Over in the gaol, also, by which the golden-shod feet passed so closely with their heart-stirring cry, it seemed as if Vincent Dering's thrumming, following as it did on the heels of Eugene Smith's success with the search light, had set what Dr. Dillon called his Hosts of the Devil in commotion. Indeed, that thrumming was still going on when George Dillon had gone raging over to conjure the experimenter, with oaths, to turn off his confounded bull's-eye at once, or the prisoners would go out of their judgment with thinking of the number who would have to die that night in order to keep up the supply of brain power!--just too, as he had been congratulating himself that the cholera scare was over. Seventy-two hours, and not a case! It was too bad!
Eugene, whom he found on the roof of his house playing with coils, batteries, accumulators, had suggested eagerly that if there was real trouble, he might end it by turning his light bang on to the gaol, and so reducing it to a paralysis of sheer terror. Dr. Dillon, however, had sworn violently that he would not have the poor wretches frightened unnecessarily, especially when that triumphant cry of those who were free to defy the devil by seeking sanctification before death reminded them that they could not--that they must die defiled, helpless, hopeless! That fear was, he said, in a way dignified, worthy of consideration. And he did not anticipate trouble unless there was treachery inside or out, though perhaps he might, as a precaution, ask Dering for an extra guard. But when the latter happened to come in, as Mrs. Smith's escort home, while the doctor was still there, Dr. Dillon apparently changed his mind. Anyhow, he pooh-poohed Captain Dering's offer to send one, saying, the more you could keep a gaol to yourself the better--or for the matter of that anything else! So, with a curt good-night to Mrs. Smith, he went back to his work, leaving Vincent to remark, carelessly, that Dillon seemed in a bad temper. At which Muriel smiled. There was something in the air, she said, conducive to bad temper. She, herself, felt she must soon have quarrelled with the doctor's assumption of knowing better than anyone else; so it was as well he had not stopped to dinner. Her quarrelsomeness did not, however, extend to Vincent, who did; indeed, she made herself so tenderly charming and unconsciously friendly towards him that he began to accuse himself of having been too irresponsive of late. The fact of being in love did not preclude friendship for someone else, if, indeed, he was really in love with Laila Bonaventura? In one way he knew himself to be so; but the idea of treating this love of his on conventional lines was still repugnant to him; the thought of her, as his wife, barely attractive.
So, after a time spent pleasantly enough for those two, Eugene Smith went off to his coils, and accumulators, and batteries, half-sulky, half-bored, and wholly ill-used at having to switch off, when he had at least half an hour's electricity all ready stored for use.
He was grumbling over this fact when Vincent called good-night to him before starting to drive back; and he answered that but for fools, who were afraid of going to their proper place, he might have given Dering electric light on the road.
"No, thanks!" cried Vincent, gaily, "there's enough electricity in the air to-night without that. I believe your machine has leaked, Smith! I feel as if I should give out sparks if anyone touched me!"
As he drove across the bridge Eshwara looked as if it were doing that, too. There were lights everywhere, twinkling, little, restless lights. The very spit, usually dark with the darkness of primitive life after sundown, was alive with them; for the pilgrims were camping there, as elsewhere. Nor were all the fisher folk abed as usual, for that, surely, was one of them paddling up stream on a dug-out,--just under the last span of the bridge. He saw the man distinctly, not five yards from him in the flash of the lamps as he drove past overhead, and wondered what the mischief the fellow was doing at that time of night, going up stream.
Something to be ashamed of, no doubt, else why should he have sent the dug-out beyond the circle of light with a swift stroke?
Truly Father Ninian was right; Eshwara was not normal. Its pulse beat irregularly, and things were going on which should not be going on--
A sudden shame made him glance at the shadowed pile of the palace looming above the shadowed town. It was all dark, save for one row of restless, twinkling lights. Those were the little latticed windows of Laila's sitting-room, that was fit for any king's favourite. He had seen it already, might see it again at twelve, if she was in one of her reckless moods when she would risk anything for his sake.
Truly! there were things going on!--