The Wild Geese

by Stanley John Weyman

True, that purpose would not have embroiled him with her, strong as was her love for her brother, if it had not become entwined under the stress of events with another—with the resolve to pluck her and hers from the abyss into which they were bent on flinging themselves. It was that resolution which had done the mischief, and made her his enemy to this point. But he could not regret that. He could not repent of that—he who had seen war in all its cruel phases, and fierce rebellions, and more cruel repressions. Perish—though he perished himself in this cold prison—perish the thought! For even now some warmth awoke at his heart, some heat was kindled in him by the reflection that, whatever befell him, he had saved scores and hundreds from misery, a countryside from devastation, women and children from the worst of fates. Many and many a one who cursed his name to-day had cause, did he know it, to remember him in his prayers. And though he never saw the sun again, though the grim walls about him proved indeed his grave, though he never lived to return to the cold lands where he had made a name and a place for himself, he would at least pass beyond with full hands, and with the knowledge that for every life he, the soldier of fortune, had taken, he had saved ten.

He sat an hour, two hours, thinking of this, and of her; and towards the end less bitterly. For he was just, and could picture the wild, untutored heart of the girl, bred in solitude, dwelling on the present wrongs and the past greatness of her race, taking dreams for realities, and that which lay in cloudland for the possible. Her rough awakening from those dreams, her disappointment, the fall from the heaven of fancy to the world as it was, might—he owned it—have driven even a generous spirit to cruel and heartless lengths. And still he sighed—he sighed.

At the end of two hours he roused himself perforce. For he was very cold, and that could only be mended by such exercise as the size of his prison permitted. He set himself to walk briskly up and down. When he had taken a few turns, however, he paused with his eyes on the table. The candles? They would serve him the longer if he burned but one at a time. He extinguished three. The deed? He might burn it, and so put the temptation, which he was too wise to despise, out of reach. But he had noticed in one corner a few half-charred fragments of wood, damp indeed, but such as might be kindled by coaxing. He would preserve the deed for the purpose of kindling the wood; and the fire, as his only luxury, he would postpone until he needed it more sorely. In the end the table and the chairs—or all but one—should eke out his fuel, and he would sleep. But not yet.

For he had no desire to die; and with warmth he knew that he could put up for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which he had the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased his chances; it was impossible to say what might not happen with time. Uncle Ulick was due to return in a week—and Bale. Or his gaolers might relent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stout heart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not let him perish.

That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If it had, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and his inability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For they could put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so far as to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in his mind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, he must eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appetite; after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through which he had passed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among a barbarous people, this was a small thing.

Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, that sadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had not still sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head upon his breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger and cold and physical privation—no more! But when it was overpast, and he had suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospect stretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middle age, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of his friend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little while he would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: if he had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Already shadowy plans rose before him.

Yet for the time—for he was human—he drew small comfort from such plans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sink into his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when the cold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and pace again from wall to wall.

His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which—for how many years rolled between him and the girl, and how many things done, suffered, seen—he should have known the outcome. But, taking its rise in the instinct to protect, which their relations justified, it had mastered him slowly, not so much against his will as without his knowledge; until he had awakened one day to find himself possessed by a fancy—a madness, if the term were fitter—the more powerful because he was no longer young, and in his youth had known passion but once, and then to his sorrow. By-and-by, for a certainty, the man's sense of duty, the principles that had ruled him so long—and ruled more men then than now, for faith was stronger—would assert themselves. And he would go back to the Baltic lands, the barren, snow-bitten lands of his prime, a greyer, older, more sombre man—but not an unhappy man.

Something of this he told himself as he paced up and down the gloomy chamber, while the flame of the candle crept steadily downward, and his shadow in the vault above grew taller and more grotesque. It must be midnight; it must be two; it must be three in the morning. The loopholes, when he stood between them and the candle, were growing grey; the birds were beginning to chirp. Presently the sun would rise, and through the narrow windows he would see its beams flashing on the distant water. But the windows looked north-west, and many hours must pass before a ray would strike into his dungeon. The candle was beginning to burn low, and it seemed a pity to light another, with the daylight peering in. But if he did not, he would lack the means to light his fire. And he was eager to do without the fire as long as possible, though already he shivered in the keen morning air. He was cold now, but he would be colder, he knew, much colder by-and-by, and his need of the fire would be greater.

From that the time wore wearily on—he was feeling the reaction—to the breakfast hour. The sun was high now; the birds were singing sweetly in the rough brakes and brambles about the Tower; far away on the shining lake, of which only the farther end lay within his sight, three men were fishing from a boat. He watched them; now and again he caught the tiny splash as they flung the bait far out. And, so watching, with no thought or expectation of it, he fell asleep, and slept, for five or six hours, the sleep of which excitement had cheated him through the night. In warmth, morning and evening, night and day differed little in that sunken room. Still the air in it profited a little by the high sun; and he awoke, not only less weary, but warmer. But, alas! he awoke also hungry.