BOOK FIVE The Man Hunt

CHAPTER ONE THE VALLEY OF THE GOLO

1.

IN the glimmer of early dawn, the big boat swung slowly into the harbour. Under the lightening sky the steel grey waters changed to steel blue; and the dark mysterious land smiled into friendliness. The grey cubes piled against the mountain brightened into tall houses still locked in sleep. Presently, with a fore-glow of citron, the clear rim of the sun cut the sea-line; and the sea became jade green. The air was diamond pure; the mountains took on colour; and Bastia awakened to another careless day.

High caserne-like houses, massive-walled and stucco-fronted; shabby shops half a century behind the times; mustiness and age; cigarettes, vendetta knives, and goat-flesh,—these were some of Hugh’s first impressions of Bastia.

He found a room in a tall hotel near the upper end of the town. It had vast rambling corridors with many doors, none of which were numbered, and to find his room he had to count each time the doorways from the head of the staircase. The interiors of all the rooms were alike in their simplicity. Each had high yellow walls, and a ceiling painted with a design of flowers and fruit, a bed, a commode with water-jug, two cane bottomed chairs.

Bastia soon bored Hugh. It’s streets seemed gloomy and sordid, its people sunk in tradition. There was nothing to do. The first morning he wandered up and down buying the numerous brands of local cigarettes. In the afternoon he craved a cup of tea, but it seemed to be unknown. Finally at a big café he found a brew which tasted like tisane. A single gulp sufficed.

At his hotel the food was very bad. The place was run on casual lines by a family of Corsicans, swarthy, hairy, oily, with a suavity that signified nothing. At his special request they procured him butter, but it looked so much like axle-grease that he did not have the courage to discover what it tasted like. At dinner he had a ragout of very young lamb that tasted quite good, until the smallness of the bones suggested to him that the lamb had been still-born, then he ate no more.

In his overwhelming loneliness he thought that he would write to Margot. He went to the so-called salon, dipped a rusted pen hopefully into a dusty ink-bottle. Alas! it was dry. Discouraged, he rose and sought the streets again. A few cheap cinemas were open, the bills displaying cowboy pictures,—strong, silent, wooden-faced men and romping, sunny-haired heroines. The streets were badly lighted and suggested nocturnal adventure; but the frequent display of the vendetta knife in the shop windows was an incentive towards virtue. He found a big, dingy café, and, ordering a liqueur, fell to sampling one after another the various brands of cigarettes he had purchased. He was abysmally bored. Bastia was the finest place in the world, he decided, to pass through without stopping.

Then he went home to his hotel. Sitting on his bed in the candlelight, he read his little guide-book. Suddenly he had an idea. He was fit, foot-loose, free,—why not walk across the island? Yes, that was it. He would tramp from Bastia to Agaccio.

2.

Next morning he bought a small, cheap valise and packed in it the few clothes he needed, also his sketching materials, as he might want to make some colour notes on the way. He planned to take about a fortnight to the trip, jogging along easily, studying the people, perhaps fishing a little, and generally enjoying himself.

This cheerful prospect reconciled him to another day in Bastia. He made the acquaintance of a tourist party that were stopping at his hotel. They were nearly all women, and their great subject of conversation was not the beauties of the island but Food,—the feasts that awaited them of fresh trout, black-birds and passionate pink wine.

“Ah! you are English!” said a vivacious French girl to Hugh. “There are so many English in Corsica, very aristocratic English. They have been coming here for years, and seem to think they have discovered the place. They rather resent us ordinary tourists. There is another Englishman in the hotel. Perhaps you have seen him. He has the room next to yours. Or he may be an American, he is so tall and clean-shaven, and he wears those funny big round tortoise-shell spectacles. They make people look like owls, I think. Do you know him? I ask because he seems so quiet, so retiring. I am quite curious about him.”

“No, I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been near my room all day. If I see him I’ll speak to him, and allay your curiosity about him.”

That evening he passed the tall man in the gloom of the corridor. Hugh was about to accost him when the man brushed past him and disappeared hurriedly into his room.

“Can’t be an American, after all,” thought Hugh, “or he’d be more sociable. I’ll look up his name in the register.”

When he did look it up, he found it was Wilbur P. Hoffmann, Jersey City; that settled it.

3.

The next morning, before starting out, he sought the proprietor of the library where he had bought his guide-book, and inquired the best road for his journey.

“But, monsieur,” said the man, “it would be better to take the train to Cassamozza; it is very flat and uninteresting as far as that. There the mountains begin, and you go up the valley of the Golo. The train starts in half an hour. You have just time to catch it, if you hurry.”

The idea was a good one. Hugh hurried back to the hotel, leaped up the two flights of stairs and burst into his room. He grabbed his valise, which he had packed before going out, and rushed down into the street. Within ten minutes he was seated in the train.

The first class carriage in which he found himself was very small and very dirty. He had to rub the windowpane with a newspaper in order to see out. On the walls of the compartment were advertisements of the wine of Cap Corse, a local apéritif, and a liquor called Cederatine. There were three other passengers in the carriage, a fat, spectacled man and two thin, spectacled women. From their accent he thought they were German at first, but later decided they were Dutch. They did not interest him. When the train started he turned his attention to the scenery. A green level stretched away to brown marshes that in turn yielded to the grey of the sea. At the tiny stations, sheltered by eucalyptus trees, peasants laden with baskets got in and out. Hugh attached a strap to the rings of his valise so that he could sling it from his shoulder. He had packed it with bread, cheese and fruit, a tin billy and a packet of tea.

He had decided to walk for two hours after reaching Cassamozza, then lunch in the open, so that it was with a sense of cheerful adventure that he descended at the little station and started out on his long tramp. How hot the way was! As he strode up the valley of the Golo the sun was scorching, the road a dazzling white; below him was a furious torrent, now dashing in dazzling foam amid great boulders, now swirling greenly in gravelly pools. It delighted him; it was so pure, so wild, so free. There was the maquis, too. It rose on either hand, clothing the mountain sides with rich dark green. It was pathless, dense, the best cover in the world. Here in the old days bandits had defied the forces of law and order; but now, doubtless, they were all dead.

With every step he realized more and more that he was advancing into the land of legend and history. He passed a hoary shepherd, who might have stepped from the pages of romance. The old man had a long beard and was dressed in brown corduroy. On his head he wore a picturesque beret, and strapped to his back was a huge blue umbrella and a gun. He was leaning motionless on his long staff, gazing over a flock of black-haired sheep that mottled the hillside. Hugh felt the poetry of it—the mountains soaring to meet the sky, the white torrent roaring in his ears, the solitary shepherd, white-bearded as a patriarch of old.

He was becoming hungry, furiously hungry, and he thought with joy of the simple fare tucked away in his valise. He climbed down to the river, and in the shadow of a great rock made a cheerful fire of driftwood. Now for the tea. Confound it! What was the matter with his valise? His key refused to turn in the lock.

“That is the worst of these cheap bags,” he complained; “the key always jams when you are in a devil of a hurry.”

He was ravenously hungry. His mouth watered even at the thought of bread and cheese. Damn the thing! It was a pity to break the lock but there seemed no help for it. Another effort. There, it was yielding. Bravo! it had suddenly burst open.... Good God!

He stared blankly at what he saw. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, he was not dreaming, he was not mad ... they were there, dozens of them ... packets tightly tied, neatly arranged, numbered.... Thousand franc bank-notes. There seemed to be a hundred to a packet, and there were twenty-eight packets. Nearly three million francs! What could it all mean? Still staring at the wealth in his possession, he sat down and tried to think. The Golo roared in his ears. Between two grim grey boulders it crashed; it swirled and eddied into a great green pool. In those pure depths could be seen the darting shadows of trout.

Three million francs!

He breathed the perfume of the maquis. He saw it carpeting the broad valley, rising to the mountain ridges that met the sky. Yonder like a carved figure the patriarchal shepherd stood motionless by his flock. It was like a dream.

Three million francs.

Yes, there they were in that little valise. He looked closely at it; it was not his valise. It was quite different from the one he had bought, bigger and finer! He had taken it by mistake. How could he have made such a blunder? It had been in his room.... Or had it been in his room? Ah! that was it. In his furious hurry to catch the train he must have entered the wrong room.... But whose? Why, whose but the tall American’s; Wilbur P. Hoffmann’s. Now he was getting at it. He had rushed into the room adjoining his and carried away the American’s valise. It was not such a strange thing to do, after all. The rooms were all alike, the doors unnumbered. He had not examined particularly his valise when he had bought it; and it was little wonder that he had not noticed the difference. Yes, he had carried away another man’s valise containing nearly three million francs. What should he do with it? Go back to Cassamozza and telegraph, of course! The tall American must be in a devil of a stew. But what was Wilbur P. Hoffmann doing packing three million francs around in a hand valise? It was a rum affair....

Hugh realized suddenly his own position. It was dangerous to be carrying such a treasure in this wild, primitive country. Few men would hesitate to kill him to gain possession of it. Even now some one might be watching him. Half fearfully he looked around. Then he closed the valise with a snap. Some one was watching him. It was a peasant lad who had bobbed up from the other side of the big boulder.

