# The Trail of the Dead/Chapter 6

From Windsor Magazine, vol 17, 1902-03, pp. 734-743

### VI.—THE END OF THE TRAIL.

IN my narrative, now drawing to its conclusion, I have endeavoured to avoid emotion or exaggeration. Yet as I glance over its pages, I cannot proclaim myself as satisfied. On such an evening as this, with the summer woodlands beneath the cottage, basking in the tender glory of the sun's farewell, with the silence of the day that is ending holding the quiet fields—on such an evening, I say, my story, ever to myself, appears impossible, a nightmare born in the land of evil dreams. Yet I have but to turn my eyes to where my dearest wife sits at her work, to know that it is true; for it was in that time of danger that Providence gave to me the most generous of the gifts that can be bestowed upon man.
Two days after Marnac escaped from our pursuit at Southampton, a little council was gathered in the parlour of Dr. Weston's cottage at Cornish Polleven. In his great arm-chair by the fire sat the old scholar, with the lamplight exposing the delicate fragility of a face whereon consumption had set its warning. In odd contrast was my cousin, Sir Henry Graden, who confronted him. Great-statured, stern, keen-eyed, he was of that type that can fearlessly execute, as well as intelligently conceive, a plan. Mary Weston was on a cushion at her father's knee, his hand in hers; and it was more often to that noble girl that my glance wandered than to my cousin, though, indeed, it was he who now set before us the position of affairs.
It was right, he said, that Dr. Weston should know, even as his daughter knew, the danger that hung over us. And so, from its commencement, he told that terrible story: how Marnac, the celebrated Heidelberg professor, had been seized with a partial mania born of heredity, nurtured by overwork, brought suddenly to the light by the violent attacks delivered against a book on which he had spent half his life; how he had planned to destroy his more bitter adversaries, and how, by his insane cunning, he had brought about the deaths of Von Stockmar and Mechersky; how, in his desperate flight from our pursuit, he had killed the son of Reski, the Polish innkeeper; how he had come to England to end his vengeance upon Dr. Weston; and how he had been led to believe that Mary was the writer of the attack which had incensed him. All this he explained; and while he spoke, the shadow of the terror seemed to creep over our very souls, so that we drew together like sheep that hear the cry of the wolves in the snow-clad hills beyond.
It was Dr. Weston who first broke the silence that followed Graden's conclusion.
"You have referred to a certain book or diary belonging to this Marnac," said he, for, indeed, my cousin had mentioned that discovery at Heidelberg. "And I gather that from it you first learnt the names of the scientific enemies against whom an attack might be directed. Did this madman include in his butcher's list any persons besides Von Stockmar, Mechersky, and myself?"
"There were several other names," replied my cousin; "but I do not think their criticisms were sufficiently severe to place them in serious danger. I have, however, communicated with them all. On the least suspicion they will inform the police and also telegraph to me at my London house. My servant there is kept informed of my address from day to day."
"And the police?"
"In international matters they move slowly. It has been a chase across Europe, remember. Months have often elapsed before very ordinary criminals have been arrested. But this man is a remarkable linguist; he has some five hundred pounds yet in his possession, and he has the cunning common to the partially insane. The English police have full information, but by this time he may be in France or Belgium."
"What, then, do you propose, Sir Henry?"
"For the moment we have no definite objective. It would be useless for us to start for the Continent without further information. Until it reaches us, we shall stay in this country."
"I quite understand. I trust that for the ten days that we still have at Polleven, you will consider yourselves my guests—though I fear that the size of my cottage forbids me asking you to leave your quarters at the inn."
"Are you, then, returning to Cambridge, Dr. Weston? I thought you had settled here for the winter?" asked my cousin.
"It was so intended, but my doctors have ordered me to the Engadine. They say—it is my only chance, Sir Henry."
Mary Weston's eyes rose to her father's face in one brief, pitiful glance, and then her head drooped forward. Poor girl! she knew that he had spoken truly.
"The Engadine?"
Graden rose in his ponderous fashion and stood with his back to the fire. I could see that the intelligence concerned him—concerned him, indeed, too nearly for immediate comment. It was some moments before he spoke again.
