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Title: The Hippodrome

Author: Rachel Hayward

Release date: November 28, 2006 [eBook #19943]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIPPODROME ***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



HIPPODROME

by

RACHEL HAYWARD







George H. Doran Company
New York
Copyright, 1913,
By George H. Doran Company





TO

EDYTH AND ARTHUR APPLIN

WITH LOVE AND HOMAGE.



  "Car vois-tu chaque jour je t'aime davantage,
  Aujourd'hui plus qu'hier, et bien moins que demain."
      (_Rosemonde Rostand_)




THE HIPPODROME


CHAPTER I

  "Aujourd'hui le primtetemps, Ninon, demain l'hiver.
  Quoi! tu nas pas l'étoile, est tu vas sur la mer!"
            DE MUSSET.


Count Emile Poleski was obliged to be at the Barcelona Station at five
o'clock in the afternoon one hot Friday in May.  His business, having
to do with that which was known to himself and his associates as "the
Cause," necessitated careful attention, and required the performance of
certain manoeuvres in such a way that they should be unobserved by the
various detectives to whom he was an object of interest.

He looked round, scowling, till he found the man he wanted, and who was
to all outward appearances the driver of one of the row of _fiacres_
that waited outside the station.  Cigarettes were exchanged, and a tiny
slip of paper passed imperceptibly from hand to hand, then he turned
ostensibly to watch the incoming train from Port-Bou.  As he was on the
platform it would be better to look as if he had come to meet someone,
and as he had nothing particular to do just then it would make a
distraction to watch the various types of humanity arriving at this
continental Buenos Ayres, the city of romance, anarchy, commerce and
varied vices.

Emile Poleski called it _l'entresol de l'enfer_, and certainly he was
not there by his own choice.  It was the centre of intrigue, and to
intrigue his life, intellect, and the little money he had left from his
Polish estates, were devoted.  To him life meant "The Cause," and that
exigeant mistress left little room for other and more natural
affections.

In his career women did not count, at least they did not count as
women.  If they had money to spend, or brains and energies that could
be utilised, that was a different matter.  He had a trick of studying
people as one studies natural history through a microscope.

It was all very interesting, but when one had done with the specimens
one threw them away and looked about for fresh material.

The train came in, slackened speed and stopped, and its contents
resolved themselves into little groups of people all hunting with more
or less excitement for their luggage, and porters to convey the same to
cabs.

The figure of a girl who had just alighted and was standing alone,
caught and held his roving eyes.  The pose of her abnormally slim body
had all the grace of a figure on a Grecian vase in its clean curves and
easy balance.

Her head was beautifully set upon a long throat, and her feet were
conspicuously slender and delicate in their high French boots of
champagne-coloured kid.  Her face, which as far as he could see was of
a startling pallor, was obscured by a white lace veil tied loosely
round her Panama hat, and left to fall down her back in floating ends;
and she wore a rather crumpled, cream-coloured dress.

She stood, looking round, as if uncertain how to act, evidently in
expectation of someone to meet her.  No one appeared and she moved off
in search of a porter.  Emile followed at a reasonable distance.  Books
he found desperately dull, but humanity in any shape or form was
attractive to him, and the girl's appearance appealed to a deeply
embedded love of the exotic and mysterious.

He watched with cynical amusement as she tried to explain her wishes in
French to a porter, who spoke only the dialect of Catalonia.  Her voice
finally decided Emile on his line of conduct.  Low-pitched it was, with
subtle inflections, and with a hoarseness in the lower notes such as
one hears in the voices of Jewish women.

A woman, whose vocal notes were of that enchanting _timbre_, was likely
to prove interesting.

He advanced a few steps nearer, saying in French, "I speak the
language.  Can I be of any use?"

The girl turned, giving him a comprehensive glance, and bowed slightly
in acknowledgment.

"Many thanks, _Monsieur_!  I know scarcely any Spanish.  Perhaps you
would tell me where one could get lodgings.  It seems rather hopeless
for this man and myself to continue arguing in different languages, so
if you would not mind--"

When they were both in the _fiacre_ she did not speak, but leaned back,
her hands in her lap, her feet crossed, looking straight in front of
her with hazel-green eyes, expressionless as those of the Sphinx.
Count Poleski congratulated himself in silence over his discovery.
Here was a woman so unique that she asked no questions, did not
volunteer after the manner of most women a flood of voluble
information, apparently took everything for granted, and was in no way
embarrassed by himself or his company.

In some respects she appeared a young girl, but her composure was
certainly not youthful.

"So you're out from England," he said at last.

"From Paris," she answered him serenely.  "I'm Arithelli of the
Hippodrome."  There was a girlish pride in her accents, and she looked
at him sideways to observe the effect of her announcement.

"_Ma foi_!  So it's that, is it?  Then I've heard something about you.
I know the Manager pretty well.  He said you were _un peu bizarre_."

"_Peut être plus qu'un peu_," Arithelli retorted quickly.  "I see you
think he's right."

Arrived at the lodgings she sat still, waiting in the cab with the same
apparent indifference while Emile wrangled with the landlady.  At
length he came back to her: "You had better try these for a week," he
said.  "They're forty _pesetas_.  She will want the rent in advance as
you have no recommendation."  For the first time Arithelli seemed
disturbed.

"I'm afraid I can't pay it.  I'm to have five pounds a week at the
Hippodrome, but of course I can't ask for that in advance.  I had a
second-class ticket out here, and now I've only got four-and-sixpence
left."

She held out a small blue satin bag, displaying a few coins.  "Perhaps
I'd better go and explain to the Manager."  Emile shrugged his
shoulders.  Obviously the girl was very young.

"On the whole I think you'd better not," he said.  "You know nothing
about either myself or the Manager, and it seems you've got to trust
one of us so it may as well be me."

When he had arranged matters he departed, saying casually, "I'll come
in again to-night about nine o'clock to see how you are getting on.
Don't do anything insane, such as wandering about the streets, because
you feel dull.  It won't hurt you to put up with the dulness for a bit.
You'll have plenty of excitement if you're going to live in Barcelona."

"_Tiens_!" said Arithelli to herself.  "What manners and what dirty
nails!  _C'est un homme épouvantable_, but very useful.  But for him I
should have been prancing round this place all night, looking for
rooms."

She dragged her trunk towards her, and proceeded to unpack the
collection of gaudy dresses that she had bought with so much pride at
the _Bon Marché_ in Paris, and which were all in the worst possible
taste.

Perhaps she had been impelled to a choice of lively colours as being
symbolical in their brightness of the new life on which she was about
to embark.  There was a green cloth rendered still more hideous by
being inlet with medallions of pink silk, a cornflower blue with much
silver braid already becoming tarnished in the few times it had been
worn, and a mauve and orange adorned with flamboyant Eastern embroidery.

When she had tumbled them all out they showed a vivid patch of
ill-assorted tints.  Arithelli shivered as she sat back on her heels on
the floor, and looked round the sordid room.  The excitement of her
arrival had worn off, and the element of depression reigned supreme in
her mind.  Certainly the apartment, which was supposed to be a
bed-sitting-room, but which was merely a bedroom, was not enlivening to
contemplate.  No carpet, dirty boards, a large four-poster bed canopied
with faded draperies against the wall facing the window.  There was a
feeble attempt at a washstand in a small alcove on the left, furnished
with the usual doll's house crockery affected on the Continent,--no
wardrobe and no dressing table.

It all looked hopeless, she told herself disgustedly.  Surely there
were better rooms to be found in Barcelona for forty _pesetas_ a week!
Either lodgings must be very dear or else Emile Poleski had meant to
take a large commission for his trouble in finding them!

She was stiff and tired after the long journey and want of proper food,
and every trifle took upon itself huge dimensions.  She was daintily
fastidious as to cleanliness, and everything seemed to her filthy
beyond belief.  The universal squalor customary in Spanish life had
come as an unpleasant shock.

When she started from Paris she had conjured visions of a triumphal
entry into her new career.  Now she felt rather frightened and
desperately lonely, and the horrible room appeared like a bad omen for
the future.  But, she reflected, after all, things might have been
worse.  She had found one friend already.  Certainly he had
disagreeable manners, especially after the artificial and invariable
politeness of the Frenchmen she had met while travelling, but at least
he promised to be useful.  She picked herself up off the floor and
began to consider the disposal of her garments.  Three or four wooden
pegs, the only accommodation to be seen, were obviously not sufficient
to hold all her clothes.

Presently there was an interlude, provided by the advent of the
landlady.  Her dishevelment accorded well with the general look of the
house; her slippers clicked on the carpetless boards at every shuffling
step, and she carried a half-cold, slopped-over cup of coffee.  To
Arithelli's relief the woman was mistress of a limited amount of French
patois, and in answer to a demand for a wardrobe of some kind, said she
would send up her son.  He was a carpenter and would doubtless arrange
something.  She gave a curious glance at the girl's witch-like beauty,
a mixture of suspicion and barely-admitted pity in her thoughts.

As to Emile's share in the drama she had naturally formed conclusions.
After a respectable interval her son arrived, and having delivered
himself of a remark in Spanish and being answered in French, proceeded
to hammer a row of enormous nails into the wall at regular intervals.
Arithelli sat upon her trunk, which she considered cleaner than the
chairs, and watched the process, her green eyes assuming a curious
veiled expression, a hank of copper-tinted hair falling upon her
shoulders.

There was something uncanny in her capacity for keeping still, and she
had none of the usual and natural fidgetiness of a young girl.  In
whatever position of sitting or standing she found herself she was
capable of remaining for an indefinite period.

When the carpenter's manipulations had ceased she hung up her dresses
carefully, put the rest of her things back into the trunk, as being the
safest place, and sitting down again began to cry in a low, painful
way, utterly unlike the light April shower emotion of the ordinary
woman.

Here she was in Barcelona, and the fulfilled desire seemed likely to
become already Dead Sea fruit.  Supposing she got ill, or failed to
satisfy the audience.  She would see her name to-morrow when she went
out in large letters on the posters of the Hippodrome:

"_Arithelli, the beautiful English equestrienne_," and underneath some
appalling picture of herself in columbine skirts, or jockey's silk
jacket and cap and top boots.

She had been crazy with delight over her success in getting the
engagement from the manager in Paris, and it had not occurred to her
that her appearance had had a great deal to do with her having been
accepted.  She had signed a contract for a year; and looking forward a
year seemed a very long time.  There had been opposition at home.

Her father had said, "I don't approve, but at the same time I don't
know in the least what else you can do.  It's Hobson's choice.  You can
ride, and you've got looks of the sort to take in a public career."

Her mother had been frankly brutal.  Now that there was no money, she
said, she could not have three great girls at home doing nothing.  She
had given them all a good education and they must try and make some use
of it.  Neither of the younger sisters, Isobel and Valèrie, were old
enough to do anything for themselves, so Arithelli at the age of
twenty-four had taken her courage, which was the indomitable courage of
her race, in both hands, and launched herself on the world.  The
bare-backed riding of her early days in Galway had proved a valuable
asset, and there was not a horse she could not manage.

Her slim figure seemed born to the saddle, and her nerve was as yet
unshaken.

The man who had engaged her had been more than a little astonished at
the composure with which she showed off the horses' paces, and went
through various tricks.  As she was young and inexperienced, he would
get her cheaply; she could be taught all the stereotyped acts with very
little trouble, and her morbid style of beauty would be a draw in Spain.

There was nothing of the English miss about her appearance and few
people would have believed her to be only twenty-four.  She had no
freshness, no _beautè de diable_.  Her beauty was that of line and
modelling.  Her quietness was partly the result of a convent education.
An old Irish nun had told her once that good looks were a snare and a
delusion of the Devil, and that hers would never bring her happiness.

At least they had got her an engagement, and a circus had always
represented to her the very height of romance.

She wondered how she could manage for money till she got her five
pounds next Friday.  It was lucky that all her habits, and so on, were
provided by the management.  She wished to-morrow would arrive, for she
felt eager to begin work, and see the horses.  She had quite forgotten
all about Emile's promised visit, and was just pulling down the rest of
her hair preparatory to getting ready for bed, when he walked in
without any preliminary knock.

"How are you getting on?  All right?"  Then after a momentary
inspection of the many garments that festooned the dirty walls, he
added: "I don't think you've got very good taste in clothes!"




CHAPTER II

  "All women are good; good for something, or good for nothing."
            CERVANTES.


The next morning Emile made his entrance with the same complete
disregard of ceremony.  Arithelli was still in bed and only half awake.
She raised herself slightly and looked at him with sleepy eyes.

"Oh!" she said.  "I didn't hear you knock."

There was the same entire lack of embarrassment in her manner that she
had shown on the previous night.  Almost before she had finished her
sentence she shut her eyes again, and leant back yawning.  It seemed a
matter of the greatest indifference to her whether he was there or not.
Emile's interest rose by several degrees as he sat down on the edge of
the bed.

"I didn't knock," he said, speaking English fluently enough, but with
the hard, clipped accents of the Slav.  "I can't bother about all that
humbug.  If you're straight with me I'll be straight with you, and we
may as well be friends.  I dare say you think you're very good-looking
and all that, but it doesn't make any difference to me.  You're here,
and I'm here, so we may as well be here together."

"I'm so sorry," Arithelli replied, "but I'm always so stupid and sleepy
in the mornings.  Do you mind saying it all over again?"

And very much to his own surprise Emile Poleski repeated his remarks.
It struck him that there was something of the boy, the _gamin_, about
her in spite of her exotic appearance.  That was so much the better and
would suit admirably with his schemes for her.  It was better that she
should not be too much of a woman; for in the realms of anarchy there
is no sex, though comradeship is elevated to the dignity of a fine art.

For chivalry and love making there is neither the time nor the desire,
and those who are wedded to _La Liberté_ find her an all-sufficient
idol for purposes of worship.  Human life is held of small account, to
join the Cause being equivalent to the signing of one's own death
warrant.  One would probably have to die to-morrow if not to-day, and
whether it were sooner or later mattered little.  Emile's fierce
devotion to the cause of his oppressed country had been the means of
leaving him stranded in Barcelona at the age of forty, without hopes,
illusions or ideals.  His estates in Russia had been confiscated, his
parents were dead, the woman he had loved was married.

Now he lived in a dirty back street, in a single room, on two pounds a
week, morbid, suspicious, cynical, keeping his own counsel, owning no
friends, and occupying body and brain with plots, secret meetings,
ciphers and the usual accompaniments of intrigue.  The Brotherhood
consisted of fifteen men, though occasionally the number varied.  Two
or three would disappear, another one come.  There was no feminine
element.  An Anarchist seldom marries.  To him a woman is either a
machine or the lightest of light episodes.

Emile had not the least desire to make love to the girl whom he had for
his own purposes befriended.  He was a quick and subtle judge of
character, and had seen at a glance that in her he would find a study
of pronounced interest.  Also she might prove of some utility.  It was
one of the tenets of the fraternity to which he belonged never to waste
any material that might come to hand.  In the finely-cut face before
him, with its Oriental modelling and impassivity, he read brains,
refinement and endurance.  Her hair was plaited in two long braids, and
drawn down over her ears, showing the contour of a sleek, smooth little
head.

She had relapsed into silence after disposing of the slovenly meal he
had induced the landlady to provide.  The only thing that seemed to
worry her was the superfluous dirt that adorned the cups.

At length she spoke:

"And what sort of a place is this Barcelona?"

"_L'entresol de l'enfer_," answered Emile curtly.  "What are your
people doing to allow you to come here alone?"

"They don't know I am here.  I ran away, you see.  If I get on well,
I'll write and let them know, and if not--"

"_Alors_?"

"Oh, I don't know.  But I will get on.  Don't you think I ought to make
a success at the Hippodrome?"

Emile ignored the _naïve_ conceit of the last remark.  "But what are
you doing at the Hippodrome at all?" he demanded.

"I am riding," she answered with an elfish smile in which her eyes took
no part.

"Obviously!  What are you going to do about _déjeuner_?  The landlady
won't bring you up all your meals."

"I don't know," was the unconcerned answer.

"You'll have to go to one of the _cafés_, and you had better let me
show you which are the most desirable ones.  _Enfin_! have you any
intention of getting up this morning?"

Arithelli yawned again.  "I suppose I must go round and present myself
to the Manager.  I'm to rehearse a fortnight before I make my
appearance in public."

"Then I had better come with you," Emile replied with decision.  "As I
told you yesterday, I know the Manager fairly well."

An hour later they walked together through the streets on their way to
the Hippodrome.  Emile was a bad advertisement for the secrecy of his
profession, for he looked a typical desperado.  His velvet coat had the
air of having been slept in for weeks, and had certainly never been on
terms of acquaintanceship with a brush; and, besides the usual
Anarchist badge, a red tie, a blood red carnation flamed defiance in
his buttonhole.

Under a battered sombrero he scowled upon the world; a dark skin,
fierce moustache, and arching black eyebrows over hard, grey eyes.

There are few people who look their parts in life, but Emile might
without addition or alteration, have been transferred to the stage as
the typical villain of a melodrama.

Arithelli had arrayed herself in the cornflower blue frock, which she
carried with a negligent ease, and she still wore the Panama hat with
the flowing veil.  As a matter of fact it was the only piece of
headgear she possessed; for she had been reckless over dresses and
boots in Paris and had found herself drawn up with a jerk in the midst
of her purchases by her small stock of money coming to an abrupt end.

Of her carriage and general deportment, which were noticeably good even
among Spanish women, Emile approved.  The crude blue of her dress, the
tags and ends of tinselled braid set his teeth on edge.  In his "Count
Poleski" days he had known the quiet and exquisite taste of the
_mondaines_ of Vienna and St. Petersburg, and like most men he
preferred dark clothes in the street.  Later on he proposed to himself
the pleasure of supervising her wardrobe, except her boots, which met
with his fullest approbation.

