CHAPTER XXXII.
THEODORA'S ERRAND—FATAL NEWS—THE MYSTERY DEEPENS—HER
RESOLVE—TO THE VILLA—INTERVIEW WITH HARKAWAY—THE VOICE FROM THE
GRAVE—A HEART OF GOLD.
Theodora now made her way with all speed to the waterside prison, to which allusion has been previously made.
The head gaoler of this prison had a daughter of the same age as Theodora.
His wife had nursed them both as babes, and Theodora looked upon them as her parents, and on the girl as her sister.
To them she was wont to appeal at any time of trouble, and now she came to tell them her cares.
She asked for her foster sister, and called her aside.
"What is it now, Theodora dear?" asked the gaoler's daughter, anxiously. "You look quite pale and haggard."
Theodora shook her head sadly.
"I have got involved in a matter in which I am responsible."
"But the evil is over?"
"No."
"As far as you are concerned, is it, dear?"
"No; I say no. Are not our men to be executed for the murder of the two boys?"
"And richly they deserve it," exclaimed Mariana.
"No, no. They can not deserve it for what they are innocent of."
"It is no fault of theirs," retorted the gaoler's daughter; "They are guilty in intention, at least."
"Well, well, Mariana. I am not so base that I could see them suffer death, knowing what I know—what we know, in fact."
"But you would not betray me?" exclaimed the gaoler's daughter, anxiously.
"No, darling. The necessity for danger to you—to us, I may say—is entirely done away with."
"What do you mean?"
"The gallant men will rescue their comrades on Thursday on the way to the execution."
"What!" said Mariana; "Thursday!"
"Yes."
"Then you don't know," she exclaimed, with a wild scared look.
"Know what?"
"That it has been changed. They are to be executed in the morning."
Theodora gave a cry of terror and staggered back.
"No, no, Mariana," she said, wildly; "it is impossible."
"It is true"
"When was this made known?"
"Just now."
"Why was it altered?"
"Because they have discovered that an attack was meditated by the brigands upon the way to execution on Thursday."
"Impossible!" cried Theodora, starting up. "Why, it was only just agreed upon. I have left them not two hours ago, and it was then that they came to this resolution."
"It is already known here. A messenger from the great Mr. Harkaway sought the governor with the news, and as Mr. Harkaway is all-powerful here, the execution takes place to-morrow morning at daybreak. It is said that he has his own spies in the camp of the brigands."
Theodora clapped her hands to her head, and paced wildly up and down.
"There is no way out of it, dear Mariana," she cried. "No way, no way, but one."
"What is that?"
"I will see this Mr. Harkaway, and tell him all."
"But you will ruin us all."
"No. He will be overjoyed with the news I bring, and will do as I wish—all I ask to repay me for the words of comfort which I have for him."
"I doubt it."
"I know him well," retorted Theodora. "I know his boys too well to believe the father so bad and merciless as you suppose him. All his enmity would be forgotten could he but believe the glad tidings which I have for him."
"Then the knowledge of this will risk all our lives."
"No; I am convinced that all will be well."
"Theodora!"
"Delay me not. My duty points clearly to that."
And before she could offer to interfere further with her resolve, Theodora was gone.
She fled like a deer.
Nor did she pause for breath until she was at the villa.
* * * * *
"Mr. Harkaway will not see anyone," said the servant.
She eyed the panting girl with suspicion, as Theodora leant for support by the door, while her left hand clasped her beating heart.
The tragic events of the past few weeks, and the murder of Marietta in Mrs. Harkaway's bedchamber, had led them to distrust every body and every thing.
"I must see him," gasped Theodora.
"Impossible," returned the girl curtly; "call to-morrow in the afternoon."
"Afternoon," returned Theodora. "After six in the morning will be too late. It is life and death, I tell you. Go and tell him."
"Obstinate girl, I tell you Mr. Harkaway has serious business on at daybreak, and has gone to rest, giving the strictest orders that he is not to be disturbed."
"Call him," returned Theodora, with forced calmness, "and he will have no need to go on this business at daybreak."
"Hah!"
"Do you hear?"
The girl retreated backwards, never moving her eyes from Theodora.
"This is some hired assassin." she thought. "They can't tackle my master, and knowing how wary he is, they have hired a girl to do the deed."
She was about to thrust to the door, when Theodora, in sheer despair, burst in, and cried at the top of her voice to Harkaway—
"Mr. Harkaway! Mr. Harkaway; come, come and hear news of your poor boys, I say."
At this wild outcry in the middle of his house, Jack stepped out of his room.
"Keep back, sir; keep back," screamed the servant "She's an assassin."
At these words Harkaway slipped back into his room, and reappeared armed with a pair of pistols.
"Now, what is it you require, my girl?" he demanded of Theodora.
"A few words with you."
"Don't trust her," shrieked the servant; "I saw a knife in her girdle. Don't trust her."
Theodora smiled faintly.
"I am alone, unarmed," she said; "the great Mr. Harkaway, the hero of the day here, is surely not afraid of me."
