We rolled and plunged in the dust, just where that circle of red light fell on it, while guttural sobs and sighs came from us, as, forgetful of all else, now one was on top, in that ruddy arena, and then the other. The veins were big upon my forehead; I felt faint and sick; I could not loosen Faulkener’s iron fingers, deep bedded in my neck, and did not care; and that grim old fellow had no desire now but to watch me die. I saw the glowing haze wherein we fought, and dimly understood it. I heard, faintly and more faintly, the rattle of the chains, and the thunderous, black laughter of our plaything, and then, just as that glowing Fury seemed drawing itself together for one final effort which should crush us both from all form and shape, that very effort put something out of gear—the tangled wheels fell into dead-lock all on a sudden, the heavy chains jerked wildly in their swing and twisted together, the mighty rods and pistons went all asplay like a handful of broken straws, the great beast trembled and reeled and shook, and then split open from end to end, and, with a thunderous roar that shook our cellar to its deepest foundations, amid a wild gust of flame and steam, blew up!
I rose unhurt from the dust and ashes, and unwinding Faulkener’s lifeless limbs from about me, found a hammer by the forge, and, scrambling over the now pulseless remnants of the giant, burst open the door, and a few minutes later laid the great inventor’s body down upon a bench in the peaceful moonlit courtyard.
CHAPTER XXIII
The episodes I now relate are so strange, so nearly impossible, that I hesitate to set them down lest you should call me untruthful and a jongleur; nevertheless, they are told as they occurred, and you must believe them as you may.
My quaint recluse had not been slain that night we tried his infernal engine, but had lain in a long swoon after I carried him from amid the wreck and débris of his den out into the moonlight. That swoon, indeed, lasted for a whole day and night; and Elizabeth wrung her white hands over her father’s seeming lifeless body, while Emanuel picked his yellow teeth reflectively with his dagger-point at the couch-foot, and Dame Margery spent all her art in unguents and salves upon the luckless inventor ere he showed signs of returning life.
At last, however, he revived, and made a long, slow recovery of many days under the gentle ministering of his women. And while he throve hour by hour in the spring sunshine on the bench of his porch, I wooed his daughter in wayward, dissatisfied kind, and laughed scornfully at the black Spaniard’s jealous scowls, and won the mellow heart of the old dame by my gallantness and courtesy. But it was child’s play. I longed again to feel the hot pulse of keen emotions throbbing in my veins, to struggle with some strong tide of hot adventure, and so at last I had made up my mind to leave my good host and hostess at an early season, and, turning soldier again, espouse the first quarrel which chance threw in my way.
Then one day it happened—a strange day indeed to me—old Master Andrew Faulkener had grown weary of his cranks and fan-wheels, and had gone for solace to his dusty tomes and classics. Exploring amid them, in an eventful moment he had taken down a missal penned by some old Saxon monk, and turned to a passage he must have known well, since it was marked and thumbed. And while the ancient scholar read and mumbled over that quaint black letter with its gorgeous gold and crimson uncials, I, who chanced to stand a little way apart, saw the wan blood mount in a thin pink glow to the enthusiast’s cheeks, and in that flush recognized that he was warm upon another quest. He mumbled and muttered to himself, and while he sauntered up and down, or stopped now and then to thumb and pore over that leathern volume, I caught, in disjointed fragments, some pieces of his thoughts. “Ha! ha! a most likely find indeed, a splendid treasure-house of trophies—and to think that no one but old Ambrose and I wot of it, ho! ho! What does he say? ‘And in this place was destroyed a noble house, and the anger of the Lord fell on the pagan defenders, and they were slain one and all. Ah! God leveled their idolatrous dwelling-places and scattered their ashes to the four winds of heaven, and with them were destroyed—the common legend sayeth—all their hoards of brass and silver, all their accursed images of bronze and gold, all their trinkets and fine raiment, so that the vengeance of the Lord was complete, and the heathen was utterly wiped out.’ Good, very good, Brother Ambrose,” muttered the old man with chuckling pleasure. “And now, where did this thing happen? ‘This house which harbored so much lewdness stood on the hillock by the road a few miles from the river, and had all that land which now is holy perquisite to the neighboring abbey.’ Good! good!—for certain ’tis the very spot I thought of—a happy, happy chance that made me light upon this passage—I who live so near the spot it speaks of—I who alone of thousands can use it as the golden key to unlock such a sweet mine of relics as that buried pagan home must be. Oh! Ambrose, I am grateful,” and patting the musty monkish tome in childish pleasure, he replaced it reverently upon its shelf.
Then up and down he paced, the student’s passion burning hot within him, muttering as he went: “Why not to-night? Why not, why not? There is no season better for such a work than soon, and I have my license,” whereon he went to a peg on the wall and fumbled in the wallet of the ragged cloak I had seen him wear the night we met. In a minute out came a brand-new scroll of parchment, neatly rolled and folded, and stamped with the Royal seal. That scroll Andrew Faulkener undid, and, setting his horn glasses on his nose, began to read the paper at arm’s length with inarticulate sounds of rapture. It seemed to delight him so much that presently I sauntered over to share in the merriment, forgetting I had thus far been unobserved; but when we came within two paces of each other the scholar, perceiving me, with a cry of dismay stuffed the crushed parchment hurriedly into his bosom as though he thought himself about to be robbed of something precious by a sudden ambuscade. However, in a minute he recognized the robber, and was reassured, yet undecided still, and inch by inch the white roll came forth, while the old man kept his eyes fixed on mine. What were his scripts and scrolls to me? I smiled to note the store he set by them: there was not one of those poor things could interest me more nearly than a last year’s leaf from the garden yonder—and yet, strange to say, that white roll, creeping into light from under his rusty gaberdine, did attract me somehow. Long life and strange experience have wakened in me senses dormant in other mortals, and I begin to be conscious of a knowledge beyond common knowing, a sense behind other senses, which grows with practice, and seems ambitious by and by to bridge the gulf which separates tangible from unreal, and what is from what will be. That growing perspicacity within me smelled something of weight about Faulkener’s writing more than usual, and with my curiosity gently roused, I queried:
“That seems a script of value, sir. Is its interest particular or public?”
“In some ways, good youth,” Faulkener answered hesitatingly, as he unfolded the scroll so slowly as though he were jealous even of the prying sunshine, “in some ways the interest of what this is the key to is very general, and in other ways it is, at least for some time to come, most private.”