He noticed that she did not talk much but observed in silence.  He felt
that nothing escaped those heavy-lidded, curious eyes.  "Is everything
dirty in Spain?" she said at last.

"How fussy you are about dirt!" retorted Emile disagreeably.

"Yes.  My mother is a Jewess, you know.  I expect we notice these
things more than the dirty Gentiles."

Her calm assertion of the superior cleanliness of the tribe of Israel,
amused Emile, who had been accustomed to hear the usual contempt of the
English-speaking races for anyone possessing a strain of Jewish blood.
So it was the Jewess in her that accounted for her haunting voice.

The Manager was a hatchet-faced and haggard man who looked as if he
went to bed about once a week, on an average, and existed principally
on cigarettes and _absinthe_.  The simultaneous arrival of Emile and
Arithelli roused him from his normal condition of bored cynicism to
comparative animation.

Like the landlady he naturally made his own conclusions.

"When did you arrive?" he demanded of Arithelli.  Emile, not being
afflicted with a sense of the necessity for elaborate explanation,
removed himself a few paces and began to roll a cigarette.

Arithelli stood her ground, listened to the comments on her appearance
which the Manager felt himself entitled to use, returned his cynical
survey with a level glance, and answered his questions with an
unruffled composure.

It was arranged that she should rehearse every day for two hours in the
morning, and another two hours between the afternoon and evening
performances.  For the first act she could wear a habit of any colour
she cared to choose, and a smart hat; for the second act, which
included jumping over gates, and the presence of the inevitable clown,
she would have to wear short skirts.

"_They_ won't suit me," she said.  "You see how long and thin I am, and
look at my long feet.  I shall look a burlesque."

The Manager glared at her.

"I quite believe you will," he snapped.  "I suppose you think you're
going to do the leaping act in a court train and feathers!  Is there
anything more you would like to suggest?"

The intended sarcasm was not a success.  Arithelli considered gravely.

"I don't think so, thank you," she said at last.  "But if I _do_ think
of anything else I'll tell you.  And I _should_ like to see the horses."

She was filled with a genuine delight by the four cream-coloured
pure-bred Andalusians, El Rey, Don Quixote, Cavaliero and Don Juan.
They turned intelligent eyes upon her as she entered their stalls,
neighing gently as if they recognised a friend.  Both the men
experienced the same feeling of surprise at her evident knowledge and
understanding of animals.  In five minutes she had shown that she knew
as much about their harness and food as a competent groom.

The astute Manager, upon whom no sign of intelligence was wasted, saw a
good opportunity for getting a little extra work out of his youthful
leading lady.  He informed her that she must be down at the stables
every morning at eight o'clock to inspect the horses and see them fed
and watered.  As a matter of fact the inspection should have been one
of his own duties, but the girl was not likely to cavil at any little
additional work that had not been exactly specified in her contract.
Besides, if she did, he could soon make it uncomfortable for her.
Arithelli made no objection.  Though she hated getting up early she
would never have grudged a sacrifice of comfort made on behalf of any
animal.  When all the business was completed, Emile took her to the
Café Colomb for lunch.

Before they left he knew the details of her history.

The big house in Ireland, with its stud of horses and unlimited
hospitality, and the rapidly vanishing fortune.  Her mother, a Viennese
by birth, a cosmopolitan by travel and education, a fine horsewoman,
and extravagance incarnate.  Her father, good-natured, careless, manly,
as sportsmanlike and unbusinesslike as most Irishmen.  When his horses
died he bought more, keeping always open house for a colony of men as
shiftless and as easy-going as himself.

As the children grew up the money became less and less.  They were sent
to Convent schools in France and Belgium, then to cheap schools in
England.

At length the final crash came, and the big, picturesque, rambling
house in Galway was sold, and they came to London with an infinitesimal
income partly derived from the grudging charity of relatives.

Arithelli cleaned the doorsteps and the kitchen stove, blackleaded the
grates and prepared the meals, which more often than not consisted only
of potatoes and tea.

Their mother, who hated all domestic work, and could never be induced
to see that their loss of money was due to her own extravagance,
retired to bed, where she spent her days in reading Plato in the
original, and writing charming French lyrics.

When Arithelli ran away she had gone straight to an old friend of her
mother's, the widow of an ambassador in Paris.  She had made up her
mind to earn her own living.  She would carve out for herself a career.
Having decided that riding was her most saleable accomplishment, she
had gone round to the riding school where the managers of the
Hippodromes of Vienna, Buda-Pesth and Barcelona waited to select
_equestriennes_.

Luck, youthful confidence, and her tragic, unyouthful beauty, had all
ranged themselves together to procure her the much desired engagement.

"I made up my mind to get taken on," she concluded.  "_Et me voilà_!  I
did all sorts of desperate jumps that day.  I felt desperate.  If I
hadn't got it, there was only the Morgue.  I couldn't have gone home."

Emile listened in silence, and drank _absinthe_ and considered.

That night at a meeting of the Brotherhood he took the leader,
Sobrenski, aside and said:

"It was decided the other day that we wanted someone to take messages
and run errands.  Someone who could go unnoticed into places where it
would be suspicious for us to be seen.  You suggested a boy.  Fate has
been so kind as to show me a woman who seems to be in every way
suitable--or at least with a little training she will become so."

"A woman!" echoed the other.  "Are you mad?"

"I conclude her to be a woman because of her clothes.  Otherwise she
seems to be a mixture of a boy and wood-elf.  The combination appears
to me to be a fascinating one.  She is of good family, half Irish,
speaks three languages, asks no questions, and seems to have an
extraordinary capacity for holding her tongue.  It is on that account
that I questioned her sex.  Her appearance is excessively feminine.  Of
course I do not propose to enrol her among us at once.  As I have said
before, there are many ways in which a woman would be useful."

Sobrenski pulled doubtfully at his reddish, pointed beard.  "Does she
know anything about the Cause?"

"I fancy not, but she appears to have the right ideas, and after I have
judiciously fanned the flame!--girls of that age are always wildly
enthusiastic over something--so she may as well devote her enthusiasm
to us."




CHAPTER III

  "Out of the uttermost end of things
    On the side of life that is seamier,
  There lies a land, so its poet sings,
    Whose people call it Bohemia.

  "It is not old, it is not new,
    It is not false, it is not true,
  And they will not answer for what they do,
    Far away in Bohemia."
            "Love in Bohemia," DOLF WYLLARDE.


"I think," Arithelli said with deliberation, "that all your friends are
very fatiguing.  They have such bad tempers, and do nothing but argue."

"They live for the serious things of life," retorted Emile.  "Not to
play the fool."

"Thanks!  Is this one of the serious things of life, do you suppose?"
She stuck the large needle with which she had been awkwardly cobbling a
tear in her skirt, into the seat of a chair.

"What are you doing that for?" demanded Emile.

"Oh, pardon, I forgot."  She extracted the needle.  "I don't think I'm
unwomanly but I'm not a good sewer.  Emile! don't you think we might
have some music?  I really am beginning to sing '_Le Rêve_' quite well."

Her education in Anarchy had commenced with the teaching of
revolutionary songs.  Emile, who was himself music-mad, had discovered
her to be possessed of a rough contralto voice of a curious mature
quality.  It would have been an absurd voice for ballads in a
drawing-room, but it suited fiery declamations in praise of _La
Liberté_!

They were sitting in Emile's room now, for they made use of each
other's lodgings alternately, and there was a battered and rather
out-of-tune piano.  Sometimes, after the evening performance, there
would be a gathering of the conspirators, all more or less morose,
unshaven and untidy; and while Emile played for her, Arithelli would
stand in the middle of the room, her green eyes blazing out of her pale
face, her arms folded, singing with a fervour which surprised even her
teacher, the lovely impassioned "_Rêve du prisonnier_" of Rubinstein.
She was always pleased with her own performances, and not in the least
troubled with shyness.  Also she was invariably eager to practise.  She
shook down her skirt, went across to the piano and began to pick out
the notes.

  "_S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie.
  Mais rends-moi la liberté!_"


Emile was sewing on buttons.  Though he did not look in the least
domesticated, he was far more dexterous at such work than the
long-fingered Arithelli.  In fact it was only at his suggestion that
she ever mended anything at all.

"Do you ever by chance realise what you are singing about?" he demanded.

"Of course I do.  I'm a red hot Socialist.  I've read Tolstoi's books
and lots of others.  I got in an awful scrape over political things
just the little time I was in Paris.  It was when the Dreyfus case was
on.  Madame Bertrand was terrified at the way I aired my opinions.  You
see politics are so different abroad to what they are in England."

Emile agreed.  The girl was developing even more than he had hoped.

"Ah!  This is the first time I've ever heard about your political
opinions."

"You've never asked me before.  One doesn't know everything about a
person at once."

Again Emile agreed.  Then he said abruptly, "Well, if you have all
these ideas you'd better join the Cause."

"I'd love to!  Shall I have to go to meetings with Sobrenski and all
the rest of them?"

"Probably.  But you'll not be expected to talk.  You may be told to do
some writing or carry messages."

"Is that all?"  She seemed rather disappointed.  Emile felt for a
moment almost inclined to develop scruples.  She evidently regarded
Anarchy at large as a species of particularly exciting diversion.

"Who are the other women mixed up with it?" she asked.

"There are no other women.  You should feel honoured that we are having
you."

Emile stood up, having completed his renovating operations.  "You want
to sing, eh?"  Arithelli assented eagerly.  "You will work?" Emile
demanded.

"Yes!"  Her eyes had become suddenly like green jewels, and she looked
almost animated.  She was more interested in Emile's music than in any
other part of him.  His wild Russian ballads sung with his strange
clipped accent and fiery emphasis, fascinated her.  She was content to
listen for an indefinite period of time, her long body in a restful
attitude, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, as absolutely
immovable as one who is hypnotised.

Emile, for his part, was equally interested in her exploits in
vocalism, which he found as extraordinary and unexpected as everything
else about her.  Her singing voice was so curiously unlike her speaking
voice that it might have belonged to another person.  It had tremendous
possibilities and a large range, but it was hoarse and harsh, and yet
full of an uncanny attraction.  In such a voice a sorceress of old
might have crooned her incantations.  Where did this girl get her soul,
her passion, he wondered; she who was only just beginning life.

He flung over an untidy pile of music, and dragged out the
magnificently devilish "_Enchantement_" of Massenet.  "Try this," he
said abruptly.  "It's _your_ kind of song."

For half-an-hour he exhorted, bullied and instructed, losing both his
composure and his temper.  Arithelli lost neither.  "I don't understand
music," she observed calmly.  "But show me what to do and I'll do it.
Mine's a queer voice, isn't it?  A regular croak."

"You've got a voice; yes, that's true, but you don't know how to
produce it, and you've no technique.  You want plenty of scales."

"Wouldn't that take all the rough off, and make it just like anyone's
voice?"

Emile stared angrily at the exponent of such heresy, and was about to
annihilate her with sarcasm, when he suddenly changed his mind.  After
all, she was right.  It was what she called "the rough" that helped to
make her voice unlike the voices of most women.

"Is that your idea?  A good excuse for being lazy!  If you don't sing
scales then you must work hard at songs."

"Yes, I know."  She put her hands behind her back and leant against the
piano.  "There was a man in Paris, a friend of the manager.  He heard
me sing once.  He knew I wanted to take up a profession, and he offered
to train me for nothing, and bring me out on the stage.  I was to sing
those queer, dramatic, half-monotone songs in which one almost _speaks_
the words.  He meant to write them specially for me, and I was to wear
an oriental costume.  He said that every other voice would sound _fâde_
after mine."

Emile glanced at her sharply, but her tone and manner was both
absolutely void of conceit.  "Well, why didn't you accept his offer?"

"I don't know.  I suppose because it was fated I should come here.  He
wanted me to make my _début_ at the _cafés chantants_, but I didn't
like the idea somehow.  He said my voice was only fit for the stage,
and would sound horrible in a room."

Emile twisted his moustache upwards, and his eyebrows climbed in the
same direction.  "So!  Do you think then that your life at the
Hippodrome is going to be more what you English call respectable, than
the _cafés chantants_?"

"There are the horses here.  If I don't like anything else I can always
like them."

Emile decided that the man in Paris had been apt in his judgment of
this fantastic voice.  Clever of him also to have noticed that she was
Oriental.  The setting of her green eyes was of the East.  And horses
were the only things she cared about--so far.  Like most people whose
lives are a complicated tangle of plots, Emile was not particularly
interested in animals.  His life, thoughts and environment were morbid,
and the dumb creation too normal and healthy to appeal greatly to him.
He discovered that his pupil was able to play in much the same
inconsistent fashion that she sang.  With a beautiful touch, full of
temperament and expression, she possessed a profound ignorance of the
rudiments of music.  She could not read the notes, she said, but she
could copy anything he played if she heard it two or three times.
Emile found her astonishingly intelligent as well as amiable, and
though the music lessons were not conducted on scientific principles,
they produced good results.

He would give her plenty of music with which to occupy herself till the
time came when she would be fully occupied in serving the Cause.  As he
had said, there were no other female conspirators in their circle.
Sobrenski, the red-haired leader, detested women, and thought them all
fools, who generally added the sin of treachery to their foolishness.
Emile himself had taken no interest in any woman since he had lived in
Barcelona.  He too had found them treacherous.  Since he had lost his
little childish goddess, Marie Roumanoff, he had had no desire to play
the role of lover.  If he wanted companionship he preferred men, for as
companions women bored him.

But Arithelli was not a woman--yet.  She appeared able to keep own
counsel, to do as she was told, and to judge by the way she rode, her
courage would be capable of standing a severe test.  Also it had
occurred to him that she possessed the art of being a good comrade.  It
would amuse him to watch her develop.  At present she was full of
illusions about the charm of life in general.  Everything for her
showed rose-tinged.  Well, it was not his business to dispel illusions.
At present it was all "_Le Rêve_," but after the dream would come
awakening.  He took care to leave her very little alone during the
first few days, and arranged her time according to his own ideas, and
escorted her backwards and forwards from her rehearsals at the
Hippodrome.

When she was free he took her for long walks up the hills where they
could look down upon the gorgeous city, which, as far as natural
loveliness went, might have been compared to Paradise rather than to
the Hell to which he invariably likened it.

The beautiful harbour, the dry air, the sunlight and splashes of vivid
colour--everything was intoxicating to her.  She said very little, but
Emile felt that she missed nothing, and lacked nothing in appreciation.
For himself the place must be always hateful, for he was in exile.
What was the golden sunlight to him when he longed for the snows and
frozen wastes of Russia, that sombre country so like the hearts of
those by whom it is peopled.

One day he took her for an excursion to Montserrat, three hours'
journey from Barcelona.  They left the train at Monistrol, and started
to walk through the vineyards and pine woods towards the famous
mountain that towers up to heaven in grey rugged terraces of rock.  All
round, for miles, were undulating waves of green, here and there the
brown towers of some ancient castle, or the buildings of a farmstead;
and below on the plain the glitter of the winding river.  They climbed
to the wooded slopes of Olese, where they sat down to rest.  Arithelli
threw herself on the short, dry grass, with her arms under her head,
and drew a long breath of pleasure and relief.

"I love all this; it makes me feel so free."

Emile sat with his back against a huge plane tree, and rolled
cigarettes, watching her under his heavy eyebrows.  She looked in her
proper place here, he thought.  There was something wild and
animal-like about the grace of her attitude.

"So you're out of a convent?" he said, hurling out the remark with his
usual abruptness.  "_Tiens_!  It's absurd!"

"But it's true.  Convent schools are cheap, you see, that's why we were
sent there.  No, I'm not a Catholic.  Most of the girls made their
abjurations, but I never did.  They told lies there, and they spied.  I
hated that.  The nuns spied on the children of Mary, and the children
of Mary spied on the ones who were not the children of Mary, and--" she
stopped.

Emile told her to continue.  "I should like to hear more about
your--your religious experiences," he said.  "Besides, it will do you
more good to talk than to go to sleep."

Arithelli complied at once, with unruffled good nature.  "Oh, of course
I'll tell you if you like," she said amiably.  "I stopped because I
thought you would probably be bored, _ennuyé_, you know."

She described the nuns mumbling their prayers, and punctuating them
with irate commands to the children; the many and various rules, the
_Mére Supérieure_, the food, the clothes, the eccentricities of
_Monsieur le Directeur_.  She had the rare and unwomanlike art of witty
description, though it assorted badly with her tragic face and
unsmiling eyes.  As she talked her voice rippled and broke into
suppressed laughter.

"It was all rather dull, _n'est-ce-pas_?" said Emile, who felt more
amusement than he had any intention of showing.  "You'll find the Cause
more exciting."

Before any practical steps were taken to make her a member of the band
it was necessary to stimulate her enthusiasm, her imagination.  He knew
that for all her outward calmness she had no lack of fire.  The coldest
countries sometimes produced the most raging volcanoes.

"It's the only thing you care about--isn't it--the Cause?" she said.
"Tell me more about it.  As I'm going in for it I ought to understand.
Of course I like anything that's 'agin the Government.'  All the Irish
have always been rebels and patriots.  We've helped your country too."

