“TWO LOVERS”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 454, 8 September 1928, Page 22

“TWO LOVERS”

A NOVELETTE

By

ALICE D. G. MILLER.

From her photoplay “Two Lovers,” produced by Samuel Goldwyn and presenting Ronald Colman and Vilma Banky. Based on the Novel “Leatherface,” by Baroness Orezy.

CAFTER IV (Continued) Lenora drew back suddenly. A look of repugnance came into her face. “So,” she cried, in a voice that shook with emotion, “so, you are Leatherface. You, who dare to talk to me of love —you, the murderer of Ramon!” Mark said nothing. He met her gaze unswervingly, but he seemed scarcely to be listening to her. Above the rain and the wind the sound of horses hoofs approaching down the highway was plainly audible. Soon there was a clatter in the yard below. Mark crossed to the window. “Azar,” he muttered, drawing back quickly. Lenora laughed wildly. “Now we shall see whether Leatherface can get away so easily,” she said, making for the door. Mark was there before her. One hand grasped her wrist. With the other he reached forward and pulled from the bosom of her dress the document that she had stolen. “So it was Ramon that was your lover,” he said harshly, “I might have guessed it. I hoped to get these back through love, but you have forced my hand. Spy!” he added contemptuously. Furiously, Lenora pushed him back. She sprang for the door and before Mark could stop her she was on the balcony screaming to the soldiers who were just entering below. * Almost before the words were out of her mouth they were leaping up the stairway two ah a time. Mark had barely time to throw his precious paper into the grate before they had stormed into the room. In a minute he was roughly bound, hustled down the stairs and tossed like a mealsack to the stone floor. Azar leered evilly down at him. “So, Master Leatherface,” he said, lashing him cruelly over the face with his riding gauntlet, “and now perhaps you will tell us where William of Orange is in hiding?” Mark gritted his teeth as, for a second time, the glove descended on his face. Another and still another. A kick from one soldier. A lash from another. Mark’s senses began to reel. “Hold,” said Azar suddenly, “he shall not cheat us by dying just yet. In Ghent I can find a way to make him talk. The rack has tamed wilder spirits than yours, my fine friend. We leave within the hour. At sunrise we attack the town and burn it to the ground. Not one of these rascally burghers shall be left alive.” “Uncle!” Lenora had come out of her room as Azar was speaking. Now her voice rang out clearly and indignantly. "You promised when I agreed to this marriage that there would be no more bloodshed. Is this the way you would keep your word?” Azar grinned cruelly. “Go back to your room,” he sneered, “and do not seek to push your pretty little nose into politics. To-morrow you will be off for Spain again.” Still laughing, he called loudly for ale. Lenora walked back to her room, bewildered by the sudden realisation of her uncle’s duplicity and lies. “The burghers are right,” she exclaimed aloud, “Spanish rule is nothing by tyranny and cruelty.” She turned swiftly as the door opened behind her. A little servant girl with flowing pigtails and tearful eyes tood before her.

“Gracious lady,” she implored dropping to one knee, “Save him from those men. They will kill him. Oh, please, save him if you can.” Lenora drew herself up coldly. “And what is my husband to you, pray?” she inquired icily. The maid lifted her tearstained face. “He is my saviour—my protector,” she sobbed pitifully, “The Spaniard, Ramon de Linea, would have dishonoured me. But for your noble lord I should have been shamed. He heard my cries and at the peril of his life fought and killed the Spaniard.” Lenora stared at the girl. She shook her suddenly by the shoulder. “By all that Is Holy,” she demanded, “swear to me that what you have just said is true.” “Lady, I swear it.” The earnestness of the girl’s voice left no doubt of her sincerity. For a moment Lenora was perfectly still. Then a look of resolution came into her lovely eyes. “Have no fear,” she said, as if to herself, “Ghent shall be saved.” CHAPTER V. It wanted but half the hour to sunrise. From two directions, yet unobserved to each other, two detachments were approaching steadily on the Casteel. Along the high road from Brussels clattered Azar, with his armed troop. At the end of the cortege, Leatherface, bound securely to his saddle, rode stiffly, guarded on either hand. On the other side, hidden from view by woodlands, through the swamp and mire that led to the unguarded drawbridge of the castle, the fighting force of Ghent was approaching grimly. Half-swimming, half-walking, shoulder high in the treacherous slime, they came. Now and again one disappeared silently into the bog. From the tower of the castle Lenora watched them, with a look of alternate hope and despair. “God give me. strength to loose the drawbridge,” she prayed, “or all is lost.” As she hurried silently through the deserted halls to the west wing of the castle the events of the night before passed through her tired brain as m a dream. That wild ride through the storm, fearing with every league the pursuit of Azar’s men. The arrival at Mark’s home. The prayers and entreaties to the bailiff and his wife. Finally, the clarion call to arms that spread like fire from home to home. Breathless, Lenora reached her objective. The drawbridge was up, as she had feared. Six heavy chains hung ponderously from a pulley overhead. Impetuously she tugged at o'ne and then another. The solid wooden wall made no answering move. She pulled again. Grasping a chain in either hand, she let her whole weight hang from it. A tiny beam of light flickered above the heavy door. With a cry of joy Lenora released the chains. Instantly the beam was cut off.} The bridge was back in place as firmly as before. Meanwhile, a commotion overhead indicated that the duke had arrived. A feeling of nausea stole momentarily over the plucky girl. They would take Mark to the torture chamber—the rack, the screws, the branding . A sudden rage seized her. She seemed to feel a superhuman strength surge through her delicate arms. She tugged frantically. Again the beam of light appeared. Now she Was gaining. The beam of light widened to a crack. The heavy wall yielded outward a foot or so. A low murmur from the other side told her plainly that the brave burghers were ready in the swamp without. Frantically she tugged again. The cruel chains cut into her tender palms. Blood poured down her wrists. Her