"Forgive me, Dr. Weston," he said; "but is this a sudden resolution?"
"We decided yesterday."
"Is it common property? Do the villagers know?"
"Really, Sir Henry, I have no idea. I should not think they know."
"I will be quite plain with you, Dr. Weston, for that is always the best. Until this madman is secured, you and your daughter go in some danger. You should be safe enough in Switzerland, if you keep your address a secret. But even then we must arrange that you have a travelling companion that can be trusted.
"I shall be very glad to go," I interjected.
"No, Robert, that will never do," he said. "To divide our forces would be the worst generalship. Our duty is plain. We must be prepared to strike at the enemy wherever he may be found. Otherwise, there will be weeks of anxiety for us all, and Heaven knows what devilish work going forward! Whom can we send? That we must first decide."
"There is Mossel?" I suggested, recalling the aid that stubborn German policeman had already rendered us.
"He would come, gladly enough. But I do not think the Heidelberg authorities would sanction his departure on so vague a journey. No! I am afraid Mossel is out of the question."
"What of Reski? I saw him find the body of his son; he would travel to the world's end if it brought a chance to meet the murderer."
"The very man! I thank you, Cousin Robert."
And so it was settled. We were to send a telegram to the Polish innkeeper next morning. If he agreed to our request, money could be forwarded in time for him to meet us in London, where he would take up his duty as escort to Dr. Weston and his daughter.
"Remember, please, that your destination is a secret," said Graden, as we made our adieus. "There must be no leaving of indiscreet addresses, Dr. Watson; no explanatory letters to old friends, Miss Mary."
"My father and I—we understand," she said, looking him gravely in the eyes. And so we passed out into the starlight.
They were pleasant days that followed—days that seemed to me the happiest in my life. Was it the contrast with the events of that terrible pursuit which gave them their perfection? So I argued at the time. Yet each hour I knew more clearly that it was Mary's bright eyes that warmed the winter sunshine, and Mary's presence that gave the beauty to that wild, inhospitable coast. Of mornings we walked together on the cliffs; and as night drew in, blotting out the grey wastes of the Channel seas, we joined Graden and her father in the little parlour, listening to the talk of those two great-hearted, simple men. On the second day, Reski's answer came, accepting the trust we offered. Then for a week there was no news from the outside world to trouble us, and no incident at Polleven to remind us of our danger save one, which, insignificant though it seemed, I do right to set before you.
As I have mentioned, a narrow dell or "goyle," as the West-country folk would have it, ran between the cottage and the sea. It was, a ruinous place in the winter-time, sprinkled with trees knotted and bent under years of conflict with the winds, and floored with dead bracken and patches of gorse. In the summer it was, doubtless, pleasing enough; but in that December weather it seemed shrivelled and forlorn. Indeed, it was not a spot we greatly favoured.
It was about four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, the fifth day of our visit, that Miss Weston and I entered it from the seaward side. We had taken a sharp walk to Bredairs Strand, where the famous caves are situated, and were returning for tea. We came upon them at an angle of the thicket—a man and a woman seated on a fallen log in eager conversation. Miss Weston held up a warning hand to me, with amusement twinkling in her eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Harland!" she whispered, "and at her age, too!"
"Why, who was it?" I asked, for their backs were turned towards us.
"Don't you see? It is Martha, our house-keeper. She is five-and-forty if she is a day. Fancy Martha with a young man of her own! I wonder who it can be?"
Whereupon she fairly gave way to her merriment in a low ripple of laughter. It was loud enough to reach the ears of the pair before us, for they started to their feet, the woman facing round boldly with flaming cheeks, while the man, after one swift glance, dropped back a step and stood shamefacedly, with downcast eyes. Miss Weston nodded to Martha, and we passed on up the track.
"Oh! I am so very, very sorry!" she cried to me when we were out of earshot. "I am certain that wretched man is only after her savings. What a silly old dear she is!"
"He seemed about the average in bashful rustics," I answered her.
"He is one of the worst men in the village—a drunken loafer, who never leaves the inn bar until he is almost starving. I wonder at Martha, for, besides his reputation, she knows——"
"What?" I asked, for she had stopped with a little shiver.