Emile did not require a second invitation to induce him to expound his
views.  "I suppose you think we throw bombs about by way of a little
distraction?" he asked sarcastically.  "What have we suffered before we
took to throwing bombs?  Before I came here I saw men and women, old
and young together, shot down in the streets of St. Petersburg.
Because they rioted?  No!  Because they wished to offer a protest
against the brutalities of the Government officials.  Are our petitions
ever read, our entreaties ever answered?  There were other things too,
but they didn't generally get into the newspapers.  Women stripped in
barrack rooms,--and that in winter,--the Russian winter,--and beaten by
common soldiers.  Not women of the streets and slums, but women of the
higher classes.  Mock trials held with closed doors, the crime,--to
have incurred the displeasure of someone in favour at the Court,--the
end,--Siberia!  A student is known to be quiet, a great reader and
interested in the condition of the serfs.  He is watched, arrested, and
on the false evidence of the police ends his days in the mines.
Entreaties, reason, appeal!  Have we not tried them?  Now we have only
one weapon left--retaliation.  Sometimes we are able to avenge our
martyrs.  The two fiends who guarded Marie Spiridonova were shot by the
members of her Society.  She was only a girl too--about the same age as
you.  We Anarchists do not serenade women and make them compliments,
but we think it an honour to kiss the hand of such as Marie
Spiridonova.  She was tortured, starved, outraged, and came through
worse than death to be transported to a convict settlement.  Now she is
in the Malzoff Prison.  She will never see the world again, but it may
be years before the life is ground out of her by labour and privations.
Her case will soon be forgotten, except by a few, and thousands of
other women have gone the same road.  The details of the tragedy may be
a little different, the thing itself is the same.  One day I shall go
back to my own country.  In the meantime I carry on the campaign here.

"It's a losing cause.  But if we lose we pay.  We don't ask for mercy!"

      *      *      *      *      *      *

They sat together that evening at a _café_ on the Rambla, the strolling
place of the Spanish beauties, who promenaded there in an endless
stream, with waving fans and rustling draperies, carnations and roses
burning in dark, elaborately dressed hair.  Tziganes made wild, witch
music.  At the _cafés_ people laughed and drank.

Suddenly Arithelli leant across the little table, raising her glass.
"To the Cause!" she whispered under her breath.

For an instant the two pairs of eyes flamed into each other; then those
of the man, hard and steel-grey, softened into something like
admiration.  Their glasses clinked softly together.  "To the Cause!" he
repeated.  "_Mon Camarade_!"




CHAPTER IV

  "These were things she came to know, and to take their measure,
  When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure."
            SWINBURNE.


A few days later, Arithelli was duly initiated, and given the badge of
the Cause, a massive buckle with a woman's figure, and on either side
the words _Honneur et Patrie_.  At the suggestion of the leader Emile
had been made responsible for her behaviour.  If she betrayed them in
any way his life was to pay forfeit.  There was a fellow conspirator
working with her at the Hippodrome, a young Austrian of high rank named
Vardri.  His father had turned him out of doors, penniless, because of
his political views; and he was now, half-starved, consumptive and
reckless, employed in harnessing the horses and attending to the
stables.  There were two men under thirty, but the majority were
middle-aged.  They all seemed to Arithelli to have the same wild,
restless eyes.  They called her "_Camarade_," and "_Amigo_," and
treated her not unkindly, but with an utter indifference to her sex.
All their sayings showed the most absolute disregard for human life.

"If a vase is cracked, break it.  If your glove is worn out, throw it
away."

If they heard that some member of the band had found his way to the
fortress of Montjuich there was callous laughter and a speculation as
to whose turn it would be next.

Their meetings were held in divers places.  Sometimes they would engage
a room at the Hotel Catalonia and hold what were supposed to be classes
for astronomy.  Sobrenski was the lecturer, the rest posing as
students.  If anyone came in unexpectedly it all looked beautifully
innocent--the big telescope by the open window, the books and papers
and charts, and Arithelli at the desk at the end of the room taking
shorthand notes of the lecture.

There were seldom more than three or four _rendezvous_ held in the same
place, and more than once there were alarms and rumours of a visit from
the police.

As the days wore on Emile found new reason to congratulate himself upon
his discovery of "Fatalité," as he had nicknamed the girl.  She had
shown herself possessed of a charming temper, a fine intelligence, and
a most complete understanding of the law of obedience.

She made no comments on anything she was asked to do, but delivered
messages and ran errands after the manner of a machine in good working
order.  Even Sobrenski, who hated all women, was obliged to admit her
usefulness.

She was on pleasant terms with everybody down to the strappers,--the
men who harnessed the Hippodrome horses,--who adored her.  Even the
cynical Manager was impressed by her pluck and skill, though he
considered it his privilege to regale her with comments on her personal
peculiarities.

The time arrived for her first performance at the Hippodrome.  She made
her appearance in the ring in a turquoise blue habit, trimmed
hussar-fashion with much braid, and a plumed Cavalier hat, the dusky
shadows under her eyes accentuated, and her face powdered.  The Manager
would not allow her to use rouge, so under the glaring electric lights
she appeared more than ever spiritual and unearthly.

Her type, he said, did not require colour; and the people preferred
anything morbid in the shape of looks.

Emile, who was among the audience on the first night, thought she
looked like a thorough-bred racer as she made a dignified entrance to a
clanging stately gavotte crashed out by the band.  He had given her
dresser a couple of _pesetas_ to have her well turned out, and the
result was exceedingly satisfactory even to his critical eyes.

Her little head with its piled red hair was carried marvellously high,
and she swayed daintily on the back of the high-stepping Don Juan.  She
bowed gravely to the various parts of the house, but she had no
stereotyped smile either for the boxes or for the lower seats.  Her
slender figure gave the impression of great strength for a young girl.

"Steel in a velvet sheath, _ma foi_!  Body and soul!" was Emile's
inward comment.  "So much the better for the Cause."

A Spanish crowd usually gives but a languid reception unless roused by
something either horrible or sensational, but her bizarre appearance
had the effect which the Manager had foreseen.

In the second act she apparently changed her personality with her
clothes, and whirled in astride over two horses with neither saddle nor
bridle, guiding them and keeping them together by the pressure of her
feet.  She had full skirts, to her knees, of white satin, and
pearl-coloured silk stockings.  Her satin bodice was cut heart-shaped
and there was a high jewelled band round her long throat.  Her hair
hung down in a thick plait, tied with a bow of blue velvet.

The horses tore round the ring at full gallop; she jumped over gates
and through hoops, and ended her performance by leaping off one of the
horses which was caught by a groom, and flinging herself on to the
other, face to the tail, for a final reckless canter round the arena.

The brilliance and nerve with which she carried through the trick,
roused the enthusiasm it deserved, and Arithelli passed out panting and
triumphant to the accompaniment of music and cheers, and showered roses
and carnations.

The part of her work that she most abhorred was the eight o'clock
compulsory visit to the stables.  A circus life is not prone to
encourage the virtue of early rising, and she was by nature indolent in
a panther-like fashion, and was never in bed till half-past one or two
in the morning.  If she had known a little more she could have
protested on the grounds that her position of leading lady did not
involve the feeding of her animals.  She did it as she had done other
things without complaint, and presently Emile came to the rescue.  He
knew as much about the habits and requirements of horses as he knew
about shop-keeping, being entirely ignorant of both.

"How much are the brutes to have?" he asked of the Manager.  "And what
on earth do you give them?"

"Oh, I generally give 'em fish," was the sarcastic answer.  "What are
you doing here, Poleski?  This is the girl's business.  I thought she
was keen on her horses."

"She is also keen on her bed," Emile answered.  "She does her share of
work."

The Manager grumbled, but the new arrangement was allowed to stand.

Arithelli did not consort with the other female members of the
Hippodrome.

The one exception was Estelle the dancer, with whom Emile allowed her a
slight acquaintance.  He neither approved of women in general nor of
their friendships.  Estelle was the _bonne amie_ of the sardonic
Manager, who occasionally beat her, after which ceremony it was her
custom to drink _absinthe_.  Sometimes, for this reason, she was unable
to appear on the stage.  She would come into Arithelli's dressing room
and weep, and smoke innumerable cigarettes, and when things had been
going well, they made a _partie carrée_ at the Café Colomb.

By way of advertising herself and her performance Arithelli was given a
high, smartly painted carriage in which she drove in the fashionable
promenade of Barcelona, the Paséo de Gracia, with three of the
cream-coloured horses lightly harnessed and jingling with bells.

On these occasions Emile played the part of lady's maid and escort.  He
selected her dress, fastened it, scolded her for putting her hat on
crooked, and laced up her preposterously high boots.

Then he adjusted the battered sombrero, lit a cigarette and drove
beside her, scowling as usual.

The appearance of both was sufficiently arresting.  Arithelli drove as
she rode, recklessly, and yet with science.  Her thin wrists and long
girlish arms were capable of controlling the most fiery animal.

She had made Emile her banker, and always handed over to him her weekly
salary, some of which went to the expenses of the Cause as well as a
certain portion in fines, for she had no idea of time and was never
ready for anything.

Nearly every night before she was half-way into her habit the call-boy
came screaming down the passage, calling with the free-and-easy manners
prevalent behind the scenes:

"Hurry up, Arithelli, or there'll be a row!"

The question of a disguise for her was discussed at one of the meetings
of the Brotherhood, and it was decided that she should appear as a boy.
Her height would be an advantage, and her long hands and feet would
also help the illusion in a country where every woman possesses small,
plump and highly arched extremities.  Besides, when they had to ride
out to places at night, she would be less noticeable.  One girl among a
crowd of men might attract suspicion, though in the daytime she was
more useful as a woman.

It naturally fell upon Emile to provide the details of her
transformation, and he presented himself at her lodgings one afternoon,
bearing an ungainly parcel which he deposited on the table.

"You'd better try these on," he said.  "There is a complete suit of
boy's clothes, a wig and everything you'll want.  You will have to put
your own hair out of the way somehow."

It was the drowsy hour of the _siesta_, when no one moved out if he
could help it, and all work and play were at a standstill.  Arithelli
was sitting, as was her custom, absorbed in her own thoughts and
dreams.  For a moment she stared with uncomprehending eyes.  She felt
tired, she wanted to be alone, and she had not heard a single word.
Emile shrugged irritably and repeated his remarks.

"Oh, yes," said Arithelli.  She rose slowly, took up the parcel and
retired into seclusion behind the curtains, with which she had screened
off the alcove and so made herself an improvised dressing room.  The
rest of the apartment she had altered to look as much like a sitting
room as possible, with the exception of the obtrusive four-poster,
which could not be hidden and which upon entering appeared the most
salient feature visible.  There was some tawdry jewellery lying about,
and several pairs of the pale-hued Parisian boots she invariably
affected.  Emile made and lighted the inevitable cigarette, while he
fidgeted about, turning over the few French and English novels he could
find with an air of disapproval; for her taste in literature did not
commend itself to him any more than did her taste in finery.

At one period of his life he had steeped himself in books, knowing the
poetry and romance of nearly every nation.  Now he disliked them.  If
she wanted books he would choose them for her.  She would read the
love-songs of the revolutionists to their goddess Liberty, the haunting
words of those who had suffered for a time, and escaped the Siberian
Ice-Hell.  The fanaticism of his race and temperament flamed into his
cold eyes as he sat and brooded, and he hardly noticed that Arithelli
had slid into the room in her noiseless fashion, and was standing
before him.

Emile, though little given to being astonished, marvelled at the
unconcern with which she submitted to his critical inspection.  She
stood and walked easily, and looked neither uncomfortable nor unnatural
in her boyish array, in which the perfect poise of her body showed
triumphantly.

The black wig, under which she had skilfully hidden her red hair, made
her look more pale than ever.  The wide sombrero, tilted backwards,
made a picturesque framing to her oval face, and the _manta_ or heavy
cloak, worn by all Spaniards at night, hung, loosely draped over her
left shoulder.  Emile promptly twisted it off.

"This won't do," he said.  "The _manta_ is never worn like that.
Besides it's not enough of a disguise.  Watch how I put it on."  With a
few rough yet dexterous movements he arranged the dark folds so as to
hide her shoulders and the upper part of her body.

Then he stood back a few paces.  "But your green eyes!  A disguise for
_them_ will be impossible.  One sees them always."

  "_Les yeux verts.
    Vont à l'enfer!_"

"Do you know that, _mon enfant_?"

"I've heard it before.  They've already come as far as _l'entresol_,
according to you."

Emile grinned.  He enjoyed skirmishing, and felt that he had met his
match in words.  Before he could think of another retort she added:

"I can see in the dark with my green eyes, so they're useful at all
events."

"Then you'll find plenty of use for them when you're working for
us--and the Cause.  When you have to ride upon the hills at night you
will find them of great service.  You'll have to ride astride too, so
it is better for you in every way to be dressed like this."

Presently he left her with a few words of praise for her successful
appearance.  His first feeling of surprise at her coolness still
lingered.  He had expected a scene in a quiet way, a refusal, at least
expostulation.  All his first impressions of her were being verified.
Well, he hoped she would continue in her present ways.  Undoubtedly she
was an original, certainly she gave no trouble.

When she heard the street door shut Arithelli sat down, hiding her face
in her hands.  Once she shivered involuntarily.  Directly she found
herself alone the mask of her assumed nonchalance had fallen suddenly.
As long as there was an audience she had worn a disguise on her soul as
well as her body.  She had been feeling moody and depressed all day,
and this last episode was the climax.  Everything she had was to be her
own no longer.  It was all to be for the Cause--even her green eyes!
What power it possessed over these men.  They admitted it to be a
losing Cause, yet it was all they thought about, the sole thing for
which they lived--and died.  She had not thought it would be like this
at first.

She remembered how gaily she had discoursed of Tolstoi and Prince
Kropotkin, and of their writings which had revealed to her a new world.
Her first interview with Sobrenski had shown the relentlessness of the
man she was to serve.  She felt that he would sacrifice all alike, men
and women, to his idol, and would never stop to care whether the victim
were willing or unwilling.  The fact of her sex would gain her no
consideration at his hands.  Lately she had been impressed with the
sensation of being surrounded by an impassable barrier drawn round her,
a circle that was gradually becoming narrowed.  She had begun to know
that she was being incessantly watched.  If Emile were occupied with
the business of the Society, and could not fetch her from the
Hippodrome himself, he never failed to send an understudy in the shape
of one of his allies, generally one of the older men.  When she emerged
from the performers' entrance a silent figure would come forward to
meet her.  Often they exchanged no words throughout the walk home, but
she was never left till her own door was reached.

If she went anywhere to please herself, to a shop, or to see Estelle,
she was expected to give a full account of her doings.  It was an
understood thing that she should not go to the _cafés_ or public
gardens alone, nor speak to anyone not already known and approved by
Emile.  With all these conditions she had complied.  Already one
illusion had vanished.  She had thought to find freedom in Barcelona.

She had indeed found "_La Liberté_."

But the Fates had chosen to be in an ironical mood, and while making
the discovery she had herself become a slave.  In all her day there was
no hour that she could call her own.




CHAPTER V

  "I have gained her!  Her Soul's mine!"
            BROWNING.


"You slouched last night in the ring, Fatalité," Emile said.

Arithelli flung up her head.  "I didn't!"

"You looked like a monkey on a stick," proceeded Emile stolidly.  "You
were all hunched up.  I wonder Don Juan didn't put you off his back on
to the tan."

"Don Juan knows better!  You see animals are usually more kind than
people."

She was too proud to admit that the long hours, hard work, and want of
proper food and sleep had lately given her furious backaches, which
were a thing unknown to her before, and a cause of bitter resentment.
She had a healthy distaste for illness either in theory or practice.
That night she sat Don Juan erect as a lance, passing Emile in his
accustomed place in the lower tier of seats with a shrug and scornful
eyebrows.

She had felt more than usually inclined to play the coward during the
last few weeks.  The heat, worry and over-fatigue had begun, as they
must have done eventually, to affect her nerves.  When she had felt
more than usually depressed and listless Emile had taken her to one of
the _cafés_ and given her _absinthe_ which had made her feel recklessly
well for the moment, and ten times more miserable the next day.  He had
also advised her to smoke, saying that it was good for people who had
whims and fancies, but smoking did not appeal to her, and she never
envied the Spanish woman her eternal cigarette.

She felt as if she would like to sleep, sleep for an indefinite period.
She was wearied to death of The Cause, and the Brotherhood, with their
intrigues and plots and interminable cipher messages.

She had been three months in Barcelona, and now fully justified Emile's
name for her.  Tragic as a veritable mask of Fate, she looked ten years
older than the girl he had met on the station platform.

The longer she worked for the Cause the more she realised that Anarchy
was no plaything for spare moments, but a juggling with Life and Death.

At first they had given her but little to do--a few documents to copy,
some cipher messages to carry.  Then the demands upon her leisure had
become more frequent.  She found she was expected to make no demur at
being sent for miles, and once or twice there had been dreadful
midnight excursions to a hut up in the mountains.

The realisation of the folly of trying to escape from the burden that
had been laid upon her affected her nerve and seat during her
performances in the ring.

For the first time she felt her courage failing her when she entered
Sobrenski's house in answer to his summons.  When he had given her the
despatch she made an objection on the grounds that the time taken in
conveying it would absorb her few hours of rest.

"It's too far," she protested.  "I can't go there to-day."

"Then you can go to-morrow," answered Sobrenski in the accents of
finality.  He had never cared about the girl's inclusion in their
plots, and took his revenge in exacting from her considerably more than
his pound of flesh.

Moreover he suspected her of treachery, and disliked her for the
quickness of her wit in argument.

Even his unseeing eyes told him she looked both ill and haggard, but if
she were there, well, she must work like the rest of them.

Arithelli hesitated for a moment, and when she spoke for all her pluck
her voice was a little rough and uneven.  "I'm tired of being an errand
boy!"

Sobrenski looked at her, drawing his eyebrows together.  Everyone of
the band had a nickname for her, and his own very unpleasant one was
"Deadly Nightshade."  Some of the others were "Sapho" and "Becky
Sharp," which latter Emile had also adopted as being particularly
appropriate.

"Oh, very well," he answered.  "Shall it be the messages or a bullet?
You can take your choice.  Perhaps you would prefer the latter.  It
makes no difference to me.  This comes of employing women.  When
Poleski brought you here first I was opposed to having you.  Women
always give trouble."

"Would you have got a man to do half the work I do?" she flashed out
with desperate courage.