“Hullo,” said Hugh.

“Bon jour, monsieur.”

The lad drew nearer. He carried a long cane fishing-rod and had a canvas wallet slung at his back. He wore an old army tunic on which was sewn the yellow ribband of the military medal. He also limped badly. His age was about that of Hugh, and his face was olive tinted and bold featured.

“How is the fishing?”

“Not bad, monsieur. A little too clear. Still, look....”

Opening his satchel he showed Hugh four fine trout. Suddenly Hugh remembered that he was hungry.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve walked from Cassamozza, and I’ve forgotten to bring anything to eat. I’m dying of hunger. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to cook these?”

“Nothing easier, monsieur. I generally cook a fish or two for lunch. See....”

He took from his wallet a small frying-pan and a bottle of olive oil.

“Already you have a fire made. We will cook these in no time, and you will see how nice they will be.”

He soon had the fish simmering on the fire. He produced a piece of coarse bread and even some salt. When the fishes were cooked Hugh laid them on a flat stone. He ate with his hands, stripping the bones with his fingers. What matter! There was lots of water to wash in afterwards, all the Golo a giant finger-bowl at his feet. He had never tasted fish quite so delicious.

“There! I feel better,” he said at last. “Now for a good drink at the river and a smoke.”

He produced cigarettes and the two smoked comfortably.

“Been at the War?” asked Hugh.

“Yes,” said the lad. “Verdun. I got wounded in the leg there. It still bothers me. Two of my brothers were killed. There’s not a family here but lost some one. You know we Corsicans are brave. There were no braver men in the French army than our regiments. But they don’t like the Corsicans in France. The French generals sacrificed us.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Ah! poor Corsica. It is the forgotten island. So rich, yet so neglected. We are supposed to be savage, but there is no people so kindly. But we are poor, oh, so poor. Look at me. I have not a sou. And I will always be like this, poor, ragged, ignorant. It is hard.”

“What would you do if you had ... say three million francs?”

“Ah, monsieur, you jest. That is all the money in the world. Why, I would buy my old mother the cottage she lives in; then I would go to Paris and get an education. I would live like a fine gentleman. Ah! Paris. I was there once. What a time I had! I shall never forget it. Well, now I must catch some more fish for our supper this night.”

Hugh tried to give him a bill for five francs, but the lad drew back proudly.

“No, monsieur, we are a hospitable people. We do what little we can to make the stranger welcome. I thank you, but I can accept nothing.” He limped away in his rags and Hugh did not see him again.

4.

Once more Hugh climbed to the road. He would go on, he decided, to the next station and telegraph there. What a beastly nuisance! He would have to return to Bastia. That American, who was he? Even in that brief moment in the corridor there had been something vaguely familiar about him. What if he were a criminal fleeing from justice! What if.... Good Heavens!... Hugh stopped short as the great idea flashed on him. Could it be?... Could it be that Wilbur P. Hoffmann was....

He tore open the valise again, and fell to examining the notes. Some pencil markings confirmed his suspicion.... Was it Doctor Bergius? Absurd! Yet why not? Doctor Bergius with his beard shaved off, his head cropped, would not look very unlike Wilbur P. Hoffmann. He had noticed, even in the obscurity, the man’s large, beak-like nose. Conviction grew on him. Yes, the tall American was Doctor Bergius. Here now was a pretty mess. What was he to do? The Casino had been robbed of three million francs. He was alone with the booty in the savage heart of Corsica; he could not return it to the robbers, and to return it to the Casino ... hum! That didn’t quite appeal to him either. He had not much sympathy with the Casino. They could well afford to lose it. It would be better to hand it over to some deserving charity. In the meantime what was to be done? He could not carry the stuff round. He must dispose of it for the moment. That was it. He would hide it. He had been hearing for some time, as he walked, the roar of a great waterfall, and saw it about three hundred yards further on at the head of a very wild and solitary gorge. Climbing over the rocks, he reached the base of the cliff where the white shaft of water plunged into a deep pool. He found that the rock over which it fell shelved back into a low cave. He crawled in; it was quite dry. He took out the bundles of bank-notes, and wrapping them in his waterproof coat, bound the parcel tightly with stout cord. Then he crawled still further into the cave and jammed it into a fissure of the rock.

“There! It’s safe,” he said. “It can remain in that cleft a thousand years and no one will find it.”

He crawled out cautiously, and, after reconnoitring to see that no one had observed him, continued on his way.

CHAPTER TWO IN THE “MAQUIS”

1.

AMID the gorges of the Golo the white road wound on and up. The maquis encroached on it, frowned on it shaggily. Once or twice Hugh plunged into the perfumed cover and explored it for a few yards. The landscape lay sunny and still.

On the other side of the road, all strength and joy, the river leapt like a living thing; it charged the boulders, it flashed in foam, it gleamed in green pools. Sometimes he saw peasants with cane-poles tempting the unsophisticated trout.

He came on other ancient shepherds, with big flocks of black sheep, or goats. They always bowed profoundly, then resumed their statuesque pose. From time to time he passed cottages with red tiled roofs. Sturdy children, peach-skinned, with dark, glossy hair, and bold black eyes, came out to stare at him. A poor, proud, self-reliant race.

Beside each house was its own private graveyard. Often the tombs were walled, so that the dead were better housed than the living.

Sometimes the road dived into groves of cork-trees. They had all been stripped of their barks, the new growth showing by its colour and depth the number of years since each tree had been scaled.

Hugh found the way full of interest, and would have been very happy indeed, had it not been for the thought of the money. It haunted him. Why had Doctor Bergius brought it here? Had he given the others the slip, or were they all here? If they were, then heaven help him! They would soon be on his trail, and would never let up. They were relentless. In this lonely seabound island how could he escape them? In spite of the bright sunshine and the reassuring tranquillity of his surroundings, he shuddered.

High up in the folds of the hills he saw grey mountain villages, each clustered about a tall church, and looking so still, so dreamlike, that it was hard to believe any one lived there. Nearly all the women he met were dressed in black with black-silk scarfs knotted around their heads. He remembered that in this land the period of mourning is seven years, so that it is rare for a woman to be out of black.

He had passed many round rings of stone on the green sward. He asked a stalwart farmer what they were and was told that they were threshing floors. They still used oxen to trample the corn as they had done ever since the time of the Romans. Then as the sun was setting, he met a caped and bearded shepherd, leading home his flock, and carrying a lost lamb in his arms.

It was evening when he reached Ponte Lecchio and found a lodging for the night. His room was large and lofty, quite bare except for a large crucifix on the white-washed wall. As he was dropping off to sleep he thought of Margot. She must be very busy preparing for her wedding. He ought to write to her, and give her his fraternal blessing. But somehow he couldn’t. Of course, what she was doing was for the best. He hoped she would be happy and all that sort of thing. He had always advised her to marry, and now she was doing it; yet somehow it made him melancholy.

“I’ll get over it,” he sighed dolefully; “I’ll forget all about her.”

In the morning he resumed his tramp. He had luncheon at a place called Omessa, in an auberge. He ate slices of the raw ham of the country, Roquefort cheese made on the neighbouring farms, figs and walnuts, all washed down with the rich wine of the country. Thus heartened he continued his way. As he neared the station of Omessa he heard the train whistle. He loitered to let it pass. He bought a couple of oranges from a woman squatting on the platform beside a great round basket full of them, then stepped back into the grimy waiting room. He was idly peeling one of the oranges when the train drew up. The window of the waiting room was plastered with time-table bills, but in the narrow space between them Hugh peered out.

Suddenly his heart seemed to lift in a sickening way. At the door of a first class carriage were three men,—Castelli, Golaz and Gamba. They were after him. As he stared through the narrow chink he saw Gamba descend and buy some oranges. Then a fourth man came from the back of the compartment. It was Wilbur P. Hoffmann. The supposed American looked up and down the platform. His face was worried and anxious. Hugh’s suspicion was correct. That hard, grim face, dominated by its beak-like nose, was none other than Doctor Bergius.

“Take a look round the station,” cried the doctor to Gamba. “He may be here. We cannot afford to take any chances.”

Hugh had just time to rush from the waiting room by the back door as Gamba entered. He heard a step on the wooden floor, and knew the little man was coming after him. How could he escape? At the end of the station house was a small stone building into which he darted. He pulled the door shut, holding the handle with all his strength. Around him were brushes and a ladder. Under his feet he heard the crunch of coal. He was evidently in the closet used by the caretaker of the station. As he held the door, he heard a step outside and Gamba seized the handle, cursing volubly. Hugh held on grimly. Although Gamba supposed the door was locked, he made another effort to open it. He had powerful hands had the Strangler. Hugh felt the handle gradually turning in his grip. Another instant and Gamba would conquer. Then the train whistled, and Gamba hurried off.

Hugh waited a full ten minutes before he emerged from the closet. The train has gone; he saw it puffing far up the valley. There was no one on the platform. He was safe.