"They say in the village that Penruman—for that is his name—acted as a sort of servant to Professor Marnac while he was at Polleven. At least, I know that Penruman brought us messages from him twice, and once he came with a book that had been lent to father."
"Was Penruman courting Martha then?"
"I don't know, Mr. Harland; but this is the first time I've seen them together. Please don't say anything more about it. I will have a talk to Martha privately, and see if I can put some sense into her silly head."
As I was walking back to the inn before dinner, I caught sight of Penruman coming out of the village post-office. He slouched away up a side-street at sight of me. You may think me dull enough, but I had no suspicion of the truth.
If I had only known!
We all travelled to London together, taking rooms for the night at the Charing Cross Hotel; for though Graden had chambers in the Albany, he preferred that we should not be separated. It was here that Reski joined us. Sorrow had burnt its mark upon the Polish innkeeper. His thin, handsome features were yet more drawn; and though his courtly manner was unchanged, an alien ferocity lurked in his dark, reflective eyes. It would not go well with the murderer of his only son if he should meet him face to face. So I thought as he stood before us, his hat raised, bowing us a welcome.
At nine-forty on the following morning, we were gathered in a little group on the departure platform. Graden, who had talked with Reski far into the night, repeated his orders. To preserve the secret of Dr. Weston's residence was of the first importance. He would register himself and his daughter in the name of Jackson. All letters, whether from or to the travellers, were to be forwarded under cover to Graden's chambers, where a servant in whom he had absolute trust would despatch them to their respective addresses. On the slightest suspicion of danger, a telegram would bring our assistance from whatever spot our quest had drawn us. Neither Dr. Weston nor his daughter were to leave their hotel at Pontresina, even for a walk, without the escort of the Pole.
"I do not wish to alarm you with absurd rules, Miss Mary," concluded my cousin; "but it is well to be cautious. Besides, it should be only for a few days. I have found means of awakening the Continental police to interest in his capture, and we may hear of his arrest at any moment. Ah! there goes the whistle. Good-bye, Dr. Weston. Good-bye, my dear girl. God keep you!"
He was old enough to be her father; yet I did not consider his age was sufficient excuse for the kiss that he touched on her forehead.
We saw her handkerchief fluttering from the carriage window as the train drew out of the station. I watched it fade into the muddy grey of the morning; and as it disappeared, the love I had hidden from myself rushed over me, so that I stood with staring eyes, perhaps as foolish and woe-begone a figure as humanity has ever smiled to witness. And for this I shall always thank my cousin, Harry Graden, that he slipped his arm in mine, leading me down the platform as if he had noticed nothing out of the ordinary in my manner.
"We shall soon have news," he said quietly. "For information that will lead to his arrest, I have offered the police, here and on the Continent, a reward of five thousand pounds."
He spoke the truth. News came soon, indeed.
We were lunching together in Graden's chambers on the fourth day after their departure, when the telegram arrived. My cousin opened it. As he read, I saw the line of his jaw set and harden. Then he handed it across the table. This was the message:—
       "Fear we are in great 'peril. Come at once.—Weston."
The realisation of those words must have come to me slowly, for it was Graden's hand on my arm that woke me from the stupor into which I had fallen. Even then I could hardly understand. "There is a train at two-twenty," said he. "Can you be ready in five minutes?"
"But how can the man—how can Marnac have discovered where they are?" I stammered.
"In five minutes, I said!" he barked out. "You have no time to waste."
We had still a quarter of an hour to spare when our cab rattled over the cobbles of the station-yard. While my cousin took the tickets, I stood at the bookstall, staring at the backs of the novels, with that call for help twisting in a devil's chant through my head. "In great peril. Come at once," so it ran, over and over again. Several passing strangers turned and regarded me curiously over their shoulders.
I do not think we spoke more than once before reaching Dover. I asked if he had telegraphed a reply. He had done so, he said, at Charing Cross.
There was a brisk sea running in the Channel, but I felt no sickness. Indeed, the passage did me good; for I behaved quite sanely as we passed our bags through the Calais customs.