"Then _do_ your work and don't talk about it," retorted Sobrenski
sharply.  "If you are absolutely ill and in bed, of course we can't
expect you to go to various places, but as long as you can ride every
night at the Hippodrome, you can certainly carry messages."

He turned his back on her and took up some papers from the table, and
Arithelli went out, beaten and raging.

Emile found her lying on the bed, her hands clenched by her side, her
proud mouth set in bitter lines.  As he came in she turned away from
him, to face the wall.

"_Tiens_!" he observed, "you are a lazy little trollop."  Emile was
proud of his English slang.

Finding there was no answer he changed his tone.  "Hysterics, eh?  They
won't do here.  Turn over, I want to talk to you."

The girl moved mechanically, and Emile surveyed her.  There were slow
tears forcing themselves under her heavy eyelids.

"I wish I were dead!"

"Probably you will be soon.  So will the rest of us."

"What brutes you all are!"

"Because we don't care whether we die to-day or to-morrow?  _Souvent
femme varie_!  Just now you seemed so anxious,--besides, if one belongs
to the Cause one knows what to expect."  Emile strolled towards the
uncomfortable piece of furniture by the window, that purported to be an
armchair, and sat down.

"I loathe the Cause!  I didn't belong to it from choice.  Why did you
make me join?"

"Because I thought you would be useful.  You _are_ useful and probably
will be more so."

"Suppose I refuse to do anything more?"

"They will not give you the choice of refusing twice."

"Emile, I believe you are trying to frighten me.  Tell me what they
would do."

"As I introduced you to the Brotherhood, I should naturally be the one
chosen to execute judgment on you.  _Enfin_, my dear Arithelli, I
should be called upon to shoot you.  We don't forgive traitors.  If we
let everyone draw back from their work simply because they happened to
be afraid, what would become of the Cause?  Also let me remind you how
you came to me boasting of your love of freedom.  'I'm a red-hot
Socialist.'  That's what you said, didn't you?  Perhaps you have
forgotten it.  Well, I haven't.  Socialism doesn't consist of standing
up in a room to sing."

Arithelli made no answer.  She lay like a dead thing, and after a pause
the slow cynical voice went on.

"There was another woman in our affair about two years ago.  Her name
was Félise Rivaz.  She got engaged to one of the men, and then it
suddenly occurred to her that comfortable matrimony and Anarchy didn't
seem likely to be enjoyed at one and the same time.  So she persuaded
the man to turn traitor and run away to England with her, where they
proposed to get married.

"Their plans came out,--naturally,--those things generally do.  We all
spy upon each other.  They both felt so secure that they came together
to a last meeting--I can show you the house if you like.  It's down in
the Parelelo, the revolutionary quarter.

"They strangled the woman, and cut off her arm above the elbow--I
remember she had a thick gold bracelet round it with a date (a _gage
d'amour_ from her lover I suppose)--and they made him drink the blood.
He went mad afterwards.  The best thing he could do under the
circumstances."  Emile shrugged.

"There are plenty more similar _histoires_.  But perhaps I have told
you enough to convince you of the futility of attempting to draw back
from what you have undertaken."

Still there was neither movement nor answer.  Emile got up, and came to
the bed.

"_Allons_!  It's time you were dressing.  You'll be late again, and one
of these days you'll find yourself dismissed.  You must just go on and
put up with it all.  Life mostly consists of putting up with things."

But even this consoling philosophy failed to have a rousing effect.

For the first time in her life Arithelli had fainted.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

When she came to her senses that evening Emile sent the landlady with a
message to the Hippodrome, telling the Manager to substitute another
turn, and then made Arithelli get into bed.  Her dress and boots came
off and reposed upon the floor.  The rest of her clothes were left on.

These details did not worry Emile.  Then he found a book and sat
reading till she had drifted into a heavy sleep, the sleep of
exhaustion.

In his own way he was sorry for her, and his feelings were by no means
as brutal as his words.  At the same time he did not believe in a
display of sympathy.  According to his ideas it was demoralising, and
cured no one of complaints, imaginary or otherwise.

Also it was likely to make people hysterical.  Therefore when Arithelli
woke at six o'clock in the morning, and sat up panting, with a hand at
her left side, he elevated both shoulders and eyebrows.

"_Qu'est ce-qu vous avez donc_?  You're all right now."

He knew perfectly well that there was no pretence of illness.  The
strained eyes, the blue shadows round the mouth told their own tale.

"Oh, Emile, my heart feels so queer!  I'm sure it must be all wrong."

"_Ma foi_!  _Ces femmes la_!  _Il y a tou jours quelque chose_!  First
a faint, then a heart!  How often am I to tell you, Arithelli, that
that part of your--your--how do you say it?--anatomy--is quite without
use here?  Have you any brandy in the room?"

"There's Eau de Cologne on the washstand."

He mixed water with the spirit and gave her a liberal dose that soon
helped her to look less ghastly.

She lay back feeling almost comfortable, wishing Emile would see fit to
depart, but Count Poleski returned again to the subject of her
misbehaviour.

Like most men he was not at his best in the early morning, and the
night's vigil had not improved his temper.

He sat scowling after his manner, black eyebrows meeting over grey
eyes, hard as flint.  "If you are going in for this kind of
performance, what will be the use of you?" he enquired sarcastically.

Perhaps after all Sobrenski had been right in employing no women.

"Even the best machine will get out of order sometimes," the girl
replied wearily.

"And when that happens one sets to work to find another machine to take
its place."

"I didn't know about the horrors; you ought to have told me.  It isn't
fair."

There was neither passion nor resentment in the low voice.  "What shall
I do?" she went on, after waiting for Emile to speak.

"Put up with it, or better still go in for the Cause seriously."

"Don't you call this serious?  Blood and brutalities and slave-driving?
You talked about _l'entresol de l'enfer_, but I'm beginning to think
I've stepped over the threshold."

"_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute_!"

Arithelli bit her lips.  "I don't feel in the mood for arguing now.  I
wish you would leave me alone."

"On condition that you won't go in for any more hysterics, I'll go and
settle with the Manager that you don't have to appear to-night.  It's
lucky there happens to be a new turn with those trapeze people.  The
audience won't miss you.  Has Sobrenski given you anything to do
to-day?"

"I don't know.  I can't remember.  Oh, yes, I was to go to the Baroni's
at two o'clock."

"I'll see to that.  A cipher message?"

"Yes.  It's fastened under my hair."  She dragged herself into a
sitting position and extracted the little wad of paper with shaking
hands.  Emile took it.

"Good!  I shall be back at five o'clock.  You can get up later and come
round to my rooms.  Do you understand?"

"Yes!"

When he had gone she cowered down into the big bed shivering.  Every
bone in her body ached as if she had been beaten.  She had the
sensation of one who has been awakened from a bad dream.  Was it all
real or not?

Last night and its doings seemed centuries ago.  She still heard
Emile's voice as if from a distance, telling the story of the lovely
siren woman who had been strangled, and then the room rocked, and the
walls closed in upon her.

His words worked in her brain: "_Go in for the Cause seriously.
Remember it's liberty we are fighting for.  A life more or less--what's
that?  Yours or mine?  What does it matter?  Do you wonder we don't
make love to women?  It's a goddess and not a woman before whom we burn
incense.  Blood and tears, money and life!  Is there any sacrifice too
great for her altar?_"

And she had been both frightened and fascinated.

This was what Anarchism made of men like the cynical Emile.  It had
never occurred to her before that even Sobrenski, whom she regarded
solely as a brutal task-master, was himself a living sacrifice.

She drowsed and brooded through the day, and having arrived at Emile's
room and finding it empty, she "prowled," as she herself would have
expressed it, among his few belongings, for she possessed a very
feminine curiosity.  Under a pile of loose music she found the portrait
of a little blond woman, beautiful of curve and outline, in a lace robe
that could only have been made in Paris or Vienna.

The picture was signed _Marie Roumanoff_, and on the back was written
"_Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse!_"  There were songs too scrawled
with love-messages in Emile's handwriting.

She pored over them with a vivid interest quite unmingled with any
thought of jealousy.  Emile always said that no revolutionist ever
wasted time or thought on women.

After all, if she were shot to-morrow who would care?  She had written
to her people and sent them photographs and newspapers with the
accounts of her triumph.

Success was a sure road to approbation.  If she had failed she would
not have written.

The Hippodrome engagement could not last forever.  A little
carelessness, a loss of nerve, and her career would be at an end.

Sometimes when she had been singing "_Le Rêve_," she had really meant
it all.

"_S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie_!"

Only a few days ago Emile had stormed at her in his rasping French,
because she had, with the vehemence of youth, denounced the Anarchist
leader as a relentless brute.

"You think yourself over-worked and ill-used--you!" he said as he
strode up and down the room twisting his fiercely pointed moustache.
"Look at Sobrenski.  He works us all, but does he ever spare himself?
Look at Vardri?  Rich, well-born, starving at the Hippodrome on a few
_pesetas_ a week.  I thought you had better stuff in you.  Are you
going to turn out English milk-and-water?  You're _not_ English, you
say?  No, I suppose you're not, or you wouldn't talk about 'dirty
Gentiles.'  If you think Anarchy is all '_Le Rêve_' you'll soon find
yourself mistaken.  If some of us dream dreams we have also to face
actions and realities."

Perhaps the episode of Marie Roumanoff belonged to the days before he
joined the Brotherhood and became an exile from his country.

She knew that once upon a time he had owned land and estates in Russia,
and Emile the Anarchist of Barcelona had been known as Count Poleski.

She kept her discoveries to herself, and when Emile returned he found
her crooning over the piano.  She appeared to have quite recovered her
boyish good spirits, and demanded a singing lesson, for under his
tuition her passion for music had developed and increased.

"It's so nice to have a change from the heat and dust and those
horrible electric lights," she said.  "Let's enjoy ourselves and try
over all your music.  What a lot you have, and it all seems to have
been bought in different places.  Rome, Paris, Vienna, Dieppe, London!
Fancy your having been in London!"

Emile's collection of songs covered a wide field and ranged from the
gypsy ballad of "The Lost Horse," to "The Bridge," in the performance
of which he revelled.

Arithelli sat in a corner and rocked with inward laughter over his
atrocious English, and evident enjoyment of the morbid sentiments.  For
in spite of her face Arithelli had a fine sense of the ridiculous.

"You don't say the words properly," she said.  "You make such mouthfuls
out of them!"

"And what of you?" Emile retorted in great wrath.  "You with your
French all soft, soft like oil!"

"Yes, that's the Irish half of me."

"And your Italian so _raûque_ so hard--!"

"That's the Jewish half of me.  Oh, don't let's quarrel!  I do want to
learn to sing properly."

"Then don't fold your arms," her instructor said sharply.  "I suppose
you think it looks dramatic, but how can you learn to sing what you
call 'properly,' with your chest all crushed up like that?"




CHAPTER VI

  "When I look back on the days long fled,
  The memory grows still dreamier.
  Oh! what fantastic lives they led,
      Far away in Bohemia.

  "There were laws that were only made to break,
  In a world that never seems half awake
  Till the lamps were lit--there were souls at stake.
      Far away in Bohemia."
            DOLF WYLLARDE.


Barcelona in August was like the Hell to which Emile likened it.

The rich escaped from the heat to their villas up in the mountains,
those whom business, or lack of money, kept in the city, existed in a
parched and sweltering condition.  Arithelli still kept her place among
the performers at the Hippodrome, though after the fashion of circus
artists her name had been changed.

She was now "Madame Mignonne" from Paris, and wore a golden wig, and
came on the stage riding a lion in the character of a heathen goddess
in the spectacular display which always ended the performance.

She pined for the _haute école_ and trick riding in which she so
excelled, and felt unholy pangs when she saw her beloved white horses
being driven in a chariot by a fat, vulgar English woman, arrayed in
scanty pink tunic and tights.

She was not afraid of the lion, who was old and toothless enough to be
absolutely safe, but her new role was not a great success.

The golden hair did not suit her any better than did the classical
draperies, and she grew daily thinner.  As a matter of fact she was
practically going through the process of slow starvation.

She had never, even in her healthily hungry days, been able to eat the
abominable Spanish dishes--meat floating in oil, and other things which
she classed together under the heading of _cochonneries_.

She generally lived on fruit, a little black bread, coffee, and
_absinthe_.

Emile would try and bully her into eating more, and occasionally
essayed his talents as a _chef_, and cooked weird looking things in his
rooms over a vilely smelling English oil stove, but the Jewess in
Arithelli found him wanting in the "divers washings" she required of
the saucepans, and they generally ended these Bohemian repasts with a
quarrel.

She went about her work in a half-stupefied state, as one who is
perpetually in a trance.  She was past fear now.  Nothing mattered.
Midnight rides on a mule up in the mountains, meetings in the low
quarter of the town, the danger of being arrested while carrying a
despatch.

"_C'est ainsi que la vie_!"  Emile's motto had become also her own.

She was once more a perfect machine.  Even the only thing that
Sobrenski could find to say against her was that her appearance was too
conspicuous for a conspirator and that her hands and feet would betray
her through any disguise.

Emile, though still outwardly as unsympathetic as ever, was not blind
to the change in her looks and manner.

Putting the Cause out of the question, he did not wish "Fatalité" to
get ill.  Her company amused and distracted him.

He liked to hear her views on life, and to colour them with his own
cynicism, and he enjoyed teaching her to sing and hearing her argue.

For all her quiet she was curiously magnetic and had a way of making
her absence felt.  She was never noisy or exacting and had none of the
pride or vices of her sex, and though she was often depressed she was
never bored, and in consequence bored no one.

They had many traits in common, including fatalism and morbidity, for
the Slav temperament is in a hundred ways akin to that of the Celt.

In spite of his jeering remarks Emile thoroughly appreciated the girl's
pluck, and knew that if she failed it would be purely from physical
reasons.

"Iron in a velvet sheath," he had described her, and iron did not
bend--it broke.

After some consideration he approached the very unapproachable Manager.
"It's time you gave your leading _equestrienne_ a holiday," he
observed.  "She's getting ill.  If you don't let her have a rest soon
she'll be falling off in public, or having some fiasco.  She was half
dead the other night after the performance."

The Manager made profane remarks in the dialect of Silesia, of which
place he was a native.  He was fresh from quarrelling for the hundredth
time with Estelle, and was in the last frame of mind to desire rest or
peace for any inhabitant of the globe.

By himself and everyone else at the Hippodrome, Arithelli was
considered the property of the Anarchist, and Emile had taken very good
care to disabuse no one of the idea, but had rather been at some pains
to create such an impression.

For her it was the best protection, and kept her free from the insults
and attentions of other men.

Bouquets and jewellery he was willing that she should receive; they did
no harm and the latter could always be sold.

In cold and dispassionate argument he explained to the irate Manager
the folly of ruining good material by injudicious use.

"You pay her as little as you can considering she is a draw.  She does
the work of three people, including keeping the books when you are not
in a condition to wrestle with arithmetic.  If you had your way she
would be cleaning out the stables."

"Bah!" sneered the other.  "It would do her good--take the devil out of
her--hard work doesn't hurt that type.  She's all wire and whipcord,
your She-Wolf, Poleski.  Has she been snarling at you?"

"You'd better give her a week off," proceeded Emile, unmoved.  "The
audience will be getting tired of her if you're not careful; she has
been on too long without a break.  Get a fresh _artiste_ and take it
out of her salary.  I shall give her a week's cruise round the harbour
and see what that will do."

"Well, try and put a little flesh on her bones," said the Manager
rudely.  "I never saw such lean flanks!  She's got the expression of a
death's head.  It's a good thing the Spanish don't care for cheerful
grins or she wouldn't be here two days."

And so it came to pass that on the following Sunday Arithelli found
herself sitting on the deck of a yacht anchored far out in the harbour,
with the shores of Barcelona only a faint outline in the distance.

They had come aboard the previous day.

Emile had made her no explanations beyond saying that he was going to
take her for a sea trip, and after her custom she had asked no
questions.

The yacht, which was an uncanny looking craft, painted black and called
"_The Witch_," she knew by reputation, and had often seen it slipping
into the harbour after dusk.  It was the property of two Russian
aristocrats, friends of Emile's, who helped the Cause by conveying
bombs and infernal machines, and taking off such members of the band as
had suddenly found Spain an undesirable residence.

Arithelli was not in the least interested in either of the men, the
dark, handsome, saturnine Vladimir, or the fair-haired, pretty,
effeminate youth to whom he was comrade and hero.

But she liked their smartness and well-groomed air, and their spotless
clothes, after Emile and his dirty nails and slovenly habits, and she
appreciated to the full the surrounding refinement and comfort, and
enjoyed the daintily served meals, the shining glass and silver and the
deft, silent waiting of the sailors.

She had been given a luxurious cabin which seemed a paradise after her
dirty, carpetless bedroom, and in it she could laze and lounge in peace
without the eternal practising and rehearsals and running errands that
her soul loathed.

The hot sun glared down upon her, as she sat watching the racing waves.

She was a fantastic, slim, _bizarre_ figure with her coppery hair, over
which a lace scarf was tied, and high-heeled slippers on her beautiful
slender feet.

In her ears dangled huge turquoises, showing vividly against the white
skin that was coated thickly with scented powder.

The manager had told her that she must not get tanned or red or it
would spoil her type, and she now "made-up" habitually in the daytime.

Her whole array was tawdry and theatrical, and utterly out of keeping
with her surroundings.

The two owners of the yacht, who wore immaculate white linen clothes
and canvas shoes, expressed to each other their disapproval of her
whole get-up, and particularly of her clicking heels.  In common with
most men, they abominated an _outré_ style of dressing and too much
jewellery, and above all such finery at sea.

The girl must be mad!  Didn't she know that a schooner was not a circus
ring?  If she were such a fool Poleski should have taught her better
before bringing her on board.