For the moment at least. The train was bearing his enemies away, but to-morrow they would return. When they discovered he had not arrived at Agaccio they would double back. They were like a pack of blood hounds on his trail and the hunt was only beginning. He was entirely at their mercy. He must use his wits and trust to Providence.

2.

Before he reached Corte the weather had changed; clouds had collected, and a fine rain was falling. He found a poor room in a large, unsanitary hotel, but dined decently on an omelette and some fried trout.

Corte in the drizzling twilight was very depressing. An old fortress stood on a rocky point against a savage mountain. Clammy scarfs of mist wreathed the peaks and trailed down the passes. Hugh wandered about the muddy main street, halting on the greasy pavement to peer down dark and ruinous courts. Seen under that cowl of sky, through the curtain of soft rain, Corte was indeed a joyless and discomforting place.

He sought his room, and spent an uneasy night between damp sheets. He was sorry now he had not made for Bastia and hid there until a boat sailed. The thought of the doctor and his band of desperadoes frankly terrified him. Well, he would go on now, and trust to luck.

Next morning the rain had ceased, although it still threatened. It would be better, he thought, to lunch by the wayside; and he bought some cheese, fruit, bread and a bottle of wine. Thus provisioned he started up the mountain road that was to take him on the next stage of his journey.

Ever since he had left Cassamozza he had been climbing steadily. He had left behind the lemon and orange groves, and now was steadily mounting to a land of oak forests and ravines. The flocks of sheep had given place to herds of goats, and the maquis was growing more and more aggressive. Down in the dim valley, like a silver tape, was the Tavignano meandering to the sea. On the other side of the valley were two precipitously perched villages. He passed many little roadside shrines, and one or two old lime kilns. Here and there were bearded goatherds in long black cloaks, standing as motionless as scarecrows in a wheatfield. At noon he sat down on the edge of the maquis and ate his luncheon.

He was just finishing his meal, when he paused and listened. Surely he heard the faint chugging of a motor.... Yes, yonder it was, a small car cautiously descending the mountain road. Some instinct made him draw back into the bush. Well he did so, for it was the four men who were hunting him, Castelli driving with the doctor, Golaz and Gamba behind. Hugh saw their eyes searching the road on either side. Now they were looking at the very spot where he lay. But the brush was thick, and they passed slowly on. A narrow escape!

They must have started early that morning from Agaccio. He knew they would have little difficulty in tracing him on that island where strangers were rare. It was just a question of time, of getting his location narrowed down. They would learn that he had stopped at Corte and had taken the road to Agaccio. Then they would turn back to search for him, inquiring at every house and village on the way. Beyond him was the little hillside town of Venaco. They would inquire if he had passed through. Well, he would not pass through; he would take to the maquis and go round.

All afternoon he kept to the maquis, avoiding villages, hamlets and even houses. He scrambled over rocks, stumbled through brush. He flattered himself that not even a peasant had seen him. He kept close to the road, his ear ever alert for the far off sound of a motor.

He was making slow progress, but he could see no other way. By now they must have traced him to Corte, and learned that he was but a few miles away. Doubtless they had asked the peasants to look out for him, even offered a reward. Perhaps at that very moment a score of stalwart Corsicans were scouring the bush for him. He had but one slim chance of escape, that of lying low, working his way to Agaccio and catching the boat for Marseilles.

He decided to sleep that night in the maquis. Under the shadow of an overhanging rock he found a place that was quite dry and screened by the foliage of an oak tree. He made a tiny fire, ate what remained of his food, and smoked a good deal. If only he had had a blanket he would have been fairly comfortable.

He arose with the dawn, stiff and sore. He took to the road, thinking he would meet no one at that early hour. He was ravenously hungry and felt reckless. When he came to the solitary house of a shepherd, he ventured to approach it and ask for food.

It was a two storied house with plastered walls, and a red tiled roof. An outer stairway led to the upper floor where the family lived; the ground floor was used as a stable.

As he knocked at the rough door he told himself he must seem rather a sorry sight. A night in the maquis had not improved his appearance. If he had only been wearing the corduroys of the country ... but he was in a brown Norfolk jacket, grey flannel trousers and a panama. He was not surprised when the bearded and spectacled old man who opened the door stared at him with astonishment.

“Can I have something to eat?” he asked.

Corsican hospitality is proverbial.

“Entrez donc, monsieur,” said the old man.

Hugh entered. The house consisted of but one big room meagerly furnished. Hams hung from the rafters, and at a small stove a woman, surrounded by a brood of half-clad children, was preparing coffee. The old man offered him a chair.

“The place is yours, monsieur. Make yourself at home.”

He ate some bread and drank his coffee, then rose to go. The old man detained him. In half intelligible French he began to relate the family history: they were miserably poor; his son, the father of the small brood, only worked at intervals. They had a garden, some goats, pigs, chickens, a few cultivated acres. Praise God there was always something to feed the children. Would monsieur like to taste their home-cured ham? Ah! now he must insist.

There was a heavy step on the outer stair and the old man went quickly to the door. Hugh heard hurried whispers then the step descended rapidly. The old man returned, and continued to cut the ham. He offered it raw after the fashion of the country. Hugh would have preferred it cooked, but under the circumstances he thought it best to bolt it down as it was. Then he rose again and said he must be on his way.

Again the old man tried to detain him. “Why not stay a little and rest yourself? There is a nice warm bed, and we have goat’s meat for dinner. You must see how good it is.”

The old man almost hung onto his arm. His eagerness seemed very suspicious, so Hugh gently detached himself and bade good-bye to the family. As he went up the road, he saw them all watching him from the doorway.

No sooner was the house out of sight than he took to the maquis. His fears were justified, for about an hour later two cars passed very slowly. The first, the small green one he had already seen, contained Castelli, Golaz and Gamba; the other, a big powerful grey, driven by a chauffeur, held Doctor Bergius. They had heard of him, no doubt, at the house of the shepherd, and were patrolling the road. But, hidden as he was in that dense jungle of maquis, they had little chance of finding him. He imagined that they must have telegraphed to Bastia for the big grey car.

About two o’clock he saw the two cars going back in the direction of Venaco, and once more ventured to take to the road. As he passed a dismal farm a man and a woman paused in their work to regard him. He wanted to ask them for food, but their manner was so strange that he decided it was wiser to go on. When he was a little way from the house, he saw the man leap on a mule and ride off in the opposite direction. Evidently the whole countryside had been warned, and every one was on the look-out for him. It would be only a matter of time before they cornered him. Once again he took to the maquis.

Rain had begun to fall. The underbrush was drenched and he was cold and wet. Still he pushed doggedly on. His despair gave him strength and he covered quite a distance. He cut off a big bend in the road by going straight through the bush. As he was in the midst of the maquis he heard again the sound of a motor. Climbing a rock he peered cautiously over the country. Close to the road a number of peasants were moving back and forth. They were beating the bush for him.

Still more cautiously he moved forward. Half an hour later he came out on the road once more. Not far away he heard the beaters crashing through the brush. Soon they must find him. He peered around carefully ... then his heart leaped.

Standing by the side of the road was the little green car. It was empty. Castelli and the others had gotten out and were searching for him. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of them.

Then a desperate idea came to him.... Yes, he would do it.

CHAPTER THREE IN THE MOUNTAINS

ONCE more he looked up and down the road. Still no sign of any one. Now was the moment.

He sprang to the little green car and spun the handle. Would it start or not? The motor breathed gently. Exultation flamed in him. A good car and a good road ... the devil himself could not stop him now. He leapt to the seat, jerking off the brake and giving her gas at the same moment. Then he heard a shout from behind, and turned his head sharply. About a hundred yards behind him Gamba had come out of the maquis.

There was no time to lose. The little man was running like a deer. How about the gears? Hugh looked down at the gate in which they worked, a four-speed gear box. They must go the usual way,—front, back, cross and front, back. Quick, Gamba was getting closer! He jammed in the first speed, and the car moved slowly forward. Second speed! He was going faster now, but Gamba was still gaining. Third speed! He heard close behind him the hard, panting breath of his pursuer. Gamba was running like the wind. Quickly he shot into high; and at the same instant he heard a heavy thump on the back of the car. Gamba had jumped and was hanging on behind.

The car was going at a fair speed now. If he only could get rid of that grinning little devil behind all would be well. Gamba was hoisting himself up. Soon he would be in the car, and then.... Hugh looked back once more. The man was waist-high above the hood. In another moment it would be too late. Ha! there on the floor by his feet was a spare can of petrol. That might do. He reached for it and with all his strength flung it over his shoulder. It must have caught Gamba square on the face, for he heard a crash and a howl. When he looked again Gamba was gone. He had a brief glimpse of him sprawling on the road. Then on and on at increasing speed.

Suddenly from the maquis he heard a shout like the hoarse bellow of a bull. Before him, on a snag of rock, was the burly figure of Golaz. The man shook huge fists at him in impotent rage. The rock was about twenty yards away from the road and Hugh knew he could pass it before Golaz had time to descend. He put on a burst of speed. The car leapt forward.