Into the train again, and on into the night that had fallen. I had a sleeping-berth reserved in the wagon-lit, but I did not visit it. Sometimes a fury of impatience seized me, so that I paced the corridor, peering out into moonlit country that went sliding by, in its never-varying sequence of plain and woodland and steeple-crowned village; but, for the most part, I sat huddled in my chair—thinking. Heaven help us! What torture an active mind inflicts upon poor humanity! Grant a man the imagination of an ox, and many are the woes he will be spared!
Dawn stole out on us at Basle, and we stood upon the platform, our faces showing pale in the tinted curtain of the sky that hung above the snow-clad ridges to the westward. The air was very cold, but not with the English bitterness in its breath.
We had half an hour to wait. Graden despatched a second telegram to Pontresina, marking the progress of our journey. He also wired to Thusis, ordering a carriage to meet our train.
The sun was up, very red and bold, as we passed through Zurich; and where it touched the great lake, the waters shone scarlet as blood under the slanting rays. Before us the Alps were heaving upward, growing mightier every hour, with the pinnacles of their strange frost kingdoms blushing in the early sunshine. By eleven o'clock we had left the open country, passing into a labyrinth of valleys, crowned with pines, waiting black and silent on their snow carpets, scored with torrents and patched with frozen tarns. Coire was reached by half-past one, and the narrow gauge of the Thusis line carried us through meadows and brushwood morasses until we crossed the upper Rhine and drew into the station which is set under the cliff bastions, outworks of the Alp citadels beyond.
It was then three of the clock. There were still forty miles left of our journey—a ten hours' drive over the passes to the distant Engadine.
A carriage with three horses was waiting to our order without the station. We entered it at once, and the driver swung his team into the Tiefenkastell road. Fifty francs from Graden had impressed him with the necessity for haste. Yet our progress was insufferably tedious. Once across the bridge, we dropped into a walk, while our straining team tugged heavily up the pass of Schyn. To our left, the ridge barred the view; but on the right, narrow valleys sliced deep into the glittering heights above gave us sight of the stately peaks that sentinelled the eastern sky. In an hour we had entered the forest of Versasca—for such, I have learnt, is its name—and so climbed on through the dismal avenues of pines till we passed through galleries and tunnels, hewn deep in the cliff-side, out into the barren snow-fields once again.
The sun was setting as we rattled over the pavement of the hill village of Tiefenkastell, that crouched in the shadows of the Albula Gorge. The dying rays struck fiercely on the distant peaks, until those pale ice maidens found rosy blushes for such reckless gallantry. It was a spectacle of infinite grandeur, and, despite my impatience, I leant from the window watching the light fade and whiten into the opals of the after-glow.
"We can thank our luck that there's a moon," said my cousin, as I drew back into my corner. "These drivers know the road like a book, but I should like our fellow to see where he's going in the Berguner Stein."
"Is it dangerous?"
"A ledge for a carriage-way, and a precipice for a ditch on the near side, is not particularly pleasant for the nerves when you can't see your hand before you."
"You have been here before, then?"
"Oh, yes!" he said, and so we fell into silence.
It was past six o'clock when we left Filisur, a tiny group of deep-eaved houses, and dropped down the hillside to the stream. As we rose the further slope through a wood of scattered pines, the moon came peering out from behind two bare and lofty peaks that towered above us into the southern night, lighting their icy summits so that they glittered like blades of polished steel. It was a scene of such melancholy desolation that as our horses halted on the crest of the hill, I lowered the window, thrusting out my head for a better view.
In front of us the white road curled down into a gorge, an ink-black wedge of shadow that drove into the distance between silver cliffs bright with the moonlight.
"Is this the place you spoke of?" I asked.
"It's the Berguner Stein, if it's that you want to know," growled my cousin from amongst his wraps. "Also, I wish you would have the goodness to shut that window."
But the remembrance of what he had told me about the dangers of the place sent my eyes to the driver's box. As I was leaning from the left-hand window, I did not expect to see more than the fellow's hat; but, to my surprise, there he was well in view, his coat huddled about his ears. As we moved forward, the mystery explained itself. The man I saw was not driving.
"We've taken up a passenger, Cousin Graden," said I, pulling in my head.
