SERIAL STORY A ROYAL WARD.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 322, 23 February 1910, Page 6

SERIAL STORY A ROYAL WARD.

By PERCY BREBXER.

(Published by Special Arrangement.) CHAPTER X. (continued). Ho had not lo wait long. Someone moved- -a quick, determined step —and tlicii rapidlv-leeling lingers were into a pocket in tlie breast of bis coat. With a sudden twist of bis 1 body, Dubuisaon jerked iiis arms free, lie made an attempt to throw oil the cloak from ins bead, but, failing, seized the arm of the man whose hand was still in his pocket, and with this to guide him found the way to bis throat. "Speak!" he cried, gripping liis adversary's throat until the bead jerked ■backwards'. "Speak! Do you bear I Let me know what land of scoundrels 1" have to deal with."

It may be that Dubuisson defeated bis own ends, that he gripped too hard, that the man could not speak; at any rate, only a choking answered him. For a few moments he swung this way and that, holding to his adversary as a hound will to the animal it attacks. Blinded by the cloak which he could not rid himself of, he was" at a. disadvantage, but although his enemy was a big and heavy man, he could not tear those steel-like fingers from his throat.

"Speak!" Dubuisson answered, tightening his grip as though he were determined that one of hia enemies at least should .not es'cape; and then the man's strength seemed to die out suddenly, and he fell in a heap, carrying Dubuisson down with him. "'Speak!" He might as well have demanded speech from the dead, for all the man's power to obey him. Death surely nvould have come speedily but for his companions. They had been taken entirely by surprise. The attack was so unexpected that for a moment they s'tood inactive, and when they did move +*» the rescue it was difficult to lay hold of those turning, struggling figures. It was all done so quickly, and only a very short space had elapsed before Dubuisson fell, with his knee upon his enemy's chest. In that posture he was' easier to deal with. The cloak was seized, twisted and jerked savagely, and one man catching up a heavy stick, swung down a savage blow which stretched Dubuisson unconscious upon the floor.

"And if he's dead it's' of no great consequence," he said. At last someone had spoken, but it was too late for Victor Dubuisson to identify his enemies. Light struggled presently out of the darkness, coming feebly and reluctantly. A long silence was broken by the slow rumbling of a heavy waggon, which passed on its way and left silence again behind in; but not for long. Another waggon, then two which met, and there were hoarse shouts as the drivers greeted each other; then came a lighter conveyance, the sharp rattle of its wheels merged into a very crowd of sound which, from a far-off murmur, grew into an endless roar. Hars'h voices continuously cut the air with raucous cries, dominatec now una again by a more musical note or tne quick chatter of children as they ran.- So for many hours the ceaseless racket continued, which speaks or crowded lite and the business of it.

Out of oblivion came creams presently, restless visions which troubled their victim and twitched his limbs into con- , vulsive movement;" dreams which, after j a time, began to absorb something of ; the noisy strife of the world, in which were mingled slowly - turning wheels j which grated and skidded over uneven 1 stones, and voices which seemed to ■ mumble through thick banks of fog. ', The dreamer woke slowly and painfully, . his first consciousness unable to dis- ! tinguish between the real and the unreal, and with no desire to make tne effort. He fell back into a dream ' again, but there was no sudden starti ing of his limbs now. and his' deep . breathing came regularly. At length he roused again with a wider eonscious- ; ness, and memory began to piece to- ; gether the past out of broken fragi ments. Then Dubuisson raised himself ; upon his elbow, stiffly and awkwardly • enough, for his head seemed pierced ; through and through with red-hot irons', ' and a rope was bound tightly round his : ankles. Gradually he recalled what had ; happened, and he wondered whether the ! man whose throat he had held was ; lying near Him. At firat he supposed i he was in darkness, but his eyes, be- ; coming accustomed to their surround- : ings, began to make out dim objects about him—a box standing on end inmost within his reach, a heap of old ; sacking, and, quite close to him, a cup. • He took this up—there was wine in it — i and, without considering the wisdom of his action, ha drank it to the dregs. It was pleasant to his hot and parched throat. His energy was not sufficient to arouse him to action or even to plan any action. He was' content to lie there and take in his surroundings by degrees. The puzzle was not completely fitted together as yet. He was not in actual darkness, and the fact contented him for a time: then he began to speculate where the dim light whicTT turned the darkness into gloom came from. I There was a small grating set in the wall close to the top of the room, which was not very high. He became aware that not only lighf came through the grating, but s'ounds—a multitude