What was Golaz after? He had bent down and was wrenching furiously at the rock. He detached a great fragment of it and stood with it poised above his head. What a ferocious figure he made against that savage background, his dark face distorted with rage!

Instinctively Hugh slowed up. He knew what was coming. A car is a hard object to miss, and that great rock crashing down on any part of it, would hopelessly wreck him. There was no way of avoiding it; the road was narrow with thick brush on either hand. Nothing but to dash forward and take his chance.

He opened the throttle to the full, and the little car answered like a living thing. It seemed to pause for an astonished moment, then bounded forward so swiftly that it almost seemed to leave the ground. At the same instant the great stone came crashing down.

Would it hit him? He heard a snarl of rage from Golaz and a dull thump on the road behind him. Yes, that admirable response of his engine, that sudden spurt of speed had deceived the man. The great stone had missed by a hand’s breadth.

“Oh, you gallant little beast!” breathed Hugh to the car. “You’re a thoroughbred. You’ll save me yet.”

Behind him Golaz continued to roar and wave his arms. Hugh had a flash of intuition that his danger was not yet over. He was right. From the maquis about a hundred yards ahead, darted the figure of another man ... Castelli. He stood in the centre of the road with his automatic pistol, and waited. Hugh was reckless. He must pass that man. A wave of hate surged through him; Castelli was trying to kill him; well, then, he would try to kill Castelli. He would run him down.

The car was going at full speed, rocking and bounding in its leaps. Castelli drew a little to one side and with a quick twist of the wheel Hugh swerved and bore down on him. The man saw his intention and sprang away. That leap saved Hugh; a bullet struck and starred his windshield; another whistled past his head; a third punched a harmless hole in one of his rear mud-guards. Then he passed out of range. He was free ... free.

Once more exultation flamed in him. The road, ever climbing higher, followed the folds of the mountains. Sometimes, as he looked ahead, it would seem to come to an end and the careening car be about to leap into the vast void of the valley. But as he drew near, it hooked sharply round, and with a wrench of the wheel he was safe on a new stretch. Below him, far, far below, he could see the white bed of the Tavignano, the river like a blue ribband tangled amid the boulders. He seemed to be in the clouds, and rising, rising to the top of the world. He stopped the car for a moment to consult his map.

Good! It was only three o’clock, and not more than some eighty kilometres to Agaccio. If nothing happened he could make it by nightfall. True, they might telegraph to the police, and have him stopped at some wayside village. No, that was not likely. They did not want to have any dealings with the police. Once at Agaccio he was safe.

He was about to start again, when he heard a sound that checked him. With a hand on the wheel he listened intently. From far down the valley it came, the faint tick-tock of a straining motor. He ran his eye along the sinuous curve of road that was like a white tape-line tacked to the mountain. Yes, there it was, about two miles away, the long grey auto racing in pursuit.

“If they want to catch me, they’ll have to do some giddy going,” he muttered, as once more he slammed on his speeds.

The little car, panting with eagerness, ate up the road. If only it had been a straight road he could have launched forward, but the hair-pin bends baffled him. As he swung around them, a swerve of a few inches would have shot him a thousand feet into the valley below. Ahead of him the mountains rose like a solid wall, gaunt and stupendous. They seemed to crowd around him, to close him in, to block his way. Clouds cloaked their higher summits and the drizzling rain had grown chill and dispiriting. The increasing stickiness of the way made careful driving more and more necessary. Dizzily on his right rose the mountain; on his left sheerly dropped the valley. A skid would be fatal.

Nervously he slackened speed, but even as he did so his heart seemed to contract. On the bend of the hill below he saw the grey car. It swung madly round a corner and strained on with relentless energy. That chauffeur must be a demon. The four men were urging him to greater speed, bending forward with fierce excited gestures. They were not more than half a mile behind and every second the distance was lessening. Once more Hugh gave the car gas and she leaped forward.

They should not capture him. That would mean torture, death. He knew them. They were exasperated now beyond all reason. They would show him no mercy. And they were gaining on him, gaining relentlessly, inch by inch.

It was getting gloomier, he noticed,—and more chilly. Yet in spite of the increasing cold, great drops of sweat beaded his brow. With hands tensely clutching the driving wheel he glared at the glistening road ahead. His motor was going with a steady roar; and the car was bucking and plunging in a maddened frenzy of speed. He was near the top of the long valley, and soon would be dashing into the dark defiles of the mountains. But before he could reach them he would have to pass over a long bit of straight road. It was on this, he feared, the final tussle would come.

He had not gone more than a third of a mile when he heard the grey car come around the corner behind him. They were now on the same stretch, running for every last ounce of power in their motors. The grey car roared down on him like the wind. It must be doing eighty miles an hour to his forty. With his foot jammed hard on the gas-pedal, he clutched the bucking wheel. The car bounded and rocked beneath him. It was all he could do to keep it on the road. The hillside was a blur, the wind screamed in his ears.

With every spin of its great engine the grey car was gaining. He dared not look around, but he felt sure that the four men were reaching forward, revolvers in hands, tense, grim, implacable. The giant panting of their motor drowned the roar of his own. He could do no more, ... he was at his full burst of speed.

He watched the road rise sharply before him. It was on that long slope he would be caught. He knew it. As he struck the rise, his speed dropped. Not so that of the grey car, it seemed to come on faster than ever. It roared like an angry monster; its panting deafened him....

What was that? A bullet. They were near enough to shoot; they had him! He crouched low as another bullet sung past his ears. In a moment more he would jam in his brakes, stop the car brutally, leap into the maquis. He had a revolver; he would sell his life for a grim price. At least two of these devils should pay!

Then he heard another report, and his heart gave a leap of joy. Could it be the bursting of a tire? Yes, he was right. There were shouts, curses, furious exclamations, then silence. On he hurtled, hardly believing in his luck. He could no longer hear them, and at the head of the valley, he slowed up and looked round. The grey car had come to a standstill. The men had gotten out and were busy fitting on a new tire. That would take them ten minutes at least. He had already gained nearly a mile. In ten minutes he could do another five. Let him only have six miles between them, and, with luck, he would beat them yet. He put on speed again.

How marvellously the road was mounting! Great craggy peaks soared up on every side. Dark ravines yawned beneath him. Ahead was a cloud-mass, heavy as a sponge. The rainy drizzle had thickened to a downpour. The car now splashed through pools of water, now slithered over stretches of mud. Then the forests began to close in on both sides of the road and give him a sense of security. The country had completely changed. The road descended into dripping oakgroves, and spanned dark gulleys, down which brawled angry torrents.

Then it began to climb again, and the oaks gave way to pines. He had been travelling for nearly an hour, and had heard no sound of his pursuers. What had happened to them? Perhaps something worse than a damaged tire. He must be far ahead of them by now. He was rapidly mounting to the Col of Vizzavona. According to his map, when he had crossed the divide, he would drop down into Agaccio. Only let him surmount the Col and he could coast downhill for the rest of the way. He should make Agaccio by dark. For the third time that day he glowed with exultation.

It was getting very cold. The pines were chill and gloomy. The rain seemed to sting.... What was that just ahead, that patch of white? Surely it could not be snow? Yes. It was a short stretch, quite shallow. The car bounded through it easily. But look, another, broader, deeper! The car slid a little this time, and his heart sank. Then he saw the road was clear, and his hopes rose again. He mounted a ridge. He must be in the very heart of the mountains now. The mist rolled and dipped, cloaking the stark peaks that ringed him round. Surely he could not go much higher.

Again the road dropped swiftly. At the bottom of the dip, his car plunged into a great drift of snow, a foot deep and half melted. For a few yards it struggled on, them slackened speed and came almost to a standstill. Desperately he strove to force his way through; his wheels were whirring and slipping in the rain-rotted snow. He could not budge. He realized that it was useless.

Jumping out he reconnoitred the road ahead. It was filled with drifts, snow without a break. He never could get through. Stalled! Hopelessly stuck! Going back he tried once again. The car struggled gallantly, but to no use. He looked at it ruefully.

“Bless you, you gallant little beast,” he said. “You’ve served me more than nobly. Now it’s got to be good-bye.”

Then he left the road and plunged into the forest.

CHAPTER FOUR IN THE FOREST

1.

HE intended to remain in the cover of the forest, even, if need be, to spend the night there. In any case he would keep well away from the road and work through the wild country to Agaccio. Fortunately the forest was an open one. On the heights were pines, in the hollows oaks. Under the trees the rocks were covered with moss or a short growth of fern. There was nothing to impede him save the frequent gorges and brawling streams, and he made good progress. He was wet through; but in his excitement he felt neither cold nor fatigue, not even hunger.

Then, as night drew near, he began to be conscious of all three. The prospect of passing the hours of darkness in the forest daunted him. He might become crippled with rheumatism, perhaps contract pneumonia. He was afraid.

So presently stumbling on a narrow trail, he followed it eagerly, even breaking into a run. It was well defined and must lead to some habitation.

