Commodore Junk

It was blood.

Chapter Thirty Seven

In the Vault

With the deathly silence which ensued as the heavy echoing steps of the searchers passed away, the men being completely at fault as to why certain drops of blood should be lying near the couch, Humphrey descended the steps once more.

“They are gone,” he whispered, but there was no reply; and, feeling softly about, his hand came in contact with Mary’s arm, to find that she lay back in a corner of the vault, with a kerchief pressed tightly against her breast.

He hastily bandaged the wound, firmly binding the handkerchief which she held there with his own and the broad scarf he wore, and, after placing her in a more comfortable position, began to search in the darkness for the food and water which were there.

The water was soon found – a deep, cool cistern in the middle of the floor.

The food lay close at hand, and with it one of the silver cups he had had in use above. With this he bore some of the cool refreshing liquid to the wounded woman, holding some to her lips and bathing her brow, till she uttered a sigh and returned to consciousness, her first act being to stretch out her hand and lay it upon Humphrey’s shoulder to draw him nearer to her.

“Don’t leave me!” she said feebly. “It is very dark!”

“But we are safe,” he whispered. “They are gone.”

“Yes,” she sighed; “I heard them. How long is it to day?”

“It cannot be long now,” he said, as he took her hand.

She sighed as she felt the unwonted tenderness and rested her head against his shoulder.

“No,” she said, softly, “it cannot be long now. It will come too soon!”

There was so much meaning in her voice that he felt a cold chill, as if the hand of death had passed between to separate these two so strangely brought together.

“Are you in pain!” he said.

“Pain! No. Happy – so happy!” she whispered. “For you do love me!”

“Love you!” he cried.

“And she – at home?”

“That was not love,” he said, wildly. “But now tell me about this place – shall we see the day when it comes?”

“You will,” she said, softly. “I shall – perhaps.”

“Perhaps! No, you shall!” he whispered, as he pressed his arm gently around her, forgetting everything now of the past, save that this woman loved him, and that there was a future before them of hope and joy. “Tell me what I can do – to help you.”

“Hold me like that,” she whispered, with a sigh of content. “It is better so. It could never have been – only my wild dream – a woman’s thirst for the love of one in whom she could believe. A woman’s love!”

Little more than an hour could have passed, during which Humphrey had twice heard sounds of voices, and once a heavy step overhead – this last making him steal his right hand softly toward the sword that lay by his side – when a faint light seemed to gleam on the surface of the water in the centre of the vault; and soon after he found that this served to shed a softened dawn through the place – a dawn which grow stronger, but was never more than a subdued twilight. It was enough, though, to show him the proportions of the place, its quaint carving, and the fact that beside the long shaft which opened out far above his head there was what seemed to be a stone grille, beyond which was the tangled growth of the forest, much of which, in root and long, prickly shoot, penetrated nearly to where they sat.

As the light grew stronger he saw that his companion seemed to have lost the old masculine look given by her attire; for coat and vest had been cast aside, and the loose shirt, open at the neck, had more the aspect of a robe. Her dark hair curled closely about her temples; and as Humphrey Armstrong gazed down at the face, with its parted lips and long lashes lying upon the creamy dark cheeks, his heart throbbed, for he felt that he had won the love of as handsome a woman as any upon whom his eyes had ever lit.

He forgot the wound, the bandaging kerchief seeming in the semi-darkness like some scarf; and as he sat and gazed he bent down lower and softly touched the moist forehead with his lips.

Mary awoke up with a frightened start and gazed at him wildly, but as consciousness came her look softened and she nestled to him.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he said.

She started again and looked at him wildly, as if she fancied she had detected a chilliness in his manner; but his eyes undeceived her, and as he raised her hand to his lips, she let it rest there for a few moments, and then stole it round his neck.

“Tell me,” he said gently, “your wound?”

She shook her head softly.

“No,” she whispered; “let it rest. Talk of yourself. You will wait here two days, and then steal out at night and make your way down to the shore. You know the way!”

“If I do not you will guide me,” he said.

She looked at him keenly to see if he meant what he said, and then, reading the sincerity of his words in his frank eyes, she shook her head again.

“No,” she whispered. “You asked me of my wound. It is home. Humphrey Armstrong, this is to be my tomb!”

“What!” he cried. “Oh, no! no! no! You must live to bless me with your love!”

“Live to disgrace you with my love!”

“Mary!”

There was such a depth of love, such intensity in the tone in which he uttered her name, that she moaned aloud.

“Ah, you are in pain!” he cried.

“In pain for you,” she whispered, “for you suffer for my sake. Hist! Do you hear?”

She clung to him tightly.

“No,” he said, “there is nothing.”

“Yes,” she said, softly. “Steps. I can hear them – they are coming back.”

He listened once more, but his ears were wanting in the preternatural keenness brought on by his companion’s exalted nerves. He heard nothing for a few moments, and then with a start he seized the sword, for steps were faintly heard now to grow plainer and plainer till they were close overhead.

Mary signed to him to listen; and at that moment the stone slab moved gently a few inches, for someone had seated himself upon the edge, and the buzz of talking was heard.

“Now, my lad,” cried a hoarse, drink-engendered voice, which came plainly to where they crouched, “you know all about it, and I’m captain now. Where’s that prisoner?”

“Sure, and how could I know anny way, Black Mazzard?”

“Captain Mazzard!” roared the first speaker.

“Oh! Murther! Put them pishtols away, and I’ll call ye captain, or adhmiral if ye like!”