of sounds which had ::•> very defiiiilo i meaning for him. -jj.sron wheels and men's voices a;'a diss :;.:ce, what did they concern him? 'ihe wine he had drunk was strong, and lie felt inclined ; to sleep again. Suddenly there was a sharper sound wliieii startled him, a hurried shifting of feet, then a gruff, angry voice. "What is it?" ! "L think he's dead/' came the answer, in a lighter tone. "What does' it matter? If not to-day, to-morrow. It's naught to you. Get in with you." "Ah! you hurt me." was the answer. il Did f? So will this hurt and teach you better manners," and there was the sound of a blow and a short- naifstilled cry—a woman's cry. I That Victor Dubuisson did not move, that there was no quick intake of his breath at that helpless cry, showed how little he was' really alive, to his surroundings, how far outside actuality he still was; but, unconsciously, he had readied a turning-point. His half-dead faculties were quickened iTIXb new life. The words he had heard, and which wore almost meaningless at first, began to ring in his pats as though to wake him from his lethargy. For an ins'tant his brow puckered, he did not understand. and then his lingers went slowly to Ins pocket, not the one into which the man's hand had been thrust, but into an inner pocket, weil concealed and placed unusually, lie took out a small packet of papers and a broken silver cross. Then he remembered. "They failed!" he murmured in a low voice, although he may ' nave thought that he cried it aloud in his joy, and believed that the little smile tipon his' face was a shouting laugh of triumph. "They failed! They did not find them!" The intense satisfaction seemed to overpower him, and he sank back, his Lead resting upon his arm. There were no troubled' dreams now, only deep sleep. ■ < r The waggon wheels, turning slowly, rolled further away, the mass of s'ound broke up into detached units; short periods of silence came, then longer, and the gloom abortt the sleeper turned to darkness. So for a long time there was silence. Presently the door of the room opened slowly, stealthily; there was the glimmer of a lantern, and a man, wrapped in a long cloak, with a hat drawn down over his face, came in silently. He s'tood for a moment listening, then oti tiptoe he approached the sleeper. The door remained open, and behind him, even more stealthily, came another cloaked figure, but it did not follow him towards the sleeper. It turned quickly, and was absorbed in the darkness, and made 110 sound. The man bent over the sleeper and let the light of the lantern fall upon his face. There was no quivering of the eyelids. "He's asleep right enough," muttered the man, "and will be little the worse, either. I've a mind to finish it now, and say he died, He's roused ana drunk the wine, too. We're all going with a noose round our necks, and we're fools. Why not do it?" The sleeper stirred a ffttle, and the man stepped back, holding the lantern behind him, "It'll do to-morrow. Jake's throat'U be better to-morrow, though not so well that he'll be likely to forgive. I'll let Jake in. He's savage enough, and I won't stand for trifles. That'll loosen 1 the noose a bit ; and if anything happens to Jake —weu, he doesn't count i for much." i Perhaps the man was' hardly conscious | that he gave utterance to his thoughts; j and his fears for his own safety were j real enough, for the idea of a noost j was sufficient to make him slip his | fingers round inside the cloak at his , neck as though to loosen a s'udder ' tightening there. i "We'll make an end of it somehow 1 to-morrow," he said. With a last look into Dubuisson's fact to make quite certain that he was noi feigning sleep, be turned and went slowly to the door; but no figure rose j out of the shadows to follow him. He j went out, closing ■ the door gently be' I hind Mm, then the key turned in thf | lock, and grated slightly as it was' with- | drawn. Silence was in the room again j save for the sleeper's deep and regtti/tf breathing; a long silence —ten minutes, fifteen, perhaps, for the man who had gone out might have forgotten some* thing and return. Then in a corner there was a slight rustle, and a figure. ] that even the keenest eyes would have failed to discover in that darkness, groped its way to the door and listened tor a minute or more, ear to Keyn\£ae. Satisfied, it felt its way a'gain to tho corner, and soon a glimmer of light . shone there. The woman, for her form was no longer enveloped in a cloak, placed the lantern on the floor, behind' the upright box which stood almost within the sleeper's reach and where it was screened from shedding any' telltale beam towards the keyhole of the door. Going to the corner again, she' brought a coil of s'tout ropej and laid it beside the lantern. This accomplished.' she took a clasp knife from her pocket and severed the cords which bound the sleeper's ankles. He stirred a little, and she Dent down to look into his face. \ "It seems a sin to wake him," shei whispered, "twit I! must. It means life) or death for us both, perhaps." j She smoothed' the tangled hair back ' from his forehead gently, yet with sufj ficient pressure to rouse him. I "Waked Wake!" she said, speaking close to his ear. He opened his eyes, and they looked into her face. "Lady Betty," he murmured. The name was a keynote to his dreams'.