They agreed that he had sense enough in other things, and had certainly
trained her not to be a nuisance.

After _déjeuner_ Emile had hunted up the least doubtful of the French
novels they possessed and sent her up on deck to get the benefit of the
sea air of which she was supposed to stand in need.

"_Va t'en_, Arithelli," he said.  "You don't want to be suffocating
yourself down in a stuffy cabin.  You're here to get lots of ozone and
make yourself look a little less like a corpse.  Besides, we want to
talk."

She felt very much depressed and neglected as she sat dangling "_Les
confessions d'une femme mariée_," which were virtuous to dulness and
interested her not at all, in a listless hand, long and delicate like
her feet, and decorated with too many turquoise rings.  Below, in the
cabin, she could hear the noise of the men as they argued and shouted
at each other in a polyglot of three different languages.

Arithelli felt more than a little resentful.  Why had they shut her out
and prevented her from hearing their discussions?

The men at the other meetings had always wanted her in the room.

She had been entrusted with all their secrets and there was no question
of betrayal.  She knew too much about the consequences now to try that.

When Emile came up from below she asked him why he had insulted her by
turning her out.

Did he not trust her, or did he think she had not enough intelligence.

For answer he laughed cynically, "I'll make use of you and your
intelligence fast enough--when I want them.  You were cavilling at
being overworked the other day."

Of Vladimir and Paul she saw nothing in the daytime, for they both
ignored her, but in the evenings they all sat together up on deck, and
Paul sang and played the guitar while Arithelli would listen entranced
and faint with pleasure.

A love of melody was the birthright of her race, and the boy had a
genius for music.  He seemed to have but two ideas in life--that, and a
devotion which almost amounted to idolatry for the older man.

They would walk up and down for hours, Vladimir with his hand on Paul's
shoulder talking, gesticulating and commanding, while the other, his
eyes on the ground, listened and assented.

Sometimes Vladimir would speak to him in Russian with an accent that
was in itself a caress, and Arithelli, who watched them curiously,
noticed and wondered to see the boy flush and colour like a woman.

She always looked forward with the keenest pleasure to those evenings.

The days bored her, inasmuch as she was capable of being bored, and she
hated the glare and glitter of the sun and sky.

It was too much like the blue-white lights of the Hippodrome.  With
night came the glamour of Fairyland, that magic country in which
Ireland still believes, and which is ever there for those who seek it,
"East o' the Sun, and West o' the Moon."

The yacht drifting idly at anchor in smooth water, the stars in their
bed of velvet black, the magic of air and space.

The incense-like scent of Turkish cigarettes and black coffee, the
little group of men lounging in their deck chairs, the resonant, full
notes of the guitar, and Paul's voice rising out of the shadows.

If he had sung standing on the platform of a brightly lit concert hall
half the charm would have vanished in that distraction which the
personality of a singer creates.

In the illusion of his surroundings the man himself did not exist.

There was only the voice--the singer.  Hungarian folk-songs that fired
her blood and made her restless with strange longings; "_La vie est
vaine_," eternally sweet and haunting; then some wickedly witty song of
the _cafés_, and melodies of Gounod full of infinite charm.  Last of
all came always "_Le Rêve_," in which Emile and Vladimir joined as if
it were some National Anthem, and which left her quivering with
excitement.




CHAPTER VII

  "There would no man do for your sake, I think,
    What I would have done for the least word said;
  I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink--
    Broken it up for your daily bread."
            SWINBURNE.


When the week of dreams and rest was over she went back to the
Hippodrome with somewhat of relief in her feelings.

At least the work prevented her from thinking.  Though she was
physically less languid, the sea air had neither succeeded in putting
any more flesh on what the Manager called her "lean flanks," nor had it
made her look much more cheerful.  He had the sense to let her take her
place as _equestrienne_ once more, and had announced her reappearance
in flaming posters.

The stablemen and helpers were all delighted to see her again, and in
token of their satisfaction presented her with a hideous and unwieldy
bouquet, in which all colours were arranged together so as to give the
effect of a kaleidoscope.  They liked her for her sweet temper and
invariable courtesy, and respected her for her knowledge of horses.

Estelle came and embraced her and was voluble over the failings of her
"_bon ami_," the sardonic manager.

Arithelli received a hearty round of applause as she rode into the ring
on her favourite "Don Juan," whose wavy tail and mane were decorated
with turquoise ribbons that matched her habit.

At least she was happy on horseback, and she loved the animals and they
her.

Even the performing sheep and monkey, and the toothless lion came in
for a share in her affections.  She had a new and difficult trick to go
through that night, but this particular sort of danger only made her
feel exhilarated.

Emile's stories of blood and horrors had sickened her, but the chance
of breaking her neck over a high jump held no terrors.

She made her exit, gaily waving her silver-handled whip, and Vardri,
who was standing at the entrance of the ring, came forward quickly to
lift her off her horse before the groom could reach her.

"You're wanted to-night in the Calle de Pescadores," he whispered, as
she rested her hand on his shoulder to jump down.  "As soon as
possible, and go in carefully--there's a scare about spies."

He felt her body stiffen and the little smile that came so rarely died
in an instant, leaving her once more "Fatalité."

She nodded by way of assent and bent down to gather up her habit.

The ring-master was only a few feet away, and they could never be
certain as to who was to be trusted.

Vardri stood looking after her as she walked away with her head well up
and her shoulders thrown back as usual.

The two had become good friends with the comradeship induced by the
similarity in their misfortunes.

Both were young, reckless and without money beyond what they earned,
though, whereas Arithelli had been more or less tricked into her
present position, Vardri had been infatuated with the Cause from the
time he was old enough to take an interest in anything.  The worship of
the goddess Liberty had left with him room also for the adoration of a
human being, and in a boyish chivalrous way he had tried to make things
easier for Arithelli.

He managed to bring her occasional flowers and music out of his
starvation wages, and was always jealously careful of the way in which
her horses were groomed and turned out.  They had a curious resemblance
to each other, and when Arithelli was dressed in boy's clothes for her
journeys up in the mountains, they might have been two brothers.  One
was dark and the other fair, but both had the same haggard,
well-modelled faces, the same pale skins, and thin, supple figures.

They were exactly of a height, too, and when Arithelli disguised
herself, she pushed her red hair under a sombrero and black wig.

Even Sobrenski's lynx eyes had been at fault in the semi-darkness of
the hut, and he had sworn at her in mistake for Vardri.  As the dresser
took off her habit, she asked the woman whether Monsieur Poleski had
been behind the scenes during her turn, and was there a note or message?

It appeared that there had been no sign of Emile, and she hesitated for
a moment, hardly knowing what to do.

The order for her presence in the Calle de Pescadores, which of course
had been sent by Sobrenski, had told her to come at once.

On the other hand, Emile had always told her to wait for him in her
room till he came to fetch her.  If she went through the streets alone
there would be a row, and if she were late at the _rendezvous_ there
would also be a row.

"_C'est ainsi que la vie!_"

She lifted her thin shoulders after the manner of Emile and decided to
start at once.  She wiped all the make-up from her face with a damp
towel, swaying a little as she stood before the glass.

The excitement of her reception and the ensuing episode had made her
heart beat at distressing speed.

"You're not ill," she adjured her pale reflection.  "It's all
imagination.  Emile says all these complaints are.  Any way, you're not
going to give in to it."

She shut both ears and eyes as she sped through the restless city that
even at this hour was astir with life.

She was only glad that there was no moon.  Roused for once out of her
naturally slow and indolent walk, she was soon in the poor quarter and
climbing the stairs to the third floor of a horrible little house, the
back of which looked out on the dark slums of the quarter of the
Parelelo, the breeding-place of revolutions; the district between the
Rambla and the Harbour.

The house was like the one that Emile had described when telling her of
the murdered woman, Félise Rivaz.

The very air reeked of intrigue and hidden deeds.

She looked round first of all for Emile, but he was not there, and only
half the usual number of conspirators were assembled.

Vardri, who had left the Hippodrome the minute he had delivered his
message, was sitting on the end of the table swinging his feet and
whistling softly.

He had bribed one of the "strappers" to finish his work, and slipped
out, only arriving a few minutes before her.

He had risked dismissal, but that was no great matter.

The Cause came first, and he feared danger for Arithelli, knowing that
if there was anything specially risky to be done she would be the one
chosen.

Sobrenski was always harder on her than on the others.

He watched her with the hungry, faithful eyes of an animal, and got up
from his seat with instinctive courtesy.  Like all the rest he wore the
Anarchist badge, a red tie, and the hot, vivid colour showed up the
lines of ill-health and suffering about his eyes and mouth.

In spite of his disreputable clothes and wild hair, there still
remained in him the indefinable signs of breeding, in the thin, shapely
hands that rested on his knee, and in the modulations of his boyish and
eager voice.

None of the others took the least notice of the girl's entrance.

Nearly all of them were as well-born as the young Austrian, but to them
she was simply a comrade, a fellow, worker, not a woman.

She gave him a little friendly gesture and went quietly to a seat
against the wall, where she sat in one of her characteristic attitudes,
her feet crossed, and showing under her short dark blue skirt.

Emile had made her buy this one plain and unnoticeable garment for use
on these occasions.

After she had been in the room a minute, Sobrenski turned from the man
to whom he had been talking in a careful under-tone, and bolted the
door.

"Listen, all of you," he said.  "We have received information that this
house will be watched to-night.  Whether the spy is one who was
formerly one of us, we do not know--yet.  It appears that it is Poleski
who is the suspect.  They have some evidence against him that is
dangerous.  If he is seen coming in here to-night, they will arrest
him.  The next time we will change the place, but for the present all
that can be done is to warn him against coming here.  Fortunately he
will be later than usual, because he does not leave the Café Colomb
till after midnight.  Someone must be sent there to stop him.  It will
not do for any of us to be seen coming out, so she"--he indicated
Arithelli--"must go."

Arithelli wasted no time in response.  She was only too eager to get
out of the abominable place, and was already half way to the door when
Sobrenski stopped her.

"Not that way!" he said.  "What are you thinking of?  You will walk
straight into the arms of the spies who are probably watching the house
by this time.  No, you must go by the window at the back; the rest of
us will stay here all night."

"This house gives on the quay by a lucky chance," remarked one of the
older men; "we should be well trapped otherwise.  There are several
feet between it and the water."

Vardri's eyes had never moved from the girl's face.  He knew that her
heart was affected, and she had told him once that she would never
attempt to go on the tight-rope or trapeze because the mere thought of
a height always terrified her.

In answer to Sobrenski's gesture, she moved towards the window, which
another of the conspirators was cautiously opening.

Vardri pushed himself forward into the group.  "She can't go down
there," he said hoarsely, "It's not safe--look at the height!"

"She'll go down well enough if she holds onto the rope."

"The rope may break or fray through on the sill."

"She takes her chance like the rest of us."

"The rest of us--we're _men_!"

"There are neither men nor women in the Cause.  Do you need to be
taught that now?  Stand back!"

"I'll go down in her place."

"You will do nothing of the kind.  Which of us is the leader here?"

Sobrenski had twisted the girl's arms behind her back, and he was
holding her by the wrists.  He expected her to scream or struggle, but
she remained absolutely passive.

One of the men was making a slip-knot in a coil of rope.

Vardri's blood was hot as he looked on.  Blind with helpless rage, he
was conscious of nothing but the little set face and defiant head.  He
had come suddenly into his heritage of manhood at the sight of her
alone, defenceless and roughly handled by brute beasts who called
themselves men.

He was mad, too, with a man's jealousy.  From the earliest moment he
had seen Arithelli he had given her homage as a woman.  The _gamin_,
the "Becky Sharp" that Emile and the others knew, he had never seen,
and he had always resented her numerous irreverent nicknames.

He could do nothing, nothing!

Get himself shot or strangled, perhaps, and what use would that be to
her?

"Come!" said Sobrenski, turning her towards the window.

For the first time since she had entered the room, Arithelli spoke:
"Leave me alone for a minute.  No, I won't move--_parole d'honneur_!"

When she was released, she put out her left hand.  "_Mon ami_, what's
the use of arguing?  I'm the errand boy, _vois-tu_?  My work is to
carry messages.  If you make a scene it's only the worse for me.  It's
good of you to want to go instead.  I shall not forget."

The voice, subtle and sweet as ever, the intimacy implied by the
familiar "thou" acted like a charm to the boy's wild fury.  Before her
courage and dignity it seemed out of place to make any further protest.

He crushed the long and lovely hand against his lips with mingled
passion and reverence.

There was a red streak across the wrist.

"A fine melodrama!" sneered Sobrenski.  "Keep all that for the stage,
it isn't needed here.  _Allons_!  We can't waste any more time, there
has been too much wasted already."

Vardri walked to the furthest end of the room, turning his back upon
the group at the window, and thrust his fingers into his ears to deaden
the sound of the scream for which he waited in tortured anticipation.

Excitable and neurotic, like all consumptives, his imagination made of
those waiting moments a veritable hell.

She would never get down in safety--an old and hastily knotted rope, a
disregard of all ordinary precautions, and her body in the hands of men
who handled human lives more carelessly than most people would handle
stones.  He bit his lip till the blood ran down to his chin.

Here he stood doing nothing, he who would have been tortured to save
her!

The window was shut and one of the men said: "She's down all right
after all.  I thought by the look of her she would have fainted.  She
has some pluck, Mademoiselle Fatalité!"

"Yes," answered Sobrenski.  "Here's the coward and traitor."

Vardri wheeled round, looking straight into the cold eyes of his
leader.  He had heard the last words.  She was safe, that was all that
mattered, and for himself he was reckless.

"Traitor, am I?  Yes, if the Cause is to include the ill-treatment of
women!"

"Women?  Again women?  Are our meetings to be used as love trysts.
There was a certain episode two years ago--Gaston de Barrés and Félise
Rivaz--you remember it?  Ah, I thought so!  Then let it be a
warning--in the future you will be suspected and watched.  There is no
need for me to dilate upon the punishment for treachery, all that you
knew when you joined us.  You may consider yourself lucky to have
escaped so easily to-night.  Through the few minutes' delay you have
caused, Poleski may have been arrested."

Vardri shrugged and sat down.  Like Arithelli, he recognized the
futility of mere words upon certain occasions.

Moreover, now that the flame of his indignation had died down, he had
begun to feel wretchedly ill and spiritless with the reaction that
comes after any great excitement.

He sat shivering and coughing till the dawn, while the other men talked
in low voices or played cards.  One or two slept fitfully in
uncomfortable attitudes on the floor.

No one grumbled at the discomfort or weariness of the vigil.

They who looked forward to ultimate prison and perhaps death itself
were not wont to quarrel with such minor inconveniences as the loss of
sleep.

Sobrenski had pulled the solitary candle in the room towards him and
sat writing rapidly and frowning to himself.

His fox-like face framed in its red hair and beard looked more
relentless and crafty than ever in the revealing light, and the boy
shivered anew, but not from physical cold.

He did not fear the leader of the Brotherhood for himself, but for
Arithelli--Arithelli, the drudge, the tool, the "errand boy," as she
had called herself.

Perhaps in time even she would become a heartless machine.

Human life had seemed so cheap and of so little account to him once,
but since he had loved her--

She could never live among such people and in such scenes, and still
remain unscarred.

Again the little desperate face rose before him.

If they did not succeed in killing her soon by their brutalities, she
would commit suicide to escape from the horrors that surrounded her.

It had never occurred to Vardri to be jealous of Emile.

With the curious insight that love gives he had formed a true idea of
the relationship between the oddly-assorted pair.  He had never thought
of himself as her lover.

To him she was always the Ideal, the divinity enthroned.

He was content to kiss her feet, and to lay before them service and
sacrifice.

Yet, though he might build a wall of love around her, he knew it could
give her no protection against the realities of her present life.

She had given him dreams, and in them he could forget all other things,
the things that the world calls real.

Everything had vanished as a mist--the dirty room, the chill of the
dawn, his own physical wretchedness.

He heard only the honey-sweet voice, saw only the outstretched hand of
friendship.

"_Mon ami_," she had called him, he who had never aspired higher than
to be known as her servant.




CHAPTER VIII

  "For all things born one gate
  Opens, . . . and no man sees
  Beyond the gods and Fate."
            SWINBURNE.

WHEN Emile arrived at the Hippodrome, only a few minutes after his
usual time, he found no one but the dresser, who was clearing away the
litter of clothes, jewellery, powder-puffs and flowers.

Arithelli had vanished.

She had never before failed to wait for him, and he knew she would not
have started alone without some very good reason.  He questioned the
dresser and found she knew nothing beyond that "La Nina," as she called
the girl affectionately, had left immediately after her last turn.  She
had asked if the Señor had been in yet, but hearing he had not, she had
dressed and gone at once.  She had not even stayed to put on a cloak,
and had left her hair still in a plait, and only a _velo_ over it.  She
had seemed in great haste (but that was always so with the English!)
and had looked ill.  The Señor must not be alarmed, she added, folding
Arithelli's blue habit with wrinkled, careful hands.  True, Barcelona
was an evil place for one so young as "La Nina," but the blessed
saints--

Emile gave her a _peseta_, and left her to her invocations.  In the
long passage that led from the dressing-rooms he ran into Estelle, who
was just sufficiently drunk to be excitable and quarrelsome.  She still
had on her dancer's costume of short skirts of poppy-coloured tulle,
and scarlet shoes and tights.  She was further adorned with long,
dangling, coral ear-rings, and a black bruise on the left side of her
face under the eye, the outward and visible sign of her last encounter
with the Manager.

She saluted Emile with a vindictive glare from her black eyes, and
tried to push past him.  She hated him in a spiteful feminine way for
his complete appropriation of Arithelli, of whom, thanks to him, she
now saw very little.  She had quarrelled with all the other women
employed in the Circus, but Arithelli had always helped her to dress,
and given her cigarettes and listened to her woes.

