The Lake of Wine

by Bernard Capes

“’Tis what we’ll do, man. We’ll lop your fine heroics toe by toe, till there remain nought but stumps to foot it on. Why—d’ye suppose we’ve pushed the matter so far to shrink at a shadow? I give you warning. We’ve neither time nor mood for palaver. To-night you shall have for reflection—the devils of cold and hunger to counsel you; and so be you’re in a like frame of obstinacy after that test to-morrow you shall be pruned for token to your friends over there, and again and yet again till you or they are convinced of the wisdom of an exchange. I’ve learnt the right art of clipping in Calabria, sir, and will shave you that ’twill be a pleasure to you to feel the razor.”

He stopped, with a dark and malignant look on his face—backed a step, opened the door and disappeared.

For a minute after his exit Tuke stood too astounded for speech or action. That here, on his own land, in the heart of orderly England, he should be held by blackguard outlaws for ransom, and menaced with outrage like any victim of continental brigandage, seemed too preposterous for belief. Coming to his senses, in a paroxysm of rage he flung himself against the door and hurled curses on his invisible enemies till he was hoarse. Not a murmur in response was vouchsafed him. Spent and agitated, though still boiling with anger, he resumed his monotonous tramp to and fro, till, utterly worn out, he let himself drop upon a heap of sticks, and, leaning his shoulder against the wall-corner, fell into a sort of stupor of exhaustion.

Night closed upon him lying thus—a night of sleeplessness and torture. His furious struggles to release his hands had only riveted their bonds the closer, and his inflamed and swollen wrists gave him exquisite anguish. The position of his arms was one long cramping torment. The worm of hunger writhed in his vitals, while fever glowed in the marrow of his bones; and all the long dark through, the bitter frost smote his limbs into numbness and seemed to hammer at his heart.

Now and again to his deadened senses would come a little appeal like a memory—the smell of roasting meat, the crackle of a fire, the sound of reckless voices passing discordant toasts. He only connected these with the processes of a conscious delirium, and was concerned simply that they would not cease and leave him to his miserable loneliness.

Sometimes, in lucid intervals, as it seemed, and that before the rising tide of darkness had drowned the last glimmering streaks of light, he would find himself on his feet insanely inspired for the twentieth time to break his prison by one swift and silent effort; and there always, a blurred phantom outside the window, was the inexorable presentment of the guard.

No least balm of sleep could he woo to his aching eyelids; only presently, into his other sufferings was dropped that keystone of anguish, a raging thirst.

Racked, body and mind, burnt and frozen and twisted, he fell at last into a torpor of the senses that must do duty for rest, and so triumphed over the hours and was aware all at once of daylight in the room. The very sight was life. A haggard ghost of himself, he scrambled painfully to his feet, and, lurching to the window, stood drinking in the weak wine of sunlight.

Suddenly it came to him that the sentry was withdrawn. A wild hope tingled in his veins, only to as swiftly die away. These dogs could take the right measure of cruelty. Yesterday, bound as he was, it would have needed all his vigour and resourcefulness to escape by way of that little aperture; now, weakened and nerveless, he must find the task impossible. And, even while assuring himself on this point, he heard the room-door opened, and, turning, saw a stealthy face look in, take stock of him, and vanish.

Presently, finding a little of the spirit of strength and defiance returning to him, he set to tramping the room again, feebly at first, but by and by with an increase of vigour. For an hour he may have walked, when, without forespeech or warning, the door was flung open and there quickly entered Fern and Brander, who shut themselves in and stood by the threshold, facing the prisoner.