At a lively gait down the road toward the river galloped the horse bearing Saint-Prosper and Constance. The thoroughfare was deserted and the dwelling houses as well as the principal buildings of the town were absolutely dark. At one place a dog ran out to the front gate, disturbed by the unusual noise on the road, and barked furiously, but they moved rapidly on. Now the steeple of the old church loomed weirdly against the dark background of the sky and then vanished.

On; on, they went, past the churchyard, with its marble slabs indistinctly outlined in the darkness, like a phantom graveyard, as immaterial and ghostlike itself as the spirits of the earliest settlers at rest there beneath the sod. This was the last indication of the presence of the town, the final impression to carry away into the wide country, where the road ran through field and forest. As they sped along, they plunged into a chasm of blackness, caused by the trees on both sides of the road which appeared to be constantly 204 closing upon them. In the darkness of that stygian tunnel, dashing blindly through threatening obscurity, she yet felt no terrors, for a band of steel seemed to hold her above some pit of “visible night.”

Out of the tunnel into the comparatively open space, the wind boomed with all its force, and like an enraged monster, drove the storm-clouds, now rainless, across the sky. Occasionally the moon appeared through some aperture, serene, peace-inspiring, momentarily gilding the dark vapor, and again was swallowed up by another mass of clouds. A brood of shadows leaped around them, like things of life, now dancing in the road or pursuing through the tufts of grass, then vanishing over the meadows or disappearing in murky nooks. But a moment were they gone and then, marshaled in new numbers, menacing before and behind, under the very feet of the horse, bidding defiance to the clattering hoofs. With mane tossed in the angry wind, and nostrils dilated, the animal neighed with affright, suddenly leaping aside, as a little nest of unknown dangers lurked and rustled in the ambush of a drift of animated brush.

At that abrupt start, the rider swayed; his grasp tightened about the actress’ waist; her arms involuntarily held him closer. Loosened by the wind and the mad motion, her hair brushed his cheek and fell over his shoulder, whipped sharply in the breeze. A fiercer gust, sweeping upon them uproariously, sent all the tresses free, and scudded by with an exultant shriek. For a time they rode in this wise, her face 205 cold in the rush of wind; his gaze fixed ahead, striving to pierce the gloom, and then he drew rein, holding the horse with some difficulty at a standstill in the center of the thoroughfare.

With senses numbed by the stirring flight, the young girl had been oblivious to the firmness of the soldier’s sustaining grasp, but now as they paused in the silent, deserted spot, she became suddenly conscious of it. The pain––so fast he held her!––made her wince. She turned her face to his. A glint of light fell on his brow and any lines that had appeared there were erased in the magical glimmer; eagerness, youth, passion alone shone upon his features.

His arm clasped her even yet more closely, as if in the wildness of the moment he would fiercely draw her to him regardless of all. Did she understand––that with her face so near his, her hair surrounding him, her figure pressed in that close embrace––he must needs speak to her; had, indeed, spoken to her. She was conscious her hand on his shoulder trembled. Her cheek was no longer cold; abruptly the warm glow mantled it. Was it but that a momentary calm fell around them; the temporary hush of the boisterous wind? And yet, when again the squall swept by with renewed turmoil, her face remained unchilled. She seemed but a child in his arms. How light her own hand-touch compared to that compelling grasp with which he held her! She remembered he had but spoken to her standing in the window, and she had obeyed without a question––without thought of fear. 206 She longed to spring to the ground now, to draw herself from him.

“You can hear the chariot down the road, Miss Carew.”

Quickly her glance returned to his face; his gaze was bent down the thoroughfare. He spoke so quietly she wondered at her momentary fears; his voice reassured her.

A gleam of light shot through a rift in the clouds.

“Hello-a!” came a welcome voice from the distance.

“Hello-a!” answered the soldier.

“You’d better ride on!” shouted the manager. “They’re after us!”

For answer the soldier touched his horse, and now began a race for the river and the ferry, which were in plain sight, Luna fortunately at this critical moment sailing from between the vapors and shining from a clear lake in the sky. The chaste light, out of the angry convulsions of the heavens, showed the fugitives the road and the river, winding like a broad band of silver across the darkness of the earth, its surface rippled into waves by the northern wind. Behind them the soldier and Constance could hear the coach creaking and groaning. It seemed to careen on its beams’ end, but some special providence was watching over the players and no catastrophe occurred.

Nearer came the men on horseback down the hill; now the foremost shouted. Closer was the river; Saint-Prosper reached its bank; the gang-plank was in 207 position and he dashed aboard. With a mighty tossing and rolling, the chariot approached, rattled safely across the gangway, followed by the property wagon, and eager hands grasped the rope, extending from shore to shore above the large, flat craft. These hand ferries, found in various sections of the country, were strongly, although crudely, constructed, their sole means of locomotion in the stationary rope, by means of which the passengers, providing their own power for transportation, drew themselves to the opposite shore.