Emile blocked the way, catching the dancer by the wrist as she
attempted to slip by, leaving his question unanswered.  He repeated it,
and after a minute's sullen refusal to speak, Estelle stamped her foot
savagely upon the floor, and collapsed into a state of hysterical
volubility.  No, she had seen nothing, nothing! she protested in
French.  Scarcely ever did she see her little friend now, and whose
fault was that?  Would Monsieur Poleski answer her?  As Monsieur
Poleski did nothing of the kind, she continued to rage.  All men were
brutes!  Yes, all!  She had no friends now and if she did console
herself--what would he have?

Emile decided that she was speaking the truth, and that there was no
use wasting time in making other enquiries.

One thing seemed certain--that Arithelli had left the building.  From
the Hippodrome he went next to her lodgings, also with no result.  He
could only now suppose that Sobrenski had sent her off at a moment's
notice on some unusual errand.  The possibility of her having gone to
the house in the Calle de Pescadores did not occur to him.  According
to the last arrangement they were not expected there till after
midnight.  It was only eleven now.  He would go to the Café Colomb, and
spend the hour there.  It was no use to search for her further, and as
he assured himself there was not the least reason to become alarmed.
She was not likely to lose her head, and she knew her way about the
place.

The Colomb was more or less a recognised resort of the many
revolutionaries with whom the city abounded.  The proprietor was known
to be in sympathy with their schemes, though he took no active part in
them himself.  He was considered trustworthy, for notes and messages
were often left in his charge, and his private room was at the disposal
of those who wished for a few minutes' secret interview.  When Emile
entered he was greeted by several of the men who sat in groups of two
and three at little tables, busy with Monte and other card games.

The smoke of many cigarettes obscured their figures, and clouded the
mirrors with which the place was lined from floor to ceiling.  Emile
sat down alone and ordered an _absinthe_.

When called upon to join in the play, he refused with a scowl and a
rasping oath in his native tongue, and as the evening grew on towards
midnight he was left to himself and his meditations.

His thoughts were still with Arithelli, the weird witch-girl, whose
eyes were like those of Swinburne's fair woman,

  "Coloured like a water-flower,
  And deeper than the green sea's glass."

He, who now never opened a book, had once known that most un-English of
all poets by heart.

In her many phases Arithelli passed before him, as he stared moodily at
the shifting opal-coloured liquid in his glass.  He thought of her as
he had often seen her, fighting through her work at the Hippodrome, the
little weary head always gallantly carried, and then when she had
dismounted and was in her dressing-room, the rings round her eyes, her
shaking hands and utter weariness.  He remembered her consideration for
her horses, her loathing of the ill-treatment of all dumb things so
common here.  Once he had found her in the market-place, remonstrating
in her broken Spanish with the country women for the inhuman manner in
which they carried away their purchases of live fowl, tied neck to
neck, and slung across a mule, to die of slow strangulation under the
blazing sun.  All the animals at the Hippodrome had been better treated
since she had been there.  It was characteristic of the man that he
laughed at her to her face for her campaign against the national
cruelty, and in secret thought of her with admiration.

In many ways sexless, in others purely a woman, to every mood she
brought the charm of individuality.

_Tiens_!  He was falling in love, he jeered to himself, cynically.  In
love with that tall, silent creature, who was never in a hurry and
never in a temper, and who walked as if she had been bred in Andalusia.

Absurd!  He was only interested.  She had brains, and she never bored
him.

Besides, she was only twenty-four, and one could hardly allow a girl of
that age to be thrown warm and living to the wolves and vampires of
Barcelona.  Perhaps he had been wrong in letting her do some
things--drink _absinthe_, for example.  One lost one's sense of mental
and moral perspective in a place like this.  At least he had guarded
her well.  If he had not met her that day at the station, she might
have fallen into worse hands than his own.  Things could not go on
indefinitely as they had been going.  What was to be the end of it all?

Eventually she would fall in love, and a woman was no more use to the
Cause once that happened.  No vows would be strong enough to keep her
from a man's arms once she cared.  She would not love lightly or
easily, and where would she find love, here in Barcelona?

Half unconsciously, he found himself comparing Arithelli with the woman
who had betrayed him.  Emile never lied, even to himself, and he knew
now that Marie Roumanoff had almost become a shadow.

A plaything she had been, a child, a doll, a being made for caresses
and admiration.  To a woman of her type camaraderie would have been
impossible.  He had not wanted it, and it had not been in her nature to
give it.

A man, who had been sitting opposite, got up, gesticulated, put on his
hat at a reckless angle, and, with a noisy farewell to his companions,
swaggered out.

In the mirror that faced him Emile saw the quick furtive glance
bestowed upon him, though he sat apparently unconscious of it.

Something at the back of his brain suggested to him that he knew the
man's face, that he had seen him before.  A spy probably.  It was
nothing unusual for any of them to be "shadowed," and for their
out-goings and in-comings to be noted.

The highly gilded French clock on the mantel-piece at the far end of
the room announced the hour as being a quarter to twelve.  Emile
stooped down to pick up his sombrero which had tumbled off a chair on
to the floor, when he remained with outstretched hand, arrested by the
sound of a woman's voice which came through the partly opened door of
the proprietor's private room and office.  A woman's voice?  It was
Arithelli's unmistakably.

He recovered himself and the sombrero together, and twisted round in
his seat so as to get a view of the door, which was on his left hand,
half way down the long room.  It had a glass top, across which a dark
green curtain was drawn.  Emile knew that it was possible to enter this
room without passing through the _café_.  There was another door which
led into a passage through the kitchen and back part of the house, and
from thence into a side-street, or rather a small alley.

He had often been that way, and it was generally used by the
frequenters of the place when they had reason to guard their movements.

He listened again.

The voice was even more hoarse than usual and more uncertain.  Though
he could not hear the words, the broken sentences gave an impression of
breathlessness.  When she stopped speaking he heard the voice of the
proprietor raised in an emphatic stage-whisper.  Yes, Monsieur Poleski
was within.  Mademoiselle was fortunately in time to find him.  If
Mademoiselle would give herself the trouble to wait but for one
moment--.

The little man fancied himself an adept at intrigue, and his methods
were often a cause of anxiety to those he befriended.  His nods and
gestures and meaning glances as he emerged would have been enough to
arouse suspicion in the most guileless.

He stood blinking his short-sighted eyes through the haze in his effort
to attract Emile's attention without being detected.  The latter got up
and sauntered towards him.

"_Bon soir, Monsieur Lefévre_," he said carelessly.  "We have a little
account to settle, you and I, is it not so?"

Fat Monsieur Lefevre rose gallantly to the occasion.  He bowed Emile
into the room, locked the door by which they had entered, and with
another bow and a muttered apology scuttled through the passage into
the back regions.  Two minutes later he made his reappearance in the
_café_ by the front way, and went to his place behind the counter with
the satisfied face of a successful diplomatist.

His little sanctum was typical in its arrangement of the Parisian
_bourgeois_.

Numerous picture post-cards of a famous chanteuse of the Folies
Bergeres proclaimed Monsieur's taste in beauty.  For the rest,
everything was neat and rather bare of furniture.  There were chairs
symmetrically arranged like sentinels along the walls, tinted lace
curtains, a gilded mirror, and a few doubtful coloured pictures, all of
women.  An unshaded electric light flared in a corner.  Arithelli stood
resting one hand on the round polished table in the centre of the
apartment.  Her dark blue dress was torn in two places, and smeared
with patches of dust.  The _velo_, or piece of drapery worn on ordinary
occasions instead of the mantilla, hung down her back in company with
the long plait of hair, which had come untwisted at the ends.  Her face
was strained and haggard, and the tense attitude spoke of tortured
nerves.

She was still struggling for breath, and appeared almost unable to
speak, but Emile was not minded to allow her much time for recovery.

Patience was not numbered among such virtues as he possessed.

"_Tiens_!" he began.  "What is it now, Fatalité?  You look as if you
had been having adventures.  Have you been getting into mischief?  And
where have you been?"

"In the Calle de Pescadores out at Barcelonetta.  Sobrenski sent me
with a message to you.  The place is being watched.  If they see you go
in you may be arrested.  The others got to hear about the spies, and
went early.  They are going to stay there all night because it isn't
safe to leave."  Her tone was that of one who repeats a well-learned
lesson.

Emile shrugged.  "Spies?  So that's it!  There was a man just now in
the _café_ who looked like it.  Probably he is waiting to go outside
now to 'shadow' me.  He may wait till--!  And how did you get out?"

"They let me down from a window at the back of the house.  I got on to
the quay and came here by the long way and through the Rambla."  There
was a pause, and then she said in the same mechanical voice, "Sobrenski
said I was to tell you not to come.  It isn't safe."

Emile did not answer.  He could see that she was trembling violently
and on the verge of an hysterical crisis.  He rather hoped she would
break down.  It would seem more natural.  Women were privileged to cry
and scream, not that it was possible to imagine her screaming.  He
dragged forward a chair from the immaculate row against the wall.

As he did so he noticed that she kept her left hand behind her back as
if to conceal something.

"Sit down," he ordered.  "What's the matter with your hand?  Are you
hurt?"

The girl retreated before him.

"No!" she answered defiantly.

But Emile's quick eyes had seen a crumpled handkerchief flecked with
red stains.

"Don't tell lies, Fatalité!" he said sharply.  "Give me your hand at
once."

Arithelli obeyed, holding it out palm upwards.

Emile looked, and ripped out a fiery exclamation.  The smooth flesh was
scarred and torn across in several places, and was still bleeding.  The
mark of Sobrenski's grip on her wrist had turned from crimson to a dull
discoloured hue.

"It doesn't hurt so very much," she said.  "Only I can't bear the sight
of blood.  All Jewish people are like that.  I can't help it.  It makes
me feel queer all over."

She turned her head aside with a shudder.  Emile muttered another
expletive, adding:

"Then if you feel like that, don't look."

He told her again to sit down, tore her handkerchief into strips,
soaked them in water from a carafe, and bandaged up the wounds in a
rough but effectual fashion.

She said nothing during the process, but kept her head still turned
away so that he could not see her face.

"Voilà!" said Emile.  "That will be all right to-morrow.  What did they
do to you?"

"I cut my fingers on the window sill when they let me down.  There was
a piece of iron or a nail or something.  I don't remember.  It didn't
hurt at the time."

"H'm!" commented Emile.  "But this?" he touched her wrist lightly.  "It
looks like--"

"That?  Oh, Sobrenski did that.  He--"

"Well?" said Emile.  He waited but there came no answer, so he
continued the interrogation.  "You didn't make a scene, Fatalité?"

He heard her flinch and draw in her breath as she covered her face with
her free hand.  Her low painful sobbing reminded him of the
inarticulate moaning of an animal.

Even in her grief, her abandonment, she was unlike all other women.
Emile stood beside her in watchful silence, and neither attempted to
interfere nor to console her.  He was wise enough to know that to a
highly strung nature like hers too much self-repression might be
dangerous, and he was humane enough to be glad that she had the relief
of tears.

At length he said quietly, "I didn't know you could cry, Fatalité.  I
didn't know you were human enough for that."

She still fought desperately for composure, thrusting a fold of the
torn _velo_ between her teeth.  The naked light shone on her bent head,
and on her glittering rope of hair.

A strange impulse suddenly moved Emile to finger a loose strand with a
touch that had in it something of a caress.

Gamin she had been, _equestrienne_, heroine, and now she was only a
sorrowful Dolores.

At last words came.

She stood up and faced him, shaking back her hair.

"Emile!  Emile!  I must give it up.  I can't go on!"

"And you can't turn back, _mon enfant_."

"I'll run away."

"Do you think they wouldn't find you?  You know enough about our
organisation now.  No one who has once joined us is ever allowed to
escape.  You would be found sooner or later, and then--you remember
what I told you once?  That I am responsible for you to the
Brotherhood?"

He spoke calmly, patiently, as if he were explaining things to a child.

If his associates could have seen the cynical Emile Poleski of ordinary
life they would have found reason to marvel!

The gesture of uncontrollable horror told him that she understood only
too well.  What should the upholders of the Cause care for ties, for
friendships, for pity?

If she were recaptured Emile would be her executioner.  He might
refuse, but that would not save her and he would be shot as well.  Why
should he suffer because she had lost her courage and turned traitress?

She tried to collect her senses, and to think properly.  Everything
felt blurred and far off.  One thing alone seemed certain--that there
was no way out of the _impasse_.

Emile had walked to the glass-door and unlocked it.  Then he came back
to her.

"It's time we were going," he said.  "It will not do to be here too
long.  As our friend the spy is patrolling the street outside in
readiness for my appearance, we will go out the other way.  The Calle
Santa Teresa is nearly always deserted.  It's just as well you should
be seen with me.  They don't know yet that you are working for us, so
it will look less as if I were _en route_ for a meeting.  But before we
start, have you decided to be wise and to save me from an unpleasant
duty?"

"Yes.  I'll stay.  At least while you are here."

"While I am here?" the man echoed.  "Et alors--?"

"Then?"  She threw out her arms in a hopeless gesture.  "Who knows?
Who can read the future?  And after all, as you have said, 'What does
one life more or less matter?'"




CHAPTER IX

  "Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie!"
            DE MUSSET.


Arithelli awoke next day in her comfortless room, and lay wondering
over the waking nightmare of the past hours.  Everything seemed so
different in the morning.  There was no thrill of excitement now,
nothing to make her blood run quickly.  She only felt flat, dull,
stupid, and disinclined to move.  How strange and unlike himself Emile
had been.  She had lost her nerve, raved, and threatened to run away,
and he had neither sneered nor abused her.  Her hand, still wrapped in
stained linen, had now begun to burn and smart considerably, and was
proof sufficient of the reality of her experience.  Her spine and the
soles of her feet tingled as she lived again through the horror of the
descent from the window.  She could never endure a repetition of that
ordeal.  Next time she would refuse and they could add one more murder
to the list of their crimes.

She dragged herself up and dressed slowly.  She remembered that there
was to be a gala performance at the Hippodrome that night in honour of
the presence of one of the Infantas, her husband and suite, who were
passing through the town, and had announced their intention of being
present.  For all the performers it meant more work and an extra
rehearsal.

When Emile came in they shared their coffee and rolls together.  She
was thankful that he made no reference to her passionate outburst of
the night before.  He was outwardly as curt and dictatorial as ever,
and neither of them discussed the affairs of the Brotherhood.

"I must go down to practise," Arithelli said after a while.  "Shall you
be there to-night?  You know there is to be a grand performance in
honour of the loyalties?"

"No," answered Emile, "I shall be busy.  Besides, the Royalties will be
safer if I'm _not_ there!  We don't trouble ourselves about these
particular ones though.  They're not important enough."

"I'm sorry you're not coming," Arithelli answered.

Emile ungratefully disregarded the implied compliment, and threw out a
blunt, "Why?"

"I don't quite know.  I think there is going to be something unlucky."

"You're going to tumble off, you mean?  Better not!  You don't want to
get turned out, do you?"

Arithelli turned to a mirror on the wall.

"Do I look very ghastly?" she asked.

"Not much more than usual.  None of us look very fresh out here, do we?
Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop?  Well,
it isn't!  Hurry up,--it's late.  No, I'm not going down there with
you.  I'll stay here, and do some writing."

The rehearsal that morning seemed interminable.  For the first time
since she had ridden in public Arithelli bungled over her tricks.  She
jumped short, miscalculated distances, and once barely saved herself
from a severe fall.

The ring-master, with whom she was a great favourite, shook his head
reproachfully at her, as he paused to rest and wipe his heated
countenance.  He was a greasy and affable personage, whose temper was
as easy as his morals.  He was more soft-hearted than most of his
compatriots, and he honestly liked Arithelli and admired her riding.

"What have you there, Mademoiselle?" he enquired pathetically.  "Never
have I seen you like this before.  You fear the grand people, is it not
so?  You have no heart, no courage!  But again!  Again!"

In the midst of his exhortation the Manager descended suddenly upon the
scene.  As a matter of fact he had been watching for the last ten
minutes from one of the entrances, and he had seen her failure to
accomplish her jumps successfully.

"This won't do for to-night," he said angrily.  "We want your best
work, not your worst.  Do you suppose I'm going to stand your laziness?"

Arithelli was sitting at ease upon Don Juan's back as he paced slowly
round the ring.  She did not look up or answer, which enraged the
Manager still further.  Her silence was one of the things about her
that always annoyed him most?  She was the only woman he had never been
able to bully into a state of collapse.

He turned on the ring-master, who was grinning to himself.

"_Allez-vous en_!  I'll see to this."

Señor Valdez looked uncomfortable.  For an instant he felt almost
inclined to expostulate on Arithelli's behalf, but the Manager's rages
were well known to his employes, and the little man had no intention of
losing his present position.  He flung down his long whip, and retired
muttering vengeance.

The Manager strode into the centre of the ring, picked up the lash and
drew it through his fingers.

He swore at Arithelli, he swore at Don Juan, and he started the
rehearsal all over again.

Arithelli clenched her teeth and rode doggedly forward.  The arena swam
before her, and her limbs felt weak and heavy as those of one who is
drugged, and her lacerated hand added to her difficulties.  That she
should presume to be ill, had not entered into the Manager's
calculations.  If he had realised the fact he would have said that
people who were ill were of no use in a circus, and the sooner she left
it the better.

The treadmill continued until Arithelli would have welcomed an accident
as a break in the grinding monotony.  The exercise instead of making
her hot, had made her shiver as if with great cold.  She felt as if she
had been practising for days instead of hours.  It was of no use!  She
could not go on any longer.  She slipped from her standing position on
the broad pad saddle to Don Juan's back, and without waiting for the
word of command, reined him to a standstill in front of the Manager.

"You must let me go," she said.  "I can't do any better now."