The woman heard. and understood. She liiid had dreams, waking dreams oi love, oiK'c; fair visions, though the dreamer was clad in coarse homespun. She had awoke long ago, and she had come to to-night. She did not know who Ladv Betty might be, but the man she bent over looked a worthy lover. ! "Wake!" she said. ! "What is it?'' said Dubuison. rawing himseif on liis elbow, quite unconscious I that he had spoken a moment before. '"Who are you?" "llusli! There is danger. Speak I low." i "Wiiere am IV I remember last night, : but ! "Not last night, but the night before." i Dubuisson struggled slowly to his feet, and the woman held up her finger to warn him to make no noise. ; "The night before," he murmured, j "Is it so long?" I "Yes. and you must go at once. The door is fast, but there is another way, which I have come to show you." j She pushed away the iieap of sacking, [ took up an empty case and set it noiseles'sly against the wall; then, stooping ( down, she pulled up an iron ring from i the floor. , "Help me," she said; "it is heavy." i Barely conscious of what was happening, doubtful whether this was real or still part of his di'cTtms, Dubuisson helped her to lift the heavy trapdoor. ■. I "This is the road," she s'aid, "and there is no time to waste." ' CHAPTER XI. LADY BETTY'S DISAPPOINTMENT, f "To-day, al three o'clock, Deborah, a j gentleman is coming to see me," Lady ' Betty announced, turning to a mirror. | perhaps to conceal her face rather than Ito see that her liair was in order, as i she pretended. | I "Somewhat an unusual proceeding, ' (isn't it?" I "That is why I take the trouble to specially announce the fact." j : "Does the Duches's know?" asked ] Deborah. 1 " The Duchess does not, and even if I should see her this morning, which is most unlikely, I have no intention of taking her into my confidence" I "Then why tell me?" ! "My dear Deborah, I have told you a great many things that I have never 1 mentioned to another soul. You must ■ ' know that." I | "'I certainly am not so ancient that j I cannot enjoy confidences. Indeed, j ; Betty, I must make a confession. I ! | find London vastly more amusing than jl ever supposed it to be." ' "Don't imagine that I have not noIticed it," said Betty, laughing, j "Noticed what?" And there was quite an air of alarm about Deborah as she asked the question. j "So conscience is a little restless, is it? Truly, you have become quite gay, and I never expected to find you patronising the ribbon shops so per- | sistently." j "A woman may grow old in the coun- \ try before her time." Deborah remarked v j sententiously. "In London some of the I women who must have been girls with jmy mother seem quite young still." J "All bought and put 011 like the rest I of their dress, Deborah," said Betty. I "There were several like that at Peter- ; sham House last night, and I s'pent half [ my time in trying to picture them in l the cold, early light of morning." . j "And the other half of your time?" ; "What else but in admiring my own sweet self in every mirror I could find." j laughed Betty. ; | "I thought you might Have spent it > i in captivating this gentleman who is to . call upon you to-day." 5 j "You know little of me, Deborah, if 3 I you can fancy that would occupy more ! j than five minutes." | "Come, what is he like?" j! Bettv looked serious and thoughtful ; for a moment. > | "Indeed, he is a very excellent gentleimanr a little over my height, but not [; ; sufficiently so to let him look down < > me; and his arms' and legs, and his head, j too, are all placed just as other men's .. are." > "Bettv, be serious. lam waiting to . ; enjoy confidences." t "Oh, but you are too early for them. .' There are no confidences as vet. I have | | told you that he was coming, because t thought you might consider it necesjsarv to chaperone me." . I Certainly. Of course, lam hardly ■! old enough to do it, but " , I "My dear Deborah, you are perfect in j the part on ordinary occasions, but this'. lis an extraordinary one. For once in • mv life I shall not want you, so you j' will hide yourself somewhere at three ..o'clock, won't you?" | "What would the Duchess say?" i 1 A great deal more than I should . have the patience to listen to, I do not J doubt," said Betty. "That is why I did 1 not tell her; she would be too tired after ,j the ball last night to listen to exnlana- | tions'." | (To be continued in next Saturday's | issue.) '( =====