The energy now applied to the hempen strand sent the ferry many feet from the shore out into the river, where the current was much swifter than usual, owing to the heavy rainfalls. The horses on the great cumbersome craft were snorting with terror.

Crack! pish! One of the men on the shore used his revolver.

“An illogical and foolish way to collect debts, that!” grumbled the manager, tugging at the rope. “If they kill us, how can we requite them for our obligations?”

The river was unusually high and the current set the boat, heavily loaded, tugging at the rope. However, it resisted the strain and soon the craft grated on the sand and the party disembarked, safe from constable and bailiff in the brave, blue grass country. Only one mishap occurred, and that to Adonis, who, in his haste, fell into the shallow water. He was as disconsolate as the young hero Minerva threw into the 208 sea to wrest him from the love of Eucharis. But in this case, Eucharis (Kate) laughed immoderately at his discomfiture.

As Barnes was not sure of the road, the strollers camped upon the bank. The river murmured a seductive cradle-song to the rushes, and, on the shore, from the dark and ominous background, came the deeper voice of the pines.

Constance, who had been unusually quiet and thoughtful, gradually recovered her spirits.

“Here, Mrs. Adams, is your tippet,” she said with a merry smile, taking a bit of lace from her dress.

“Thank you, my dear; I wouldn’t have lost it for anything!” said the old lady, effusively, while Barnes muttered something beneath his breath.

The soldier, who had dismissed the manager’s thanks somewhat abruptly, occupied himself arranging the cushions from the chariot on the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Adams noticed a crimson stain on his shoulder.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, in the voice of the heroine of “Oriana,” “you are wounded!”

“It is nothing, Madam!” he replied.

Stripping off his coat, Barnes found the wound was, indeed, but slight, the flesh having just been pierced.

“How romantic!” gushed Susan. “He stood in front of Constance when the firing began. Now, no one thought of poor me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Hawkes discreetly stood behind me.”

“Jokes reflecting upon one’s honor are in bad taste,” gravely retorted the melancholy actor.

“Indeed, I thought it no jest at the time!” replied the other.

“Mistress Susan, your tongue is dangerous!”

“Mr. Hawkes, your courage will never lead you into danger!”

“Nay,” he began, angrily, “this is a serious offense––”

“On the contrary,” she said, laughing, “it is a question of defense.”

“There is no arguing with a woman,” he grumbled. “She always takes refuge in her tongue.”

“While you, Mr. Hawkes, take refuge––”

But the other arose indignantly and strode into the gloom. Meanwhile Barnes, while dressing the injury, discovered near the cut an old scar thoroughly healed, but so large and jagged it attracted his attention.

“That hurt was another matter,” said he, touching it.

Was it the manager’s fingers or his words caused Saint-Prosper to wince? “Yes, it was another matter,” he replied, hurriedly. “An Arab spear––or something of the kind!”

“Tell us about it,” prattled Susan. “You have never told us anything about Africa. It seems a forbidden subject.”

“Perhaps he has a wife in Tangiers, or Cairo,” laughed Kate.

sang Susan.

The soldier made some evasive response to this raillery and then became silent. Soon quiet prevailed in the encampment; only out of the recesses of the forest came the menacing howl of a vagabond wolf.

“Such,” says Barnes in his notebook, “is the true history of an adventure which created some talk at the time. A perilous, regrettable business at best, but we acted according to our light and were enabled thereafter to requite our obligations, which could not have been done had they seized the properties, poor garments of players’ pomp; tools whereby we earned our meager livelihood. If, after this explanation, anyone still has aught of criticism, I must needs be silent, not controverting his censure.

“With some amusement I learned that our notable belligerent, Mr. Gough, was well-nigh reduced to the same predicament as that in which we found ourselves. He could not complain of his audiences, and the Band of Hope gained many recruits by his coming, but, through some misapprehension, the customary collections were overlooked. The last night of the lecture, the chairman of the evening, at the conclusion of the address, arose and said: ‘I move we thank Mr. Gough for his eloquent effort and then adjourn.’

“The motion prevailed, and the gathering was about to disperse when the platform bludgeon-man held them with a gesture. ‘Will you kindly put your thanks in writing, that I may offer it for my hotel bill,’ said he.

“But for this quick wit and the gathering’s response to the appeal he would have been in the same boat with us, or rather, on the same boat––the old hand ferry! Subsequently, he became a speaker of foreign and national repute, but at that time he might have traveled from Scarboro’ to Land’s End without attracting a passing glance.”

BOOK II

DESTINY AND THE MARIONETTES