It had grown dark and he could hardly see the path. Several times he lost it and stumbled into wet fern. He went on more cautiously, drenched, shivering, discouraged. Would the trail never end? It went up and up, climbing deeper into the savage fastnesses. He was so tired, so miserably tired; he longed to lie down and rest. But that would be fatal. He must struggle on. His heart failed him, his weakness increased. Perhaps the little trail led nowhere. Despair seized him. Just as he was about to succumb, he saw a light. It was streaming through the shuttered window of a house, a house so near he almost blundered into it. He found the door and knocked. A step; then a voice asked:

“Who is there?”

“A traveller. I’ve lost my way. Please let me in.”

A heavy bolt was drawn, and the door opened cautiously. A tall old man holding a lamp over his head, stood in the doorway. His face was in the shadow, but Hugh could see that it was round and jovial. The man looked at him for a long moment, then said:

“Ah! my poor monsieur, you are indeed in a plight. Excuse me that I did not open sooner. But there are bandits about, and one has to be careful.”

He led Hugh into a bare room in which there was a long table and some rough benches. It was like the public room of some country auberge, hard, primitive, nakedly clean, but its cheerlessness was vanquished by a huge fire that blazed in the great open fireplace. The old man set the lamp on the table.

“Welcome, monsieur. My name is Pascal Martini. I keep a place of public entertainment; you have fallen well.”

“And I am a tourist,” said Hugh. “I was going to Agaccio in a car, but got stuck in the snow near the summit, and followed a trail that led me here.”

“It is good,” said Martini. “If you had followed the road you would have gotten waist deep in snow. It has lasted now for three days, the storm. And to think that down near the coast they have oranges and peach trees in blossom. It is wonderful, our Corsica. We have three climates in so small a space. I regret that we are giving you at this moment a taste of its most unpleasant one. You are wet through. If you will condescend to wear some of my poor garments I will give you a complete change.”

Hugh expressed his gratitude, and, standing in the glow of the blazing logs, stripped and rubbed himself with a rough towel. He felt the glow return to his frozen limbs. He put on the woollen shirt, stockings, and the corduroy breeches Martini handed to him.

“The costume of a hunter,” said the inn-keeper. “It is chiefly hunters and fishermen who come here. Sometimes wood-cutters. Occasionally bandits.”

“Where am I?” asked Hugh.

“About five miles up in the mountains behind Vizzavona. Later in the year hunting parties come and my place is always full. Now there is no one. I am indeed glad to see you. But I waste time. I must prepare you some supper. You must be ravenous.”

“I am rather.”

“Ah, my poor monsieur! And I have no meat in the house. What a misfortune. All I can offer you is fish, fresh mountain trout. Come, you shall see. I will catch them fresh from the water.”

He lit a pine torch at the fire, and taking a scoop-net in his hand, led the way to the back of the house where Hugh heard the roar of the stream.

“In the dark you cannot see,” said Martini; “but it is really very picturesque here. The back of my house is level with the face of rock that falls to the stream. It forms a very deep pool that I call my fish-pond. I stock it against the time when I have many guests. At the upper end is a small waterfall, and at the lower I have a grill so that the fish cannot escape. You can hear the roar of my waterfall. I love it. It is something alive in the deadness and silence of the forest. In the night I awake and hear its friendly roar. I have been a sailor, monsieur, and it reminds me of the sea. In the morning I strip and stand under it. I brace myself and let it crash down on me; it beats and stings. In the coldest weather it is only pleasantly bitter, a hearty tonic.... Now, if monsieur will wait here, I will descend the rock and get some fish.”

As Hugh looked down, he thought how strange and wild was the scene. The old man bent over the water and the flare of his torch revealed the mysterious depths of the pool, and the white curtain of the waterfall. Overhead was the harsh foliage of the pines. The inn-keeper scooped round in the coppery eddy of the water, and presently climbed back up the face of the rock. In his net two silvery trout were leaping and gasping.

“There! I have already supped; but I expect you can manage both.”

2.

Hugh always remembered that evening before the glorious fire. He smoked old Pascal’s tobacco, and listened to his yarns. The inn-keeper had voyaged far, and could talk of many lands, but always he brought the conversation back to Corsica.

“It is the vendetta that makes the bandits,” said Pascal. “They are not bad men as a rule. But they have made their kill, and from then on are forced to live beyond the clutches of the law. Very often it all arises from a political brawl; for we Corsicans are fiery politicians. That was the case with Angelo Rocco, who lives in a cave five kilometres from here. They say he had quite a future before him in public life. But one night in a café the heady Corsican wine was flowing, words ran high, pistols were drawn, an opponent of Rocco was shot; and Rocco had to take to the mountains. He belongs to a very old and distinguished family, too. Every one sympathizes with him; even the gendarmes let him alone. He often comes here. He can have all I’ve got.... But, of course, they are not all like that.”

Hugh saw the inn-keeper through an increasing veil of drowsiness. As he leaned forward to prime his pipe in the glow of the great fire Pascal was a striking figure, a tall, strong, hearty old man with thick grey hair and a pleasant smile on his ruddy face. Then suddenly a shadow seemed to fall on it; it grew grim, even sinister. The tone of his voice changed.

“No, they are not all like that. Monsieur, I, too, am involved in a blood feud. It is for that I sailed the seas for half a lifetime; for that I now shutter my windows at night. Yet it was long ago, that last vengeance. It was a younger brother of mine who fell. He was only a child, playing on the doorstep before my mother’s eyes. A dark man came out of the mountains and shot him even as he rushed to her arms. ‘Bad weeds are best uprooted young,’ the murderer said cynically, and went away....”

Pascal rose suddenly. His face was convulsed with passion, his hands knotted. He seemed transformed into a savage beast.

“I’ll get him yet,” he cried. “He’s an old, old man now, but I’ll kill him like a dog. Yes, I’ll get him yet....”

Then the inn-keeper gave an uneasy look at his shuttered windows and added: “That is, if he doesn’t get me.... But here I am, I am yarning away about my own affairs, and monsieur is so weary, he drops asleep. Pardon me. Come, I will show you to your room.”

He conducted Hugh up a steep stairway that gave on a narrow corridor.

“Here are three rooms. I will give you the middle one, which is the biggest. It looks out over the valley. To-morrow you will see the red fire of the sunrise on the snowy peaks.”

When he had gone, Hugh opened his window. The night air was icily pure; it smelled of snow and pines. He breathed it quietly for a time. Against the dark blue of the higher heavens rose the black blue of mountain pinnacles. In savage majesty they soared among the stars. He heard the continuous roar of the little waterfall.

Then a melancholy born of the absolute solitude came over him. He longed for the lights of the city, the comfort and security of the streets of Paris. Why Paris? Perhaps because Margot was there. He thought of her with a sudden poignant sense of desire. He was tired of adventures and unrest. He wanted to settle down ... a placid life ... always. Margot would shield him from the worries of every day, be like a buffer, make him a home. She was that sort. He didn’t want a wife he had to fuss over; he wanted one who would fuss over him.... But it was too late to think of Margot. She was marrying another man. He had lost her.... In a profound mood of gloom and regret, he wearily undressed and went to bed.

He awoke with a curious sense of fear, a strange stiffening of the scalp. Surely he heard the sound of voices. He sat up with beating heart and listened. Yes, voices and the sound of feet crushing through the crisp snow.... With a leap he was at the window.

CHAPTER FIVE HUNTED DOWN

HIS worst fears were realized.

In the eerie half-light he saw four black shadows draw near to the house and a knock at the door followed. He heard Pascal grumbling as he got out of bed. Then the inn-keeper’s voice:

“Who is it?”

The answer came in the harsh metallic voice he knew so well.

“Travellers from Vizzavona. Open quickly. We are cold.”

Pascal was unbolting the door.

“Pardon, gentlemen. I did not expect guests at so late an hour. Please to enter.”

He heard them stumbling into the big room with the fire, then again that grating voice.

“Ah! you have another guest?”

“Yes, a young man who arrived this evening.”

“These are his clothes, no doubt, drying by the fire?”

“Yes, he was very wet.”

“Then he is sleeping, perhaps. We must not make a noise.”

“Yes, he was very tired. He went to bed early, directly after supper. That makes me think.... Do the messieurs want anything to eat?”

“No, we have supped. We are tired, however. We would sleep. What rooms have you?”

“There are three upstairs, but the young gentleman has the middle one. I can give you gentlemen the others.”

“Good. You will take one, Castelli; I the other. The two men can sleep here by the fire. Now, patron, if you have some good brandy, a drop might not be amiss.”

Hugh had heard enough. He crept back hastily, locking his door. He must escape from this house, and quickly. He began to dress in the clothes Pascal had given him. With a groan he remembered that he had left his revolver in the pocket of his coat. Too bad, that!

Fully dressed, he went to the door and listened again. Doctor Bergius and Castelli were being shown upstairs to their rooms, one on each side of his own. He heard them enter, then Pascal descend the stairs again. All was quiet.

He opened the window very softly and peered out. It was a drop to the ground of about twenty-five feet. He dared not risk the fall. Then his heart leaped. At the side of the window was a rain pipe running from the roof to the ground. It would be easy to slide down that. He did not know their plans, but they would wait, no doubt, until Pascal had gone to bed before attempting anything.