"I am afraid of no one," returned Jack; "but I warn you, my girl, that if any treachery be meditated, each of these pistols carries a man's life."
"It can not affect me," returned Theodora, calmly. "I come to bring you news which will gladden your heart, and have no fear of your enmity."
Her words and her manner thrilled Harkaway strangely. He lowered the pistols.
He had her shown into a room, and followed her in.
"Sit down there, my girl, and tell me all," he said, trying to appear composed, while he was in reality singularly moved.
"I come, Mr. Harkaway," said Theodora, who had now regained all her calmness, "to bring you the most welcome news that ever gladdened your ear—that ever sent balm and comfort to your bruised heart."
Jack turned pale; he thought he had heard her speak of his boys before leaving his room.
"Speak on," he said, his voice faltering.
"Tell me, sir, what could I say that would restore happiness to you—to your wife—to your friends and home? What could I say to lift the veil of mourning from your house and hearts?—to restore the former gaiety to this tomb-like place."
Jack Harkaway listened as one in a dream.
"Girl," he said, in a voice that was almost inaudible, "you know not what you say."
"I am perfectly cognisant of all," she replied.
"Then your errand here is to torture me?"
"You wrong me."
Harkaway looked her sternly in the face.
And Theodora bore his glance without flinching.
"Your manner tells me," he said, "that you know better than any one what alone could restore happiness here."
"You are right."
And she gravely inclined her head as she answered.
"And you know it is impossible," he said.
"It is not."
"Not impossible!" ejaculated Harkaway. "Know you what you say?"
"Perfectly."
"Girl, girl," cried Harkaway, passionately, "the grave can not give back its dead."
"It does—it has."
Harkaway gasped for breath.
She was about to speak on, when the ghastly pallor of his countenance and its wild, haggard expression frightened her.
"Girl, go on, tell me," he cried excitedly; "do not play with me."
"Calm yourself, Mr. Harkaway, pray—"
"Go on, go on."
"You alarm me."
"Speak, in mercy's sake," implored Harkaway; "this suspense is ten thousand times worse than all the good or bad news which you could bring me—are you fooling me?" he added springing up and seizing his pistols.
"No."
"Speak on then."
"Your son Jack—"
"Yes, yes; my boy—my own darling brave lad—what of him?"
The girl suddenly turned pale. "Hark," she said, "I think I hear footsteps outside; quick! to the window; I think we are watched," and the girl sank in terror at Jack's feet.
Harkaway, with one bound, sprang to the window, pistol in hand, ready for use.
But it was a false alarm; and, having satisfied himself that there were no eavesdroppers, Harkaway returned to his seat, and the girl resumed—
"Are you able to bear good news?"
"Yes," he said, with a sickly smile; "the novelty would perhaps affect me—speak then—you said my boy—"
"Lives," answered the girl.
"Impossible," he faltered; "why, Harvey saw their grave."
"And I too saw them in their grave."
"In their grave!" echoed Harkaway; "and yet you say they live."
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"Close at hand; but I wish to ask you in return—"
"All you will—anything, everything—only bring me back my boys."
"I only ask to save the lives of the men unjustly accused of the murder, and who have been doomed to die to-morrow."
"Granted—why, it was granted unasked," said Harkaway.
"Enough," said the girl; "I see that I may count upon you. Will you come with me to your son and his friend?"
"Yes."
He sprang up with the greatest alacrity, but a sudden fancy crossed him, and he seized the girl by the shoulder.
"You are not playing me false?" said Jack.
"Look in my face and be assured."
He gazed long and earnestly at her, and she bore his fixed look unflinchingly.
"Yes, yes," he said, more to himself than to her; "you are truthful—I am sure of that—but I'll not neglect any precaution; for my head is so sorely perplexed by all you have told me that I scarcely know if I am asleep or waking."
He pressed his brow with his open hands, and then looking carefully to the priming of his revolvers, he started out with the girl; and as they issued from the grounds of the villa, he spoke his last words of mistrust before giving her his whole confidence.
"You see, Theodora," he said, for she had told him her name, "I don't hang back. I freely confide in you."
"You do well."
"I believe so—see that my confidence is not misplaced, and you shall have no cause to repent it."
"Your words would imply a promise of reward for me; but I seek none."
"I am willing to believe it, but still my fixed resolve—"
"Your fixed resolve could not make me take it," said the girl, proudly. "I have told you my object in my present mission; I have no other."
Harkaway was greatly surprised at this, but as he stole a sidelong glance at her, surprise was not the only expression in his face.
Admiration was strongly mixed with it.
"Tell me where we are going?" he asked presently, as they got clear of the town.
"To the prison by the water."
"What for?"
"They are there."
"But in prison—how came they there? In prison! Why, then, without knowing it, I have been probably twenty times within earshot of both."
"Yes."
"How came they there?—no half measures now. Surely this is the time for revealing all?"
"And now, Mr. Harkaway, I will tell you all as we walk on. The seeming mystery shall remain so no longer."