The Manager stepped back a pace, and dropped his whip with sheer
astonishment.  For an instant he stared with open mouth, then he found
speech.

"You sit there, do you, and tell me you refuse to work!  You with your
insolence!  When you fall and that long neck of yours goes _crack_" (he
snapped a finger and thumb together in expressive pantomime), "then I
shall laugh--_nom d'un chien_!--how I shall laugh."

Arithelli waited in silence, a faint smile curling her lips.  One hand,
laden with rings, moved caressingly up and down Don Juan's silky mane.
She had hitherto answered abuse with maddening indifference.  Now she
flung back her head and mocked him.

"So you hope I'll fall," she said.  "Perhaps I hope so too.  Do you
think I care, that I'm afraid of breaking my neck?"

Her voice was not raised a tone from its ordinary level, but passion
and contempt vibrated in every accent.  An unwilling admiration stirred
the man's dull brutality.  He could dismiss her to-morrow, but he would
never find another woman who would be her match for physique and
endurance.  Besides, others would know their value and demand a larger
salary.

He pointed to the performers' exit.  "_Allez_!"

As she rode past, Arithelli made him a little bow.  It was the salute
of a courteous duellist to his adversary.  To his profound surprise the
Manager found himself acknowledging it, with like dignity.

At eight o'clock that evening she sat before the glass in her
dressing-room and awaited the shouted summons of the impish call-boy,
who respected no one on earth, and to whom she was never "Mamzelle" or
"Señora," but only Arithelli.  The dresser had gone out for an instant,
leaving the door ajar, and a noisy burst of applause swept along the
passage.

The audience was in a particularly good temper, and ready to be amused
at anything.  In view of the royal guests the Manager had provided
several exciting novelties.  There was a wonderful troupe of performing
horses who did everything that a horse is popularly supposed to be
incapable of doing; there was a gypsy girl from Seville with a
marvellous bear, whose intelligence appeared to be of a superior
quality to that of the average human being; there were new jokes, new
tricks, fresh costumes.

As Arithelli rode in she heard her name called, and her state of frozen
misery suddenly gave way to a hot thrill of excitement.

Her head went up like a stag, and her nostrils dilated.  She inhaled
again the familiar warm scent of freshly strewn tan and hay and
animals.  It had intoxicated her as a child of twelve, when she had
been taken to see a travelling circus in Ireland, and it intoxicated
her now.

The seats were a packed mass of people, and in the upper places and
from the royal box, bright colours flamed, and jewels and restless fans
glittered and moved.  In honour of the occasion every woman had draped
herself in the graceful mantilla, either black or white, and even the
poorest wore a scarlet or orange silk-fringed _crêpe_ shawl.

The usual precautions as to detectives and a guard of soldiers had been
taken, but the buxom and amiable Infanta was popular among the lower
orders, so that no revolutionist outbreak was feared.

Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so.
She smiled graciously at Arithelli as horse and rider bowed before her,
and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the
ledge, threw them into the arena.  As the girl looked up and the level
unsmiling gaze met hers, the older woman started back.

"_Santa Vierge_!" she muttered, hastily crossing herself.  "She looks
in Purgatory already, with those strange eyes!"




CHAPTER X

  "The nights that were days, and the days that were nights,
    Griefs and glories and vain delights,
  With Fame before us in fancy flights,
    We mocked each other and cried 'All's well'!"
            LOVE IN BOHEMIA.


Of her first act Arithelli had no fear.  She knew that she was safe in
trusting to the skill and training of her horse to accomplish
successfully all the stereotyped movements of the _haute école_.  She
had only to sit still and look graceful, and guide him through his
paces as he waltzed, turned or knelt.  She carried a whip for show, but
she had never used it.  A word, a caress had always been enough, and
she would have been beaten herself rather than touch the beautiful
creature that carried her.

In the next act it would be all different.  Everything depended on her
own balance and accuracy.  It would be all trick work then, not riding.
As she slid out of her habit and into the ugly ballet-skirts she
loathed, her courage vanished and she trembled as she faced the
audience for the second time, transformed in white satin and pale blue,
the thinness of her neck and arms painfully apparent.

The flying rush through the air as she jumped the hurdles and gates
made her feel horribly dazed and giddy, and unable to collect her
senses in time for the next leap.  As she descended lightly in her
heelless silk slippers upon Don Juan's back after the fourth hurdle had
been passed, she swayed and only by a violent effort recovered herself.
Her heart seemed to be beating right up in her throat and choking her.
She put up one hand and pulled at her turquoise collar till the clasp
gave way and thrust the blue stones into the low-cut bodice.  The band
sounded louder than ever, the light danced and waved.  Round and round
and round again, while the ring-master's whip cracked monotonously.

The rhythm of the waltz beat in her brain as the music in some
delirious dream.  She wondered dully why there was so little applause
now.  Was she doing so badly?  Once she had jumped too low and knocked
against a hurdle instead of clearing it properly.  The grooms had
helped her by lowering everything as much as possible, but all they
could do had not been able to disguise her unwonted awkwardness.

She would have a few minutes' rest when the clown came on, and perhaps
that would help her to go through the rest of the act without an
absolute breakdown.

The interlude was all too short, the signal came and she sprang up and
poised herself mechanically.  Again the waltz music struck up and Don
Juan's hoofs fell with a soft thud upon the tan.  The hurdles and gates
had all been cleared successfully, and now she must dismount and let
her steed go round alone while she ran across from the opposite side of
the ring and vaulted from the ground to the saddle.

It was the trick she had found impossible to get through at the
rehearsal, the trick she most dreaded.  Everything depended on her
coolness and steadiness.  She must start exactly at the right time, and
measure the distance with unerring precision.  For the first time in
her life she feared the audience.  She knew too well the fickle nature
of a Spanish crowd.  To a performer who failed to please them they
would be merciless.  People who screamed aloud for more blood when the
sport had been tame at a bull-fight, people who habitually tortured
their animals, were not likely to show consideration to one who was
paid to entertain them.  They would applaud furiously one minute and
hiss furiously the next.

As she stood alone, waiting, she glanced instinctively towards the
place where Emile always sat, and wished he had been there.  He would
be angry with her if she failed, but she felt somehow that he would be
sorry for her as well.  Perhaps he might even make excuses for her, for
he was the only person who knew about the episode of the previous
night, and her injured hand.  Sometimes she had loved the swaying crowd
of human beings for whose amusement she risked her life and limbs.  Now
she hated the eager watching faces.  They only wanted to see her fall,
she told herself.

She ran blindly across the open space.  The next instant she was on her
feet on the ground again and Don Juan had stopped short.  Her upward
leap had carried her on to his back, but she had not been able to keep
her balance.

There was dead silence and then the hissing in the audience broke out,
vehement and unrestrained.

That she had pleased them hitherto went for nothing in her favour now.
She had been clumsy, ungraceful, had failed--that was enough.

Arithelli herself scarcely heard the sounds of execration, as she stood
swaying with one hand over her eyes to shut out the horrible glare.
She was conscious only of that and the strident noise of the band, and
the sensation of choking she had felt once before.  The instinct of all
animals to hide themselves in the dark when ill, was strong upon her.

The fat little ring-master who alone had the sense to see there was
something wrong, advanced and spoke to her in an agitated whisper.  She
gave him her hand and he led her out, leaving her hurriedly to go back
and apologise to the irate spectators, and to claim their indulgence on
the score of her sudden faintness.

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Would she ever get to her room, Arithelli wondered, as she struggled
down the passage.  It had never seemed so long before.  Her hand went
up to her throat again.  She longed for something cool to drink to
relieve the aching and dryness.  It must be caused by the heat and dust
of the ring, she thought.

A man's voice sounded behind her, and then hurrying footsteps.  She
pulled her long blue cloak round her and went on without answering or
turning her head.  It could only be the Manager coming to upbraid her.

An arm was flung round her protectingly and she turned with the face of
a hunted animal, and looked up into the wild dark eyes of Vardri.

"What has happened?  You're ill!  It's no wonder.  _Mon Dieu_, those
brutes last night . . ."

He pulled her head back against his shoulder, dropping his voice to a
murmur of exquisite gentleness.  "_Mon enfant--ma petite enfant_!"

"You saw me fall?" she whispered.

"The men told me when they brought Don Juan out.  I didn't see what
happened.  Were you hurt or only faint?"

"Oh, my hand?  That's nothing.  Emile says it will heal in a day or
two.  But I felt so stupid. . . .  Vardri, you don't think I'm going to
be ill, do you?  I've never been ill in my life . . . never!"

The boy made some incoherent answer.  Her piteous entreaty tore at his
heart.  Every fibre in his starved body ached with the desire to give
her the rest and peace she needed above all things.

What could he do without money?  His own miserable wages barely served
for necessities.  He was only a useless vagabond, an outcast.  He
ground his teeth together at the thought of his own impotence.

"Courage, little one.  They will cheer you again to-morrow.  They are
cruel, these Spaniards, and fickle.  You must not care."

It did not seem strange to either of them that he should be holding her
in his arms.  After last night everything had changed.  Love, Youth,
and Nature were hard at work weaving the bonds that drew them together.

The fact that she suffered his caresses had given him the right of
manhood to protect her, to be her champion, to fight her battles.  If
he could do nothing else for her, at least he could fight.  For him the
crown of happiness could be found in loyal service.  Of love-making in
its ordinary sense, Vardri neither thought nor dreamed.  To have found
his Ideal, the one woman, surely that was enough.  The innate
fastidiousness that goes with good breeding had kept his life clean,
his hands unsoiled.

He had hated the other women in the Circus, and felt sorry for them at
the same time; and on their side they liked him and regarded him
somewhat as a fool.  Their voices, their coarse expressions, their
light jokes all jarred on him.

He pitied them, for their lives were as hard as his own, and when he
could he helped them, for among the wanderers in Bohemia there is an
ever-abiding comradeship.  The element of fanaticism in his nature,
which had once been absorbed by the Cause, now spent itself upon a
human being.

The firm yet gentle clasp in which he held her, was the outward symbol
of the love and courage that made him tense as steel.  To every man
there comes his hour, and his was now.  Both for her sake and his own
he dare not keep her with him.  That they had been left undisturbed so
long was a miracle.  Besides, as she was ill, the sooner she was in bed
the better.

He half led, half carried her to the door of her dressing room, and she
thanked him with a smile, a gesture.  Her throat hurt so much that all
speech was an effort.

"You must go now," she whispered.  "You will get into trouble again
through me."

The boy threw a quick furtive glance along the whitewashed passage.
With characteristic recklessness he had forgotten that the chances of
his summary dismissal were looming exceedingly near.

He had left half his work undone the previous night, he had appeared
late that morning, and now he was in a part of the building to which
all the grooms and stable helpers were forbidden entrance.

"You'll let me bring you home," he pleaded.

Arithelli shook her head.  "You can't."

"Is Emile coming for you?  You shall not go alone, that I swear!"

"Emile will send someone.  They never let me go alone.  If you will,
you may do this.  If I am not down at the stables at half-past eight
to-morrow, will you find Emile and ask him to come to me.  He will be
there doing my work."

"And you will sleep and be well to-morrow?  To-morrow you will ride
again, and there will be the applause."

Even as he spoke he knew his words were foolishness.  The feverish
skin, dry lips and eyes that were like burning holes in the thin oval
face were signs and tokens enough for the most unseeing of men.  And
Vardri had suffered sufficiently himself to be able to recognise
genuine illness.

She slipped from his arms.

The little dreary laugh made him shiver.

"_Mille remerciments, mon camarade_.  I'm a failure, and failures are
best left alone.  _C'est ainsi que la vie_!"

      *      *      *      *      *      *

Hers was the sole fiasco in an otherwise successful performance.

The final spectacle was a lurid representation of the destruction of
Sodom and Gomorrah.

This species of scriptural tableaux was frequently given, and was
greatly to the taste of the spectators.

Such scenes were regularly presented in the theatres and heartily
enjoyed by the superstitious and devout populace, who found in them
nothing incongruous or repulsive to their piety.

In this particular display the Manager had excelled himself, and
achieved above all things a most vivid realism.

The gentleman who impersonated the patriarch Lot had a distinctly
modern air, and resembled a third-rate Anarchist in depressing
circumstances.

He was dark and swarthy, and possessed a ferocious expression, and on
the whole suggested a caricature of Emile in his worst frame of mind.

He appeared in company with his reluctant spouse, whom he dragged along
by the hand, she meanwhile obviously unwilling to leave the urban
delights of the Cities of the Plain for a pastoral and dull existence
in the desert, and as she was several sizes larger than her husband,
she seemed likely to get the best of the encounter.

She was the same fat Englishwoman who had driven Arithelli's horses in
the chariot.  She was by no means young, she had applied her rouge with
a lavish hand, and her golden wig was an outrage.  Her airs and graces
were those of a well-fed operatic soprano.

She advanced in jerks, she clutched at her plump anatomy and she rolled
her eyes appealingly at the gallery, which responded with delighted
yells.

In her train came a small flock of dejected-looking, but real sheep,
which were seemingly inspired by sufficient intelligence to wish to
avoid the coming catastrophe.

The city (or cities) was represented by coarsely-painted scenery, and,
owing to some defect in the perspective, appeared to be only a few feet
from the travellers, though doubtless intended to fill the distant
horizon.

The fleeing pair jerked slowly across the stage in time to subdued but
brassy music from the Hippodrome band, the sheep followed, and thunder
and lightning were heard and seen.

Flashes and bangs resounded, the doomed city rocked upon its
foundations, and the audience joined in the uproar.

Sacks full of flour descended from Heaven and burst, converting the
fleshly Mrs. Lot into the traditional pillar of salt, and the house and
the curtain were brought down together.

Restored to good-humour, the audience had forgotten the disgrace and
failure of their favourite _equestrienne_.




CHAPTER XI

  "I am tired of tears and laughter
    And men that laugh and weep,
  Of what may come hereafter
    For men that sow and reap.
  I am weary of days and hours,
    Blown buds of barren flowers,
  Desires and dreams and powers,
    And everything but sleep."
            SWINBURNE.


If anyone had told Arithelli that she was in for a sharp attack of
diphtheria, she would have felt surprised and not very much
enlightened.  Her ignorance of everything connected with illness was
supreme, and since childhood she had had no recollection of medicine
and doctors.  Her parents indulged in theories on the subject of
complaints, the principal one being a large disbelief in their
existence.  To them anything unhealthy or ailing was an aversion, a
thing to be avoided rather than pitied.

For accidents, sprains and breakages their pharmacopoeia suggested and
did not go beyond two ideas,--salt and water and Nature.

The Oriental strain in her character helped her to endure where an
ordinary woman would have fussed, cried, or grumbled.  At home if she
had had a fall or did not look her best she had been expected to
consider herself in disgrace, and to keep out of the way till such time
as she had completely recovered her looks and spirits.

When she returned to her lodgings, it did not occur to her to rouse the
landlady and demand remedies or attentions.  The walk home had been a
nightmare, and now she had all she wanted--solitude and the blessed
darkness.  She threw off her dress and boots, and walked the room hour
after hour.  She still heard the brazen band, and saw the flaming
lights and her ears echoed to the dreadful sounds of hissing.
Sometimes she had drunk feverishly of the very doubtful water against
which Emile had so often cautioned her.  When it was nearly dawn she
gave in, and lay huddled up on the bed, half-delirious with the pain
and feeling of suffocation.

Two streets away, and in a room more squalid than her own, Vardri was
also enduring his own private Purgatory.  Hers was physical, his
mental.  That was all the difference.

Long before half-past eight he was down at the stables and there
received the dismissal he had fully expected, being ordered off the
premises by the head groom, who had received directions the night
before to give Vardri a week's wages, and turn him out of the place
without delay.  It was no use protesting.  The Manager was not yet
visible, and even if he had been Vardri knew there was no appeal.

There had been complaints about his negligence more than once, and of
course he had been missed on the previous evening.  None of the
"strappers" would have reported him, but one of the clowns, a Spaniard
with whom he had fought for ill-treating a horse, had seen him leaving
the vicinity of the dressing-rooms, and had carried the information to
headquarters.

The informer had chosen his time well, and had found the Manager raging
over Arithelli's mishap, and ready to dismiss anyone with or without
reason.

Vardri turned his back on the place whistling defiance, and with his
courage fallen below zero.  He would have liked to say good-bye to the
horses, and to some of the men who were his friends.  He had never
disliked the actual work, and it was at the Hippodrome that he had
first met Arithelli.  Her misfortune and his had come together.  At any
other time it would not have been quite so bad.  A few months ago he
would not have cared whether he lost his place or not.

There had been nothing much in life then, and one could always find a
short way out of it _via_ the water or an overdose of something.

But now the world was changed, and he craved for Life and the fulness
of Life, for he had tasted happiness and stood for a moment in the
outer courts of the House of Love.  He had no friends who could have
helped him, and no qualifications for earning his living at any other
trade or profession.  He had begun life with a luxurious home, a
refined and useless education, and the mind of a dreamer, an idealist.
None of these things were valuable assets in his present career.

Like Arithelli he spoke several languages more or less fluently, and
like her again possessed both understanding and a love of horses, but
what avail were these things when he had neither money, references nor
influence, and as a further disadvantage he was known to be an
associate of the revolutionaries, and his tendency to consumption would
keep him out of many kinds of employment.

He turned over the few coins in his hand.  Just enough to keep him for
a week and then--the deluge!

He waited, prowling up and down the street, impatiently until Emile
appeared in the distance.

A few minutes later, the two men were at the door of Arithelli's
lodgings.  The landlady met them on the stairs, hag-like in the
disarray of the early morning, and evidently terrified out of such
humanity as she possessed by the fear of infection.  She had gone up
with the early morning coffee and found Arithelli raving aloud and
tearing at her throat.  Her first thought had been to turn the girl out
of doors, or, as she was obviously incapable of moving, to send for a
priest and a nursing sister, and have her taken to the public hospital.
A wholesome fear of Emile prevented her from giving utterance to these
charitable impulses.