A long silence.

Now there were stealthy steps in the corridor and whispering. With his ear to the door he listened. His hearing was unnaturally acute, and he distinctly heard Castelli:

“Gamba, where is Golaz?”

“Waiting by the door, Master.”

“Right. Our man is trapped. He can’t escape this time. You and Golaz watch to see he doesn’t descend by the window. If the inn-keeper interferes, settle him. And mind, we must take the Englishman alive. No reckless shooting. After we’ve got what we want out of him, you can do as you please. Now go.”

Again a long silence.

Hugh thought, “They suppose I am asleep. Soon they will try my door.”

He waited. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour passed. Everything was still. One might have thought that all the house slept.... Some one was gently trying the handle of his door, turning it softly first one way and then the other. He heard a harsh whisper: “Locked.”

Again he heard the grating voice of the doctor. “I thought so. Well, there’s nothing for it but violence. Put your pistol to the lock and burst it.”

Crash! In the silence of the house the explosion seemed terrific. There was a splintering of wood and the lock was torn from its fixings. But the bolt still held, and though Castelli shook and hammered on the door it would not open. Again he heard the voice of Doctor Bergius.

“Brace yourself against the wall of the corridor. Come, we’ll both put our strength into it.”

Hugh heard the door strain, crack. It was stout and still held. But it could not last long. In another minute it would give way. He ran to the window and leaned out. Then he drew in sharply, for from the darkness two bullets shattered the pane. Golaz and Gamba were on watch down there. No escape that way.

He wheeled around, desperate. The door under the combined weight of Castelli and the doctor was beginning to bulge, to crack. In another minute they would be in the room. He was trapped, unarmed, helpless. He was lost.

Then suddenly the pressure on his door ceased. They had paused to listen to what was going on below. The inn-keeper had jumped out of bed and run into the kitchen.

Hugh heard him cry: “What’s wrong! Nom de Dieu! What’s the matter? Ho! there, you two fellows!... Why, they’re gone. Ah! the door’s open....”

Daring another shot Hugh leaned from the window. Golaz had taken up a position behind the door and as the inn-keeper came out, threw his arms around him. In that bear hug of a grip, Pascal was as helpless as a child. He gave one great, hoarse cry, then Gamba had him by the throat.

The three were locked in a silent, deadly struggle. All at once Hugh heard again the ominous crack of the breaking door. Now was his time, now or never. He would slip down the pipe and then ... leave the rest to luck. As he climbed out on the sill of the window he heard a cry of alarm. Golaz and Gamba had seen him. They still gripped the inn-keeper. When he slipped to the foot of the pipe he, too, would be seized and held. No, that way was madness. What to do then?

There was another way ... up! The eaves of the house were only a few feet above his window. That was it, the roof.

So instead of slipping down the iron pipe, he wriggled upward. He clutched the gutter that collected the rain. It held and with a fierce jerk he pulled himself level. A second later he was sprawling on the slope of the roof.

From below came a howl of baffled rage. Golaz and Gamba were cursing both him and themselves. At the same instant Castelli and the doctor burst into the room. Soon came the voice of Doctor Bergius from the window.

“Where is he? Have you seen him?”

“Yes, the roof. He’s on the roof.”

“Oh, you fools, you cursed fools! Why did you let him get away again? What have you got there?”

“The inn-keeper. He tried to interfere.”

“Seems to me he’s lying suspiciously still. Hold on, I’m coming down.”

There was a pause; then again the voice of the doctor. “Gamba, you little devil, the man’s dead!”

“Yes, Master,” said Gamba humbly, “I’m afraid I squeezed a little too hard.”

“Bah! well, too late now. Take the body and throw it into the stream at the back. People will think he was drowned. Where’s the Englishman?”

“One can’t see him. The angle of the house hides him. But he’s up there all right.”

“Very well. You two men dispose of that body; Castelli, you run back a bit and see if you can see him.”

Hugh realized that, where he lay flat on the snow-covered roof, he was an easy mark. A belated moon gleaming through the cloud-fleece, would direct their aim. On the other side of the house was darkness and the protection of the stream. He must gain that. Keeping his feet in the gutter he worked along the roof till he came to the end of it, then gripping the slate edge, desperately he pulled himself up until he was astride of the ridge.

A shot whistled past him. That would never do. Castelli could pick him off as he crouched low on the ridge. He allowed his body to slip a little way down the side next to the stream. Thus hidden from them, half embedded in the snow, he clutched desperately at the angle of the ridge and waited. What would they do next?

Everything was very quiet, a quiet full of menace. Beyond a doubt they were carrying out some fresh scheme. The suspense was too great to be borne; he must know at all costs what they were doing. With a great effort he drew himself up and peered over.

He saw a sight that filled him with terror and despair ... the head and shoulders of Gamba, appearing over the edge of the roof. Stealthy and catlike the little man was climbing with no apparent effort. Now he was sliding like a monkey along the gutter, now he was drawing himself up to the peak, now he was astride the ridge. Hugh stared into his black vindictive eyes, saw his lips parted in that grin of incredible evil, the revolver held ready in his hand.

“Don’t shoot, Gamba,” he heard the doctor say from below. “Get him alive. Make him come down.”

Gamba bent over and seized Hugh by the arm; behind the pointed pistol, his eyes glittered malignantly.

“Come,” he hissed.

With a sudden wrench Hugh freed himself from the hand that gripped him, and as he did so, he felt himself sliding. He clutched desperately at the angle of the roof, but in vain. The snow on which he lay was slipping, slipping. Gamba clawed at him frantically. Too late! the whole snow mass crashed down like a miniature avalanche. Helpless, turning over in the descent, Hugh went with it, down, down over the edge of the roof into the black depths below....

He felt himself rushing through space. His one agonizing thought was: “When I stop falling what will I strike? Is this the end?” Then....

He plunged into deep water. Instinctively he broke the force of his descent with his arms and legs; but even then he struck the rocky bottom forcibly. He rose quickly to the surface.

He realized that he was in the fish pool, swirling round and round. He put out his hand and clutched at an object. Ugh! It was the dead body of the inn-keeper. Horror and fear maddened him. With half a dozen swift strokes, he had gained the opposite bank. He clutched hold of some bushes and pulled himself out.

The men had rushed around to the back of the house, and were firing into the black pool. It was so dark that they did not see him as he staggered up the rocky bank. He heard Doctor Bergius shouting in violent anger:

“Gamba, I’ll flay you for this. By God, I’ll kill you. He’s escaped us again.”

Yes, he was safe—at least for awhile. He stumbled through the darkness of the forest, half crazed, walking like a blind man, fear and despair urging him on.

It seemed to him he must have walked for hours, over rocks, through bush, knee deep in streams, always climbing. His hands and feet were torn and bleeding. At length he could go no further....

Some one was shaking him, telling him to get up. Reluctantly he roused. Above him were a pair of grim, scornful eyes and a face stern as Fate.

Over the hills the dawn was breaking.

CHAPTER SIX THE OUTLAW

1.

“WHO are you?”

The voice that addressed Hugh was rich and imperious.

Hugh looked at the strange face with startled eyes. “A hunted man,” he answered.

The other laughed. “I, too, am a hunted man. Come, you are faint with cold and fatigue. I will give you shelter.”

Hugh clutched his arm. “Don’t let them get me,” he said with a shudder.

The other laughed scornfully. “Don’t be afraid. With me you will be safe. Come.”

He lifted Hugh to his feet, and, half supporting him, led the way up the rocky path.

“You see the door of my home?”

“No, I see nothing.”

“Yonder black hole in the mountain side. That is my front entrance. Incidentally there is a back one for my private use, and only known to myself. But maybe you have heard of me. I am Angelo Rocco.”

Hugh started.

“The ... ah! Celebrity?”

The man laughed again.

“Do not be afraid. You are no enemy of mine, and he who is not my enemy is my friend. Come, you shall bear witness to a bandit’s hospitality.”

They reached the mouth of the cave.

“See,” said Rocco, “from here I can overlook the whole mountain side. If twenty men came to take me, I could shoot them all down before they reached the door. If fifty came I could shoot half, and the other half would look for me in vain. But then no one troubles me. It is understood if I keep out of the way they will leave me alone.”

They crossed the threshold of the cave. For some distance it was well lighted by the circular entrance. Blankets were hung over the walls; furs were strewn on the floor. A hammock swung from staples fixed in the rock. On either side were two long banquettes of oak, and near one of them a black cupboard, on the door of which hung a large ivory crucifix. Rocco threw open one of the banquettes.

“Look! there are some dry clothes. Change into them. Wrap some of these blankets about you, and lie down. I will make a fire and give you some hot soup.”

Hugh did as he was told. He had almost dropped off to sleep when Rocco brought him a big bowl of soup. It was rich and meaty. After he had drunk it, he could no longer fight against his drowsiness and closing his eyes, slept as he had never done before.

2.

He awakened gradually, and with a growing sense of tranquillity. The cave was brightening in the light of another dawn. Outlined against the sky and framed in the circle of the doorway he saw the superb figure of Angelo Rocco. The bandit turned and greeted him.