So saying, Theodora began the brief but startling narrative which follows—and which may fairly be entitled—
THE DEAD ALIVE.
"Your dear son Jack and his friend Harry Girdwood saved my life when I was in danger of drowning at sea. They brought me safely ashore, only to fall into the hands of my remorseless companions, the mountaineers. Ah, I see you would call them by something less gentle in sound. Well, it was a planned thing. I was the decoy, but alas! I thought but little then how soon I was to repent of my share in that evil work."
"Go on."
"I will, to the end, even though you should learn to loathe me. Well, a price was put on their heads."
"Which I paid."
"You paid one-fifth."
"No, no; I paid all, as demanded."
"Hunston returned to the camp with only one hundred pounds, and they voted the death of the two boys. Poor boys! both brave boys. The bravest veteran on the battlefield never faced death with the heroic calmness of those two young heroes, sir."
"Bless you for those words, my girl," exclaimed the gratified Harkaway. "I am proud of my dear boy."
"I demanded their release—I implored—I begged—I prayed in the most abject terms. But they had felt the weight of your hand too often. They and theirs had suffered so much that I was powerless. I could only obtain one small concession."
"Say on, say on!" exclaimed Harkaway. "What was that? I burn with eagerness to know more of my dear boys."
"I was to do the last sad honours to the noble dead. Three were to be executed; one of themselves, a traitor called Lirico. By dissimulating to Hunston—the viper! how I tremble with horror at the very name—I obtained one concession—Lirico was the first to suffer, the boys were to follow."
"Oh, Hunston! villain!" groaned Harkaway, "villain!"
"The execution took place at daybreak. I waited on the firing party. When the wretched Lirico was dealt upon, I passed round and gave the men to drink from a spirit keg which I had specially provided. Then, while they feasted upon the drugged spirit, I passed round and reloaded the muskets for what they thought the final butchery."
"Well, well, do not torture me, girl. Quick, tell me the end."
"Can you not guess?"
"No, no. Quick, tell me all."
"In loading the muskets I forgot the bullets."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed old Jack, half-hysterically. "I see it all now, brave girl."
"The rest was no easy task. As the men fired, they fell back in the grave and simulated death, as I had instructed them overnight; and now you can understand how I saw them in the grave and yet can prove that they live."
"I do. Girl, you are brave and good; I know not how to thank you for the lives of my poor boys."
"The night before their great trial, I exacted a solemn promise from them that they would follow me to a hiding place without the least offer of resistance."
"I begin to see. But how did you contrive—"
"To get them secreted in the great prison?"
"Yes."
"You shall hear. My foster-sister is the daughter of the head gaoler. Her lover is completely at her mercy, and he holds a superior post in the prison. It was the only condition upon which I could spare the brave boys' lives, and so they were forced to yield."
"And all this time we might have been spared the bitterest agony."
She hung her head.
"I know it, but I dared not speak sooner, for I feared to betray my friends."
"You may trust me," said Jack.
"I know it, for I have saved your boys."
* * * * *
They reached the prison.
"Sebastian," said Theodora, presenting Harkaway to her foster-sister and the latter's lover, "this is Mr. Harkaway."
The Greek official bowed with an air of constraint.
"Theodora has told you all, sir?"
"Yes, you have risked much to save my boys' lives."
"Since I can count upon your forbearance," said Sebastian, "I will say no more. Follow me to the presence of the boys."
So saying, Sebastian led the way through the stone-paved passages to the tower overhanging the sea, in which the cell of the two boys was situated.
At the base of the tower were jagged, sea-beaten rocks.
Beside the tower, at about half the height of the tower, reckoning from the level of the sea, was a gravel terrace, covered with a waterproof canopy, so as to form a sort of shed.
And looking out of the tower windows as they passed up its steep inner staircase, Harkaway inquired what this place was.
"That is used as the prison mortuary."
"Those black, ugly outlines there are—"
"Bodies."
"Ugh!"
"They are put into those black bags in lieu of winding sheets, then placed into those rough wooden shells, which are lowered to the prison cemetery below by that crane you see to the right."
"A very poor look-out."
But away with such dull thoughts. Here he was on the threshold of new joy—new life.
"Your boys are here," said Sebastian, pausing before a huge barred door.
He undid the fastenings, and pushing open the door, made way for Harkaway to pass in.
"Enter, sir," he said.
Harkaway's heart beat high.
He pushed open the door—entered.
"Where are they?"
"There."
A momentary pause.
"There's no one there," said Harkaway, in a tone indicative of powerfully-suppressed emotion.
Dire apprehensions of evil stole over both Sebastian and Theodora as they followed Harkaway into the cell.
"Theodora," gasped Sebastian, staggering back, "they are gone."
"Where? How?"
"They must have escaped."
"Liar!" yelled Harkaway, suddenly springing back and drawing his six-shooter; "this is some plot. Thieves! murderers! You think to fool me; but you shall pay the penalty for your villainy. You are in an injured father's grasp. Die, brigands!"