PHRASES “Not worth while,” one was told some time ago, is censure of the severest when it comes from the lips of a society girl; and now one of the highest term of praise is the very mild appreciation, “Quite good.” Can it he that we are having a revulsion from the extremes of “marvellous” and “too lovely”? Perhaps the old Victorian “nice” will return in the end. gown was torn almost to ribbons. She seemed hardly aware of the stabbing pain in her arms. Again and again she let her whole weight drag on the chains. Now the heavy door was halfway down—now threequarters. With a sudden bang the drawbridge had fallen. Even as the Invaders swarmed upon it, consciousness passed mercifully from Lenora. But now the burghers were already in the casteel. Furiously they fell upon the guards before the central chamber. In another minute Azar himself and his Council of Blood had been surrounded. A score of burghers stormed to the torture chamber where Mark had just been brought. Shoulder-high, they bore him back with them, setting him down before the thwarted Spaniard. Mark eyed the duke grimly. He said nothing, hut sat down in the chair so recently occupied by the bloodthirsty Azar. He reached for quill and paper. For a few moments he wrote silently. “Here!” he said at last, thrusting the paper before the duke. “Sign, or you perish.” With glowering brow Azar read: “In the name of the King, I order the instant and permanent removal of all Spaniards from Ghent, and do agree henceforth to acknowledge William, Prince of Orange, as absolute ruler.” With a look of murderous rage Azar wrenched the quill from Mark and scratched his name below. The burghers looked toward Mark for further orders. “Take them away,” he commanded. “See that they are disarmed, and turn them loose.” “And what of your wife?” inquired the leaders. “We have taken her prisoner below.” Mark’s head sank heavily into his hands. “See that no harm comes to her,” he ordered, “give her safe conduct back to Spain.” I'riumphantly the men bore their prisoners outside. Mark was alone. For half an hour he sat thus, his head hurled in his hands, his brow throbbing. The rattle of a coach sounded on the cobbles below. Lenora’s coach! He did not stir.

A hand fell gently on his shoulder. “My brave Leatherface.” At the sound of that voice Mark started from his chair. He dropped swiftly to one knee. “Sire,” he said simply, “May God guard and preserve you for a long and happy reign.” Rising to his feet, he presented to his prince the paper which Azar had signed. The eyes of Orange were eloquent with gratitude. “To you and to one other am I indebted for this joy that is mine,” said William, deeply moved. “The other, my brave Leatherface, by all the powers, is a Spaniard, one who risked life and more in coming to our aid this day.” “A Spaniard?” Leatherface looked his surprise. “This same Spaniard now implores protection from us. What say you, Leatherface? The decision rests with you.” With a smile the prince turned to the door. “Come in, young Spaniard!” he called loudly. But Lenora had already crossed the threshold, and was walking toward Mark. Her violet eyes were shining. Even her tattered garments, her bruised and shaken body, could not dim the glory in her face. “Mark, will you forgive me?” The words were hardly above a whisper. “Madonna!” "Fatigue and suffering were banished like magic from the face of Mark. Smiling happily. William, Prince of Orange, tiptoed from the room. [THE END.]