After a long time of slow and bumpy running, with the sun just beginning to show pinkly on some of the highest peaks, we came, at last, to a stop. Our guards led us out of the car and we went, since the alternative seemed to be a dozen or so holes from the business ends of their shot guns. They still were not rough with us, but they discovered my loose bandage, and tightened it firmly. Then they started us marching.
We were led slowly along a rough path, a man on either side. John I could hear still cussing occasionally. He had been interrupted in what, to him, was the marathon of the century, and he was displeased. All about us rose the lovely smells of high altitude in late summer. As we climbed up—and it was always up—I began almost to hear the light, as the blind say they can hear color. I had never been able to understand that before. I had always thought they were merely trying to express some esoteric yearning after the things that were denied to them, rather than that they really felt and heard things that by us are seen only. But, blindfolded as I was, I found that they are literally right, and that our sense of seeing is so much stronger that it blinds us to the less acute sensitiveness of the other organs. Partly by hearing, partly by that sixth sense of the blind, I knew that we passed through a thriving hamlet of people, not men alone, but women and children. When at last we were stopped, I knew that we were in a large room. I was somewhat prepared when the bandages were removed, and we could look around. But I was not entirely prepared for what I saw.
The room was hung with tapestries that must have been worth a fortune. The light came from a window of finely leaded glass. Before us was a work table on which were spread maps and papers, and closely typed sheets that might have been a report. It looked for all the world like the work desk of some busy army officer during the war. A few books were neatly piled at one side. A servant was placing two chairs before the desk, and a voice said in German, “Sit down, gentlemen.” But, though I saw all that, and obeyed the order to sit, and though it was all far from what I had expected to see then, I was not really interested in it. What did interest me was the man who sat behind the desk. I first saw his long white hands, thin and blue-veined. He wore a ring with an enormous ruby—the most enormous I had ever seen actually worn—a ring for a king in a play.
From the slim, restless hands, that might have been the hands of a great musician, my eye followed up his figure. Black. Dull, black sleeves, with no relieving white at the wrists. He wore a sort of soutane, and across the breast was sewn a white Templar’s cross. Not only was there no white collar showing at the neck, there was no neck, either. His whole head was masked by a black silk hood, that covered his throat and face down to the shoulders, with slits for the mouth and for the eyes, which showed as black as his dress. The man might have the hands of a musician and the ring of a king, but he must be a bandit, else why the obvious disguise as the Black Ghost of the Pass?
“My men have unfortunately made a mistake, gentlemen,” the man in the mask spoke suavely, in German, “I hope you understand me.”
“Yes,” I answered, and then explained, hoping our nationality would prove some sort of protection, “we are Americans.”
“We will talk in English, then,” he replied, which was the only effect the mention of the United States had on him. His voice reminded me vividly of the Countess Visichich’s, and I wondered if he could be a relative of hers until I decided that it was only a similar accent.
“I am very sorry for this mistake,” he went on, “but I shall be obliged to keep you ’ere for a few days, probably. Otherwise you will not be inconvenienced—that is, if all is as I ’ope it is. I shall be very ’appy if you will be so kind as to answer a few questions I shall like to ask you.”
“By all means,” John put in glibly.
“In the first place, I should like to know where you ’ave bought your car?”