"What's that?" he asked sharply, for my voice had been lost in the loud complaining of the brakes as we trotted down the decline.
"The driver's giving a friend a lift," I cried, leaning towards him. "I suppose he picked him up at the last village, where——"
I reached no further, for at that instant there rose from without a cry of such utter terror that I sank back into my place as if struck in the face by a crushing blow. I saw a falling body flash by the right-hand window; the outcry of the brakes ceased with a grating clang. And then, with a bound like that of a leaping horse, the great post-carriage rushed roaring down the hill.
I thrust out my head, clinging to the sills of the open window.
The man upon the box-seat was lashing the horses so that they sprang forward in furious bounds. Even as I watched, he cast away his whip with a peal of wild laughter that sounded high above the turmoil of the flying hoofs and the heavy wheels. He turned his head, bending sideways, the reins held loosely in his right hand. It was the face of Marnac that stared down upon me.
His hat had gone, his white hair streamed backward in the wind. And he was mad—mad with an open insanity of which I had observed no trace before. He shrieked at me in triumph, waving his hand now to the horses, now to the chasm beyond the four-foot wall that guarded the road. He cursed me with furious gesticulations. Even as I write, I seem to see those eyes staring at me out of the white paper—eyes goggling with the lust of murder. Heaven send that time will wipe that remembrance from my brain!
I shrank back into the carriage, that rocked and swung and danced beneath me. Graden's huge shoulders almost blocked the other window; but I caught sight of the glint of his revolver in the moonlight. Was it to be man or horse? One or the other, if we were not to leap the precipice at the first sharp turn. Suddenly he shouted, and again I struggled to my post. In the darkness down the road was the glimmer of lights. Nearer and nearer they drew, and I, too, raised my voice in a scream of warning. The last fifty yards we took in one bound—or so it seemed. I saw a carriage grow out of the shadow that the cliffs above us drew across the road; I saw our leading horse swing to the left and leap blindly at the low wall that hid Heaven knew what frightful depths below; and then, with a tottering slide that seemed to wrench the heart out of me, we curled, as a motor skids, into one thunderous crash that blotted out the world.
Mrs. Harland's Narrative.
I have been asked by my dear husband to conclude the story of which he has placed the greater part before you. I should have preferred that he had not tried to recall details which I know he cannot remember without suffering; but having once yielded to the persuasion of his friends, I am ready to take every share of the burden that he will yield to me.
My father and I, with Reski, the man that Sir Henry had summoned from Poland, arrived in the Engadine without any incident that is worthy of description. We had engaged rooms in the principal hotel under the name of Jackson, as had been suggested. My father stood the journey very well. But this necessity for giving a false name annoyed him extremely. It was the first time in his life that he had done so, he said, and I had some difficulty in persuading him not to confess the whole circumstances to the manager on the day after our arrival.
It was on the fourth day of our visit, about five in the evening, that we received a telegram from London. It read:—
       "We are coming at once.—Graden."
As can be imagined, we were very puzzled about it. We had sent no message, and we could not think what was the reason for their sudden determination. Reski behaved in a most curious fashion when I told him. It might have been the news of some great good fortune that had reached him.
"It is very well, very well," he kept on repeating in German—a language which, fortunately, I can speak, though not very correctly.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"Ach, Fräulein! if the two Englishmen are coming, does it not mean that Marnac is here?"
I suppose I turned rather pale, for the fear of that dreadful man was always in my heart, though, indeed, I pretended to father that I had forgotten he existed. But the next instant Reski had dropped down on one knee, taking my hand and kissing it.
"I am a dog, Fräulein!" he said simply. "I did not think of what I spoke. But it is the thing for which I forget all else—to meet this man who killed my son. For your father and yourself, have no fear. It is I that will ever watch. You trust me, Fräulein?"
"Indeed, Reski, I do," I answered him; and so we parted.
I was nervous that night, and about one in the morning I thought I heard a noise in the passage outside. Very cautiously I opened my door and peeped out. My father's door was the next to mine, and between the two lay Reski in a great fur rug that he had. He waved his hand to me with a little smile, as if I were a child he was bidding to be of good courage. I slept undisturbed after that.
