterscarp. Seventy feet—or fifty or even twenty-five—for Marishka sure death among the welter of jagged rocks below!

Slowly he rose and faced her. She read the truth in his dejection.

"The rope is too short," he muttered.

She caught him by the hand.

"I can climb down by–"

"No, no," he said in sudden horror, "it is not to be thought of. You, at least, are safe."

"But you–?"

"Perhaps something may happen. We can at least hide in the wall. They may not find us. Come."

He descended into the hole among the broken masonry and lowered Marishka gently beside him, and there for a moment upon the stairs he held her in his arms while they listened again for noise of pursuit along the dark passage. Silence.

She drew his head down until their lips met.

"Your fate, Hugh—whatever it is—shall be mine."

He smiled in the darkness. A love like this was worth fighting for. "We shall win—somehow," he whispered, "we must!"

Together slowly they retraced their steps to the crypt, where they lighted the candle and listened again, and now, faintly above, they heard the sound of a shot.

"They have not won through yet, Marishka," he said. "My cause is Goritz's now. We must hold the gate."

"I am not afraid," she said. "We can still fight."

He looked at her pale face in admiration, for the fire of resolution glowed in her eyes.

"Yes," he muttered grimly, "we can still fight." And then, "Are there any weapons here?"

"In the armory—come!" And she led the way up the stair. But as they searched the Hall, Ena hobbled down the stone stairway from above, shrieking, and threw herself at their feet. They could not make out what she said, but Renwick rushed to the door and peered out toward the postern. Upon the flagging, a figure lay motionless, and the other man was nowhere to be seen. But worse than that, as though aware of their advantage, in the causeway beyond, several men were advancing, bearing another timber. Renwick's eye appraised the situation hurriedly and he planned quickly, for delay would be fatal. As he reloaded the clip of his automatic he ordered quickly.