“A moment ago,” he said, “I saw a shadow moving at the edge of the pine wood. Ha! there it is again.”

He snatched up a rifle and fired.

“There! that will frighten him, whoever he is. If he means no harm, let him come out into the open. Now I will give you some breakfast. My friends keep me supplied with food from the city. I shoot game, but once in a while it is good to eat civilized food.”

They had a breakfast of coffee, bacon and bread. Afterwards they smoked, and Rocco talked. Hugh watched him in admiration. Never had he seen such a perfect man. He was tall, strong and springy as a panther. He had ebony black hair, and a clipped beard and moustache, which did not conceal the strength and character of his face. His fine lips had a haughty twist and his dark eyes were full of stormy fire. He moved with grace, carrying himself like a king.

“You must stay here for some days,” he told Hugh. “Rest your nerves. I am glad of a guest. With me you will be safe.”

He rose, looked keenly over the mountain side, then came slowly back.

“I see no more shadows. For a time at least we have driven off your wolves. Who are they?”

Hugh gave an account of the fight at the inn. When he came to the death of Pascal, Rocco’s face grew dark.

“They killed him, the devils! My good friend, Père Pascal. And who is there then to avenge him? You know, here in Corsica, a life must pay for a life. I had no wish to kill another man. There has been too much killing. But my friend ... my old friend ... well, we will see.”

After that Rocco grew restless. He strode up and down the cave, constantly stopping at the door to stare out. At last he said to Hugh:

“If you do not mind being alone, I will go down into the forest. If any one should come, you must retreat by the passage to the left. In case you want to sleep I will show you where you will be safe.”

A jut of rock nearly closed the passage, but further on it opened out again. At the end of fifty yards it appeared to come to a stop. Rocco held up the light he carried, and showed Hugh a cleft high up in the rock. It was lined with furs and formed a kind of natural bunk.

“Here is where I sleep when the gendarmes are in the neighbourhood. You will be safe here. If you should be further pursued, you have only to roll over that boulder at the far end. Under it you will find a hole down which you can lower yourself. It leads to a subterranean gallery which has many branches and where no one can find you. Only be careful not to get lost. And the boulder too,—I fear it may be heavy for you to move. But I do not expect to be long absent. In the meantime I do not think any one will trouble you.”

3.

As he descended the mountain, the bandit kept well under cover. Hugh watched him till he disappeared into the forest. From the mouth of the cave a magnificent panorama outspread. The mountains looked as if they had been hacked out by an angry god. Their flanks were naked. Moving cloud masses scarfed them for a moment, only to be rent aside again, and reveal new vistas of desolation. The vast abyss of the valley was packed with pines.

The time passed slowly and Rocco seemed to be long in returning. At noon Hugh relit the fire and cooked himself some food. He found that one of the banquettes was stored with provisions, the other with clothes. Rocco had things well arranged.

When he had finished eating, he let the little fire go out, and sat gazing over the valley, dreaming away the hours.... Margot would be married on the seventeenth, that day week. The thought made him miserable. He felt he would give anything to prevent the marriage. He tried to analyze his feelings. He wanted her and yet he did not want her. He wanted her because another man wanted her; or rather, while he didn’t want her himself, he did not want any one else to get her,—a most dog-in-the-mangerish feeling. He told himself that it had all worked out for the best. She would probably be happier with the other man. He envied him. Margot was a jewel of a girl, sweet, gentle, devoted. She would make a ripping little wife. He was sorry he did not love her, at least not in the mad, passionate way that mattered. He just couldn’t care for people in that crazy, headlong fashion. He was a cool, unsentimental sort of a chap. Or was he, really?...

Heigh ho! the time was long. What was keeping Rocco? What a pity about that man, condemned to pass the rest of his life in a prison of infinite earth and sky. He looked around at the few primitive comforts of the cave. There were some books, all on political economy or sociology. Yes, a great pity! A man of force and ability sacrificed because of a youthful excess of ardour. His friends said that Rocco had fired in self-defence; but the friends of the dead man were in power. All at once Hugh had an idea, a fantastic idea. Yes, that was what he would do....

Heigh ho! again. The time was infernally long. It must be about three in the afternoon. How still the mountain side was. Nothing moved. Suppose he slept a little! Taking a blanket, he crawled along the dark passage to the left, climbed up into the cleft and curled snugly in his blanket. Heigh ho!...

4.

He was awakened from a sound sleep by hearing some one moving in the outer part of the cave. The bandit must be wondering what had become of him. He was about to jump down from his perch and greet Rocco when the thought came to him:

“Perhaps it is not he after all. I must be cautious.”

He crawled along the narrow passage, and peered around the shoulder of rock that blocked its entrance. Then he drew a deep, gasping breath, for this is what he saw:

Seated on one of the oak banquettes was Doctor Bergius. He was leaning forward in an attitude of fatigue; his eyes—so wide open that their yellow pupils looked like rings—glared at the rock behind which Hugh was peering. Hugh thought himself discovered; fear paralyzed him. From the darkness he stared back at the doctor. But it was evident the doctor did not see him, did not see anything in fact. His stare was that of abstraction; his mouth had the twist of a savage beast; his face was set in an expression of rage and despair.

Then Hugh saw Castelli, at the mouth of the cave, looking anxiously down the mountain side. He, too, looked weary and desperate. The third of the party was Gamba. Gamba alone showed no sign of hardship. The little man, compact of all that was fierce and tenacious, was hunting round the cave like a nosing terrier. Hugh started to draw cautiously back when suddenly he heard a hoarse shout from Doctor Bergius.

“Castelli.”

Castelli wheeled round sharply.

“Well, doctor?”

“Castelli, you and I have got to have a heart-to-heart talk. Here and now is a good time. Castelli, you distrust me.”

The Italian started, made a gesture of protest. The doctor strode up to him.

“Oh, I’ve noticed it for some time. The others, too. All of you distrust me. If I thought there was anything in the nature of a conspiracy between you, I’d blow you to hell this instant.”

The doctor was glowering down at the Italian. With a savage gesture he drew a revolver.

Castelli looked at him coolly.

“Go ahead, doctor,” he said. “As a matter of fact I don’t distrust you, but I can’t answer for the other two. You must admit that things aren’t very clear. You played all the other men false. You left them stranded on the Italian shore without a sou of the money. You brought it here for us to make a divide. Then you told us you had lost it; that it had been stolen from you by that fool of an Englishman in a manner you must admit to be fantastic. Can you blame them if they think you want to bilk them, too? Now, personally, I believe you; but if we don’t find this Englishman and recover the money, I give you fair warning there is likely to be trouble. It’s no use threatening me, doctor. Remember we are three against one, and none of us very squeamish about taking life.”

“By God, it’s true, Castelli. I’ve been outwitted, and by a fool. Aye, that’s what hurts. He must have spied on me at the hotel. I could not take the bag about with me everywhere. He profited by an hour’s absence, only an hour, to get possession of it. He’s got it, got it all. He’s hidden it till he can come back safely and get it away. That’s why we’ve got to find him, got to hunt him down. He mustn’t leave the island. He’s here somewhere in these cursed wilds. He must not escape us. We’ve got to get him, Castelli; and, when we do, I’ll torture him till he tells; then kill him afterwards with my own hands. Ha! that will be the happiest moment in my life,—when I kill the dog.”

“Well,” said Castelli, “we haven’t got him yet! There’s no use wasting time; it’s evident he’s not here.”

“Leave no stone unturned. It was just a chance that he might have taken refuge with this Rocco. Where is the fellow? He might at least be able to give us some information.”

“Gone off hunting probably. Still he’s been here not so long ago. See, the ashes of his fire are still hot.”

“We may as well go. We’ve no time to spare. Stay! as we are here, we might as well search the place. There are three passages. I’ll take the centre one; Gamba can search the one to the right, while you examine the one to the left. Got an electric torch?”

“No, matches.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

Feeling his way along the wall, Hugh ran back into the darkness. There was not a moment to lose; Castelli was almost in the passage. He must escape. Ah! the boulder that concealed the secret exit! He reached it and tried to move it. In vain! Again he tried with all his strength. He was able to budge it only a few inches. Castelli was already at the opening. No, he could not shift this cursed boulder; he would be caught like a rat in a hole! Castelli was in the passage now, trying to light a match. As Hugh flung himself flat against the rocky wall, his uplifted hands came in contact with the ledge of the cleft where he had been sleeping. Quick as thought he drew himself up and shrank back till he was wedged into the rock itself.

Castelli was fumbling and stumbling. He was striking a fresh match every minute and swearing audibly. Hugh saw a faint glow, then darkness, then the glow again. Castelli did not like his job; but he was taking no chances. Nearer and nearer he drew. Now he had come to the end of the passage, just below Hugh’s hiding place.

“Sapristi! My last match,” Castelli muttered. He struck it, holding it high above his head, and examined the opposite wall. The light just came to the ledge within a foot of Hugh’s face. Then Hugh did something for which he was proud as long as he lived. Reaching forward, he softly blew out the light.