It was as we took our place for a twelve o'clock déjeuner that we received the second telegram. This is how it read:—
   "If danger presses, communicate fully police. We started on receipt of your message, and will he at Thusis by three. Should be at Pontresina at one o'clock to-night. Order rooms.—Graden."
I called in Reski at once; for he had refused to have his meals with us, though my father had invited him. He looked very grave, indeed, when I translated the message.
"You sent no telegram, Fräulein?"
"No, Herr Reski."
"Nor yon, mein Herr?"
"No, Reski, no," said my father.
"Then someone has sent it in your name. I do not like it. It would seem a trap."
"A trap?"
I stared at him with fear gathering about my heart. Who had done this thing? And why?
"It would seem, Fräulein, some scheme of the old grey devil. what he intends, I cannot guess; nor can I think how he discovered that we are here. But there is a thing plainly to do. I will start for Thusis, to warn those who are hastening to us."
"I will come with you, Reski," said my father.
"You know that cannot be. I have no fear, with Reski to protect me. I will go."
Love gives great strength to woman, and I spoke as one who expects to be obeyed. It was much trouble to persuade them; yet from the first I did not mean to yield. My dear father had barely recovered from the fatigues of his long journey; to let him take this drive of forty miles would be the gravest folly. Yet it was not right that we both should leave our duty to a man of whom we had no real knowledge. Mr. Harland and his cousin had endangered their lives to save us; now that peril seemed to be closing round those gallant gentlemen, we could not both sit idle. Plainly it was I who should go.
And so at last it was agreed between us.
It was shortly after one o'clock when Reski and I rumbled off in our post-carriage across the snow-bound slopes of the valley to Ponte. Then began a climb of dreary monotony. Up and up we dragged, turn after turn through forests of larch and pine, with the Engadine growing wider, and its houses sinking into specks beneath us. At last we reached the crest of the Albula Pass, and trotted forward over the snow levels till we plunged down the steep descent of the rock-strewn Devil's Hall—as the mountaineers named it of old. The sun had set ere we rattled into Breda, and the moon had swung out from the southward when Bergun was reached. Half an hour later we had passed through the forests into the shadows of that black and dangerous gorge—the Berguner Stein.
Fresh snow had clogged the road on the Albula, and Ave had made slow progress, to our increasing anxiety. It was now impossible that we should reach Thusis before they started: but we had calculated that near Tiefenkastell we might meet them. That the snow had not fallen so deeply on the lower slopes, and that they had moved more quickly, we could not know.
We had passed the last bend that turned upward, leading in a long slope to the entrance of the gorge, when we stopped suddenly. Reski sprang out; clambering after, I found him by the driver, who was pointing with his whip up the road. The man had been warned to give us notice of any approaching vehicle.
"It is a post-carriage," he said. "They have stopped to breathe their team."
The road had been carved and joisted along the cliff side, and where we stood, under the mighty wall of rock, the shadows were gathered darkly. To our left the rugged barrier rose dimly into the night, clear only where its battlements broke the pearl of the sky at some great height above us; to our right, a low stone coping hid the grim uncertainties of the precipice. But fifty yards up the slope the cliffs fell back, and the road stepped out into the silver moonlight, mounting the hill, through a border of stunted trees, in a simple curve, as white and well defined as a chalk mark on a blackboard. On its crest I could see the patch on the snow carpet that marked the waiting carriage. It was, perhaps, the half of a mile away.
The patch of shadow moved slowly forward.
Suddenly, though distance hid the suggestion of the cause, the pace increased. Faster and yet faster it swept down the road; in the white silence of the night the muffled hoof-beats came thumping to our ears. the carriage grew clearer. We could see how it rocked; it might have been some great ball that flew bounding towards us.
For some moments we had stood motionless, helpless, before this amazing apparition. It was Reski who first understood; it was he who seized me by the arm, screaming in his excitement to run—to run down the way we had come. And in my panic I obeyed, flying wildly towards the sharp bend in our rear. I had almost reached it when there came a thought to me that jostled out the remembrance of my own safety, turning me back, with Heaven knows what anxiety in my heart. Robert and Sir Henry—could they be the travellers that came galloping to almost certain death?
