CHAPTER III
On a flat open width of the Argentière road, a mile or so to the north-east of Le Prieuré, a little company of astronomers was gathered to gaze at the moon. They carried glasses and instruments; there was not the least air of privacy about their proceedings; the spot selected was open to all. There was an extension in the long tear of the valley in this place, the increased interval between the mountains being occupied by a humpish land strewn with boulders.
About eight o’clock of a September evening, this group of enthusiasts—drinking in lunar obfuscation; its telescopes, like so many glasses brimming with moonshine, tilted to its eyes—was joined by a single individual, whose approach from Le Prieuré, it seemed, had occurred unnoticed by it in its preoccupation. Nor did his arrival affect it now, further than to its tacit acceptance of his company as of that of a recognised kindred spirit.
The newcomer, taking a short tube from his pocket, applied the smaller lens to his eye, and joined in the general scrutiny of that placid orb, which floated over the mountain tops in a liquid mist. Gradually, and scarce perceptibly as he gazed, the others edged about him, until all were within a common focus of hearing. Then one, who appeared to have some precedence of authority, opened his lips, but without removing his instrument from his eye.
“The oracle, great Spartacus—hath it worked?”
“It is working, Ajax.”
“And Paris shall be deposed?”
“In time, in time. We move swifter to that end.”
“Swifter, swifter? But while we gather speed, he strikes like the lightning.”
“Defy him. Art thou not Ajax?”
“Ajax defied the gods. He had a quicker way with mortals.”
“What words, what example are these from a Regent? Is not the dagger alien to our policy? Hast qualified in the tables of our law to no better end than this?”
“Forgive me, Spartacus. I spoke in heat. But this man, he harasses us; drives us from point to point; forestalls our meetings with his devil’s wit, and rides the country like a scourge.”
“A faithful Prefect.”
“An Alva sunk in vice.”
“He shall be deposed. I say it: Cassandra hath prophesied it: Priam inclines our way. We’ll find a substitute anon more to our tastes. In the meanwhile, the sinews, the sinews, Ajax—they gather in strength—they—”
With the word he was gone—had dropped, slunk like a shadow behind a roadside boulder. The others, inured to all quick evasions and surprises, stood like voiceless statues, conning the moon. The next moment, a little company of horsemen, the hoofs of their beasts muffled, came picking their way out upon them from the black glooms of the stone-strewn hillocks. They drew up in the road, their leader foremost.
“A fine moon-raking night, gentlemen,” he said. “By my faith, a very constellation of enthusiasts! What! is that you, M. Léotade? and armed with nothing more defensive than a telescope? Why, my friend, you can hardly realise the danger of these valleys. I’ll see you home, with your permission.”
Laughing, urging, persuading, deaf to their explanations and protests, he got them apart, and invited each to take the road to his separate destination, while he made M. Léotade his own especial care. In a minute or two the place was deserted. Only Bonito crouched, undiscovered, behind his rock.
“Too good a servant to your master,” he muttered. “But the rod is already in pickle for you, Mr Trix.”