He heard Castelli curse; but the Italian had his back to him and did not realize where the draft had come from.

“There! that’s out,” he exclaimed. “But there’s nothing here. I’m off.”

Hugh breathed freely again as he heard Castelli groping his way out. He could scarcely realize his luck. On such small things human destiny often turns. Had Castelli possessed another match he would surely have been discovered. He raised himself, confident of his safety, and listened. He heard the distant voice of the doctor.

“No sign of any one. The passages Gamba and I examined dwindled away in the rock.”

“Mine, too, came to an end,” said Castelli. “I felt the walls all round. Not even a rat-hole.”

Then the voices ceased and Hugh heard the men scrambling out of the cave.

5.

Darkness had fallen and still Rocco did not return. The cave-mouth was a ring of velvety blue patterned with stars. The air was exquisitely cold and pure. As Hugh cowered in the darkness he wrapped himself in a blanket. The silence was breathless, acute. Staring up at the blue circle of sky, he listened to the beating of his heart. Then suddenly, noiselessly, a dark form loomed up between him and the stars. It was Rocco.

The bandit walked like one very weary. He threw himself down and lit a cigarette. After he had drunk the soup Hugh heated for him, he drew a deep sigh.

“You have been long,” commented Hugh.

“Yes,” said Rocco; “I have done much, seen much, learned much. Incidentally I have killed a man.”

Hugh gazed at Rocco in silence. After a deliberate pause the bandit went on:

“Yes, I killed him, or was the means of his meeting his death. I will tell you.”

Through the mouth of the cave came the pure air perfumed with pines. Hugh wrapped his blanket around him and settled down to listen. In the darkness he could see the glowing tip of a cigarette, and from behind it hear the roll of a rich voice.

“When I left you,” said the voice, “I went to the inn. I found the body of poor Pascal in the pool. There was a bullet wound in the head. They must have struck him when they fired at you. However, that does not matter. Pascal has an enemy. The crime will be put down to the vendetta. A convenient institution, the vendetta; it covers a multitude of sins.”

There was a reflective pause. The cigarette glowed and faded; then the sonorous voice went on:

“I took my poor dead friend out of the water and carried him into the kitchen of the inn. I laid him on the table, straightened his limbs, folded his hands over his breast, and put a crucifix between them. Then I knelt down and said a prayer for the welfare of his soul....”

The voice was silent for a little. The round mouth of the cave was brightening, and the stars shrinking back affrighted. The voice grew tense.

“It was while I was praying that the man entered. He saw neither myself nor the body, for the place was in darkness. He went over to where your clothes were and began to search them, the pockets, the lining. It was while he was doing this that I put a pistol to his head.”

A deep laugh awoke the echoes of the cave. Into its circular mouth crept the silver edge of the moon.

“I never saw a man so scared. You should have seen him jump. I backed him against the wall with his hands high in the air. I pointed to the dead man. ‘You killed him,’ said I. He shook his head. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘you helped to kill him. Tell me, and I’ll give you a chance for life. Otherwise I’ll shoot you where you stand.’ Then he told me that he had seized and held Pascal while his comrade had strangled him. ‘So,’ I said, ‘that was the way of it. Well, you are equally guilty, but you shall have a chance for your life. Have you a knife?’”

Rocco’s cigarette went out. He took his time to light another. The velvet circle cut the moon in half. Hugh could see the face of Rocco now, a pale, grim, tragic face. The bandit went on:

“‘Yes, I have a knife,’ answered the man. ‘And can you use it?’ I asked. ‘None better,’ said he. I marched him out of the place to the clearing in front of the inn. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘look ... I throw away my rifle, my pistol. Knife to knife we will fight it out. You for your life; I to avenge my friend. Is it well?’ And he answered me; ‘It is well.’”

Rocco rose and stood before Hugh. The full round of the moon was framed in the circle of the cave-mouth. It lit up the magnificent figure of the bandit, as he went on:

“The man was a brute, but he was brave. His eyes gleamed. I could see in them the joy of the fight. He thought he had me. He drew a long bladed knife. I drew mine. There in the forest we circled round, watching each other like two cats. Suddenly he leaped. He was holding his knife like a sword, point up to strike at the belly. I caught his wrist as he stabbed. Then I dropped my own weapon. I reached round him and forced his knife hand behind his back. He was strong; I never wrestled with a stronger. We had a tough struggle; and they say there is not in all Corsica my match for strength. Slowly, surely, I twisted his knife hand behind him; then suddenly I tripped him up. He fell, fell on the point of his own knife. It went right through his back and stuck. He died quickly. You would not say I killed him, would you?”

“No; without going into details, one might say he stabbed himself.”

“That’s it. Damn details. I do not want to have another death at my door. Well, that’s one of your enemies settled. And the other three.... Oh, I know they came here. I was afraid they had got you; they are hunting for you high and low. They have horses and spies. The stations are all guarded; the country people warned. A dazzling price is set on your head. So much I have heard from some wood-cutter friends of mine. Alas! my young friend, I fear Corsica is too hot for you. The sooner you are out of our brave little island the better.”

“What must I do?”

“There’s a boat sails for Marseilles to-morrow. You must catch it.”

“But how?”

“I will conduct you by a secret trail through the woods to the railway, at a point only fifteen miles from Agaccio. After that you must take your chance. See, I have brought your clothes from the inn. Now we will both sleep, for we must be up at dawn; you have a long, hard day before you. Believe me, I do not exaggerate the danger you are in. But I will do my best for you, and I hope you will get through. Now sleep....”

Hugh stretched himself out in his blanket; as he closed his eyes, the moon sailed out of the pool of sky and the cave was plunged in darkness.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE LAST LAP

1.

A LITTLE after daylight they left the cave and descended the mountain. With Rocco leading they plunged into the first fringe of forest and by a a little toe-trail travelled swiftly, keeping high above the valley. Hugh saw nothing but the sombre pine trunks. They encountered no one and the silence was profound. Rocco spoke little. Once or twice he stopped to listen, then, seemingly satisfied, went on at the same rapid pace. At noon they made a short halt for lunch.

They were gradually descending. The sharpness of the mountain air had given way to a softer temperature, the pines had yielded to oaks. At first the oaks had been bare branched, then they were clothed with leafage. Underfoot, too, the grey had given way to brown, the brown in turn yielded to green. They were dropping through the temperate zone to the warmer one of the coast.

It was early afternoon when Rocco stopped and turned to Hugh.

“This is as far as I dare go,” said he. “I think you can manage alone. You must descend that path to the railway. You will then be about fifteen miles above Agaccio. The road almost parallels the railway. You will have to wait to travel it until the dusk, and should get to the town about nine o’clock. The boat leaves at ten. If nothing happens you should catch it. Have you any money?”

Hugh had not thought of that. He searched his pockets.

“No, they got all.”

“Take this. I have no use for money as you can see.”

He handed Hugh a note for five hundred francs.

“Oh, I can’t accept that.”

“Come now. Consider it a loan. You will repay me some day.”

“All right. But let’s sit down and have a smoke before we separate.”

They flung themselves under a tree and lit their cigarettes.

“Look here,” said Hugh suddenly, “what would you do if you had a lot of money, say three million francs.”

Rocco showed his white teeth in a derisive smile.

“What would I do with three million francs? Why, first of all I would buy my pardon; then I would go into politics again. I would devote my life to the welfare of Corsica. With all that money one could almost change the destiny of our people. Ah! what a dream....”

“I can tell you where you will find three million francs. You can take or leave them as you choose. Only let it be a secret between us.”

“That is understood,” said Rocco gravely.

Hugh described where he had hidden the money, and sketched the events which had led up to its coming into his possession. When he had finished, Rocco sat in silence; his eyes brooded sombrely, his brows below his lofty forehead knitted in thought. Hugh watched his face, that fine Roman face so full of virility and courage. Beyond a doubt he was stirred by ambitious dreams. Hugh was reminded of Napoleon. Might this, too, not be a man of destiny? Suddenly Rocco roused himself.

“I do not know. It needs reflection. It is too stupendous. I may take the money and use it for my country; but if I do not, you will be sure it will remain there untouched, perhaps forever.... But now you must be on your way. You have far to go; see, already the sun is declining. You must reach the Agaccio road before dusk, and then hurry, hurry to the boat. And now good-bye. Good luck to you.”

“Good-bye. I’ll never forget you.”

The two men shook hands with a long grip. As Hugh turned on the downward trail, he looked back at the tall, graceful figure of Rocco, standing erect with folded arms. He waved his hand and Rocco took off his broad-brimmed hat. Then a turn of the trail parted them forever.

2.

It seemed to Hugh that he must have taken a wrong turning, for the trail, which had been growing less and less defined, suddenly disappeared. He was lost in the forest. Night was approaching. However, by keeping on down the hill, he must eventually come to either the road or the railway. He struck into a brisker pace, and, as there was no underbrush, made rapid progress. He had been descending for perhaps half an hour, when he heard a welcome sound, the whistle of a train. A little further on the forest lifted, and the line of railway lay below him.