The runaways had but one chance—to hug the cliff, thereby giving space to clear the turn without charging the low wall that guarded the unknown depths of the gorge. But to my horror, I saw that this was a chance our driver was preventing, for it was he who had edged his team against the cliff. They would have to pass him on the outer side.
I started up the road, shouting to him; but as I did so, I saw Reski spring upon the box. I heard cries of furious altercation, and then the driver was thrown from his place. He dropped on hands and knees; then rose and came running past me round the bend.
The whip cracked, and our team swung across the road, drawing up on the edge of the precipice. If the man who drove the runaways were not struck with terror, they had yet a hope of safety.
They were not one hundred yards away. I could see in the bright moonlight how the horses bounded forward, the traces now slackening, now tightening to the desperate plunges. Seventy yards—and the driver had gone mad. He was waving his arms and shrieking, not in terror, but rather in whoops of joyous exultation. It was a fearful thing to see those gestures and to hear those wild imprecations when death was so very near. Another second, and they were in the shadows, close upon us.
And Reski? I had almost forgotten him. Stiff as a soldier upon duty he sat, the reins tight in his hand, looking neither to right nor left, waiting the fate that might come to him. It was only thus that he could hold his team in their place—only thus, at the risk of instant annihilation. Did he dare this for the simple love of his neighbour? Did instinct tell him that they were indeed our friends? God rest him, whether or no! for by whatever rank men knew him, he was a most honourable gentleman.
Like a flash of light striking through darkness, I realised that the runaways were still holding the outer edge of the road; that it must happen—that there was no escape. And as I did so, there came a crushing, rending shriek that filled the whole air like the falling of a thunderbolt. Dimly I saw the great carriages collide, rebound—and then but one remained.
The spirit went out of me. I covered my face with my hands, crouching against the cliff, praying to Heaven that at least the screaming of the horses might soon be ended.
How long I stayed there, I do not know, but I was roused by footsteps passing before me. I started up with a cry.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said a well-known voice. "By Gad! if it isn't Mary Weston!"
It was Sir Henry; but what was that he carried in his arms?
"Who is it?" I asked, pointing.
"It is Robert," he answered gravely. "He has had a nasty tap on his head, I'm afraid. If you will look to him, Miss Mary, I will go back and shoot those poor beasts of horses."
They found them next morning, lying close together at the foot of the precipice. They told me that their faces were curious to see, for Marnac still grinned with the vacancy of his insanity, and Reski wore also a happy smile, yet one most different, for it was such as those carry who die in a noble effort, covering their memory with honour. For as Sir Henry has explained, it was Reski who saved their lives. They could never else have cleared the bend of the road. As it was, when their leading horse jumped the wall, his weight swung their carriage round, striking the other on the side, so that while they were left, battered, on the edge, with one horse dangling—until the harness broke—Reski, his carriage and his team, were hurled over the cliff.
Marnac had already been flung to destruction at the first impact.
We learnt in time the details of his insane scheme. A heavy bribe had won the help of the Cornish loafer—though, to be honest with him, the man had no suspicion of the evil purpose to which his telegrams would be placed. From poor Martha, love-lorn and middle-aged, he had gathered his news. It was Marnac who had sent the further telegrams to Sir Henry, calculating well the time at which they could arrive. He had stayed at the village of Alvaneu, and when the carriage passed it, had begged a lift as far as Bergun, a request granted readily enough by their driver. The poor fellow had been struck on the head at the entrance of the gorge, and so thrown from his place. He had not been seriously injured, and, indeed, was of much assistance to us all later in that evening.
I must add that Sir Henry despatched the whole of the great reward he had offered to Reski's next-of-kin. They were but distant relatives, as his wife was dead, and it had been his only son that Marnac murdered.
So ended the story that Robert, rightly enough, has named "The Trail of the Dead," for indeed it was a blood-stained path. I would have had Robert himself to conclude it, but that he insists that there is no necessity. One thing only does he ask that I should add—though, indeed, it is a matter that will have been already guessed. To please him, I will write it down.
Robert and I were married in June.
* Copyright, 1903, by B. Fletcher Robinson and J. Malcolm Fraser, in the United States of America.