She invoked every saint in the calendar, whose name she could remember,
and crossed herself with automaton-like energy.

She could not, she protested, be expected to nurse such a dangerous
case of fever as this undoubtedly was.  There was her son, the adored
of her old age.  _Santa Maria_!  If he also were stricken!

Emile pushed her on one side.  "I'll talk to you presently," he said in
her own dialect.  "If you are going into hysterics with fright you'll
catch anything that is catching.  If you behave sensibly you won't."

The window was fully open and the green shutters thrown back, and the
fierce sunlight streamed into Arithelli's room, which showed more than
its normal disorder.  The tray with the _café complet_ was on the floor
where the landlady had left it on her hasty stampede downstairs,
half-a-dozen turquoise rings lay strewn over a little table, where they
had been thrown when they were dragged off, boys' clothes trailed over
the back of one chair, and a blue skirt over another.  The only orderly
thing visible was the immaculate row of fine kid boots, long, narrow,
pearl-grey, tan and champagne-coloured.

Arithelli lay on the big bed under the faded canopy.  She had wrapped
herself in a thin blue _peignoir_, and her face was half hidden in
tangled hair.  The tumbled bed-clothes were pulled to one side and
dragging on the dusty boards.  She was quite unconscious of anyone's
presence, and moaned softly in a strangled fashion.

The two men stood without speaking, and watched the writhing, restless
figure.  Vardri turned away first with a smothered exclamation.  Would
he always be obliged to see her tortured in some way or another?  The
Fates were sending him more than any man could bear to look upon.

"What are you going to do?" he said roughly in French, "I can't stand
seeing this!"

Emile showed no signs of surprise at the other's manifest anxiety,
possibly because his own was as deep, though his method of expressing
it was different.  He felt helpless, and, being a man, resented the
feeling, so by consequence his always rugged manner became even more
unpleasant than usual.

"Well," he rejoined, "what can you expect in this filthy place?  This
street isn't so bad, but of course she has so often been down in those
slums in the Parelelo.  The Calle de Pescadores alone is enough to give
anyone a fever.  I think Sobrenski has made a point of sending her down
every poisonous street in the place.  Ireland's a clean country, you
see, compared with this, so she hasn't much chance, and as she starves
herself half the time that won't make things any better."

"She must have some woman to look after her.  I suppose the landlady
here will be no good?"

"Not unless you pay her.--Who's going to do that?"

"There's Estelle."

"Estelle!"  Emile exploded a fierce Russian oath.  "Do you want _more_
hysterics?"  Vardri was tramping up and down the room with the
noiseless agility of an animal, his fingers mechanically at work at a
cigarette.

"She must have a doctor too.  Isn't there an English doctor here?"

"Probably.  Do you propose to pay him too?"

The dryly sarcastic voice, the practical question brought Vardri down
from the clouds to the hard facts of life.  Illnesses and doctors were
expensive things.  He had no money, and Emile very little.

"I'll get a _Soeur de Charité_ from one of the convents.  She'll come
for nothing.  Nursing is their work.  I was--I mean I'm a Catholic.
She's a Catholic, too, isn't she?"

"No, she hates them.  She was educated in a convent, where as far as I
can gather from her own account she acquired more learning than piety.
Under the present circumstances I can only suggest the horse-doctor."

"What's the use of--?"

"I believe he began by doctoring human beings, but like the rest of us
out here, he is a little under a cloud.  He prefers animals now.  They
don't tell tales.  Human beings do.  Besides, he's English, or rather,
Irish.  Better go and tell him to come up.  You know his rooms.  Tell
him it's infectious, and he can bring up a few cigarettes for me if he
feels generous.  Don't trouble about your _Soeur de Charité_.  I'll see
that the woman here makes herself useful."

Vardri flung himself out of the room and down the rickety stairs at
breakneck speed, thankful beyond measure for the relief of action.

Emile subsided into a chair and smoked furiously and meditated upon the
untoward situation.  Being of a practical turn of mind he began to make
calculations.  Vardri had told him briefly of how Arithelli had failed
in the trick-riding, fallen off her horse, and been hissed out of the
ring.  The loss of popularity might mean the end of her career.  In any
case he could see she was desperately ill, and there was small chance
of her being about under three weeks, and even then she would not be
able to work at once.  Meanwhile they had exactly two pounds a week to
live upon.

Truly women added to the complications of life!  He might borrow money,
but that was a thing to be resorted to only in the last extremity.
Most of the members of his Circle were as poor as himself or poorer.
They were all bound together by the tie of brotherhood, and no one
would have grudged or refused a loan, but Emile scrupled to borrow from
those who were in greater privation than himself.

Sobrenski was fairly well off, but he lived like an ascetic and gave
everything to the Cause; besides, Sobrenski was out of the question.
To appeal to him on Arithelli's behalf would only be to give him a
chance for refusal and a jeer at female conspirators.

Her turquoise rings Emile collected from the table, and put them into
his pocket; her collar of turquoises he rescued from the floor, where
it had fallen when she took off her bodice.  The jewels could all be
turned into the money they needed so badly.  Of course she had not
saved a single _peseta_.  Emile had the handling of her salary, and he
knew that anything left over from the expenses of food and lodging went
in clothes and her particular vanity, dainty boots.

She was lavishly generous to the Hippodrome staff, and there was always
a certain tribute claimed from all its adherents by the Cause.

He did not hunt further for valuables.  If there was either money or
jewellery in Arithelli's possession it was sure to be found in quite a
conspicuous place.

The varied life of the city surged to and fro beneath the window, the
varied noises floated up into the room, and under the faded red brocade
curtains, Arithelli turned from side to side and moaned with closed
eyes.  A seller of fruit passed, crying his wares.

Emile went down into the street and bought a couple of oranges, and
squeezed the juice into the cup that had been destined for the coffee.

He had not the least idea as to what particular malady Arithelli had
developed, but he knew that fever and delirium always went together,
and that with fever there is invariably thirst.  He lifted her up and
pushed the pillow higher to relieve her breathing, but he could hardly
do more than moisten her parched and bitten lips.  Then he "tidied" the
bed with masculine pulls and jerks till it was even more untidy than
before, and went back to his chair.  There was nothing more to be done
for her in the way of alleviation till the doctor came.

He took up a book, and tried to shut his ears and distract his
thoughts.  As he stared unseeingly at the printed pages, there suddenly
flashed into his brain the name of Count Vladimir, the owner of "_The
Witch_."  Here was the very man to whom he could confidently apply for
help in the present difficulties, for the Russian had made it his
business in life to bestow his wealth in assisting the revolutionaries.
Emile decided that he would write tomorrow, when he had acquired
certain particulars as to the address he wanted.

Fatalité had done good work for the Cause, he argued, therefore let
those who supported the organisation keep her till she was able to work
again.

The next task he would have to undertake would be that of bullying or
bribing the landlady into a promise to undertake at least some of the
duties of a sick-room.  The rest of the nursing he proposed to do
himself.  He grinned as he lit another evil-smelling cigarette, at the
thought of Vardri's proposal.

He possessed an artistic sense of the fitness of things, and the
suggested _Soeur de Charité_ appealed to him as being quite out of the
picture.  Besides Arithelli had no respect for priests or nuns; Emile
remembered her inimitable descriptions of the spying "Children of
Mary," and she should not be worried with either if he could help it.

Yes, certainly the incapable old landlady would be preferable to a
white-capped _religeuse_, for the latter, though not likely by virtue
of her training to be scared by the physical atmosphere, would
undoubtedly be appalled by the mental and moral one.  Most likely she
would take advantage of Arithelli's weakness to persuade her of the
danger of her present way of living.  The Church of Rome is never slow
at seizing the chance of making a convert, and the power of the Church
in Spain is a byword.

Though Emile had a profound scorn for conventions, he had at one time
had his place among that class of human beings that calls itself
"Society," and he knew its rules and ways as he despised its
hypocrisies.  He could look at Arithelli's position quite judicially,
and as an outsider.  The world, religious and otherwise, would
certainly not give her the benefit of the doubt.

She was young, she was possessed of a weird and haunting beauty, she
had no women friends, no relations, and no companions but a set of
law-breakers, all of whom were men.  No one would believe that she was
untouched, unawakened, that she had been treated as a boy, and her
womanhood not so much respected as ignored.  If anyone put the wrong
ideas into her head, Emile reflected, it was sure to be one of her own
sex.

Having matured his plans he descended to the kitchen regions,
manufacturing impressive threats _en route_.

Here an answer to his problem presented itself, or rather herself.  The
landlady had a niece who came in daily to assist in household matters,
and take part in a duet of feminine gossip.

She was a solid young woman of unmoved countenance, who was quite
prepared to nurse the ten plagues of Egypt, providing she received
sufficient remuneration.  She proposed to get married at the earliest
opportunity and what Emile offered her would be of great assistance in
providing her bridal finery.

The two came to an agreement rapidly, and Emile climbed the stairs
again, triumphant.

He began to feel anxious about the doctor.  Two hours had passed and
there was no sight of him.  He might be out, or he might be drunk.
Emile knew the little weakness of Michael Furness, and as Vardri had
not returned it meant that he was still searching.

At last the horse-doctor arrived, grunting and ruffling up his crest of
curly black hair.  He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his
many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come
across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various
picturesque stories of her exploits.  He might have been a success in
his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every
Irishman--whisky and horses.

He had left his practice in the city of Cork, as Emile had said,
somewhat under a cloud, and had given up whisky for the _absinthe_ of
the _cafés_, and had not regretted the exchange.  He made his
examination quickly, handling the girl with a surprising skill and
deftness, in spite of his big clumsy-looking hands.

When he touched her she opened her eyes.

"_Mais, où suis je_?" she murmured, painfully dragging out the words.
Then followed Emile's name.

The doctor laid her back gently, and stood holding one of her wrists.
"She thinks it's you, Poleski!  'Tis diphtheria.  A bad case, too.
Shall want some looking afther.  Who's seeing to her?"

"I am," responded Emile, coolly.

"The divil ye are!"  The Irishman's long upper lip twitched humorously.
"Well, treat her gintly then, me bhoy!  You're wise to be smoking.
Less chance of infection.  I'll keep you company."  He produced a
couple of thin black cigars, and handed one to Emile.

"See, now," Michael Furness added seriously, "I may as well be telling
you the truth.  Your little friend there hasn't a very big chance.
She's been going to bits for some time.  If it hadn't been this it
would have been something else.  She's got a grand physique, so there's
hope.  If she's worse by to-morrow she ought to have an operation.
Only I can't undertake it, ye see.  There's the trouble.  My hand isn't
as steady as it was, and I haven't the instruments."

Emile nodded.  He knew nothing of the operation of tracheotomy, and
though he spoke English well he found it difficult to follow Michael's
soft, thick, County Cork speech.

"She's a grand heap of a girl, isn't she?" continued that gentleman,
regarding Arithelli with kindly eyes.  He had all the Celt's love of
romance, and the ingrained reverence of the Irish Catholic for women.
"This isn't the place for girls, at all, at all!  And they tell me
she's from the old country.  Will I be sending up one of the good
Sisthers to see after her, and put things to rights a bit?"

For the second time that day Emile ungratefully rejected the
ministrations of the Church.  He knew that no one else in Spain ever
thought of employing anyone but the religious orders as nurses, but he
preferred to arrange things in his own way and said so.

"Ah, well then!" said Michael amiably, "give her something to drink if
she wants it.  That's all.  I'll look in again this evening.  She'll
have taken a turn then one way or the other.  It's a quick thing, this."

Arithelli's ministering angels left in each other's company.  Michael
drifted back to his favourite _café_, while Emile betook himself to the
Hippodrome to wage war with that amiable functionary, the Manager.  The
strife was both noisy and prolonged, and resulted in only a partial
victory for Emile.  With many picturesque oaths the Manager accused
himself of folly unspeakable in not dismissing Arithelli at once.

She had a contract?  Yes!  But in it there was no allowance made for
incompetence and non-appearance.  It only stipulated that she should be
paid for doing her work.  She had not done it, and moreover she had
refused to practise.  That he should be expected to continue to pay her
a salary even of the smallest description while she lay in bed was a
monstrous impertinence.

Would he not have the trouble and expense of getting another artiste to
fill her place?  There must be an _equestrienne_ in the programme.  If
she found herself taken back again to finish her time after this
illness or whatever it was, then she should be more than grateful, but
as for paying salaries to _employés_ who did not work, why, did people
consider him an imbecile?

Emile shrugged and sneered at intervals throughout this tirade.  He had
wisely begun by asking more than he knew he was at all likely to get,
and was now obliged to be satisfied with the compromise.

Disappointment followed his search for the whereabouts of Count
Vladimir.  The owner of "_The Witch_" was expected back in Barcelona in
a month or so, no one knew exactly when.  Letters might be addressed
Poste Restante, Corfu, for he was cruising in his phantom craft through
those sapphire seas that lie round about the Ionian Islands.

There was nothing to do but to write and wait.  One piece of ill-luck
was following close upon another, and Emile felt that he needed all the
consolations that his cynical philosophy could afford.

His anxiety on Arithelli's behalf was fast becoming an obsession.  When
she had first come into his life he had wondered sometimes how she
would stand the late hours and all the hardships of a circus training,
but after her one outburst she had never complained again.

He thought the sea-trip had done her good.  Of course she always looked
pale, but then that was her type.

He had also been impressed with the unwonted seriousness of Michael,
knowing that in spite of his erratic ways the doctor understood his
craft.

Emile's instinct prompted him vigorously to go back now and see how she
was getting on, but he dared not neglect the work of his Society.
There were letters to be written, arrangements to be made, all the
usual paraphernalia of intrigue to be kept going.

He returned to his own rooms and began to write savagely, using all his
will to expel from his brain the vision of the girl as he had seen her
last, semi-conscious, and yet with his name on her lips.

Michael had promised to see her again at six o'clock.  It would be time
enough if he also went then.  Besides, the Cause came first always, and
there were many women in the world.  His pen tore fiercely over the
paper as something whispered: "Women?  Yes.  But another Arithelli--?"




CHAPTER XII

"I have something more to think of than Love.  All the women in the
world would not make me waste an hour."
            SAYING OF NAPOLEON.


The stolid niece blundered heavily about the room, doing things that
were entirely unnecessary, and raising much dust.  She was a
conscientious person in her own way, and felt that she must get through
a certain amount of work in return for the anticipated reward.

She banged chairs and table about, folded up scattered clothes,
investigated them with much interest, and fingered and re-arranged the
row of boots with muttered ejaculations and covetous eyes.  She had
previously contrived to get Arithelli into a night dress, had brushed
her hair back and plaited it, and pulled the green shutters together to
keep out the midday glare.

As she looked at the livid face patched with scarlet against the coarse
linen, Maria began to feel a little perturbed.  Something in the
atmosphere of the room had penetrated even the brick wall of her
stolidity.  She hoped the two Señors would soon return and relieve her
of the responsibility of her charge.

The stillness oppressed her, for Arithelli had ceased her moaning and
muttering for a merciful stupor.

As the hours went on the fever increased, and the horrible fungus in
her throat spread with an appalling rapidity.

As Michael Furness had prophesied, the crisis would soon be reached,
and she had everything save youth against her in the fight for life.

Maria crossed herself perfunctorily and mumbled a few prayers.
Doubtless the Señora was like all the English, a heretic, and
therefore, according to the comfortable tenets of the Roman faith,
eternally damned, but a little prayer would do no harm, and would be
counted to herself as an act of charity.

That ceremony over, more mundane considerations engrossed her mind.
She could smell the pungent odour of the _olla podrida_, or national
stew, insinuating itself through the half-open door, and she knew that
if she were not present at the meal, there would be more than one
hungry mouth ready to devour her share.

She drew a breath of relief as she marched heavily downstairs to the
more congenial surroundings of the kitchen.  She had done her duty.
Señor Poleski had not told her to stay in the room all the time he was
away, and she could easily be back again before he came in.

Michael was the first to appear, almost aggressively sober, and
carrying a small wooden box.  His interest in his case was as much
human as professional, and instead of wasting the afternoon, after his
usual custom, loafing and drinking, he had gone, after one modest glass
of the rough _Val de Peñas_, to search in out-of-the-way streets for a
certain herbalist of repute.

This was an aged Spanish Jew, unclean and cadaverous, with patriarchal
grey beard and piercing eyes, a man renowned for his marvellous cures
among the peasantry.

He was regarded more or less as a wizard, though his wizardry consisted
solely in a knowledge of natural remedies, and the exercise of a power
which would have been described at the Paris Salpêtriére as hypnotic
suggestion.  By the aid of this he was able to inspire his patients
with the faith so necessary to a successful treatment.

Michael was not fettered in any way by the ordinary conventions of a
practitioner.  He had neither drugs nor instruments of his own
wherewith to effect a cure on ordinary lines, and what he had seen of
herbalists in Spain had inspired him with a vast respect for the
simplicity and success of their methods.  The wooden box contained a
quantity of leaves which, steeped in scalding water, and applied to the
patient's throat, possessed the power of reducing the inflammation and
drawing out the poison through the pores of the skin.  Of their
efficacy Michael entertained not the slightest doubt.

He walked straight to the bed, and glanced at Arithelli's throat, now
almost covered with white patches of membrane.  There was no time to
waste if she was to be saved from the ghastliness of slow suffocation.

He went to the head of the stairs and yelled lustily for Maria, whom he
commanded to produce boiling water immediately, thus further adding to
the reputation of the mad English for haste and unreasonableness.

Then he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began busily to
clear a space on the table, on which he emptied the contents of the box.

All his movements had suddenly become alert and energetic.  The joy of
the true physician, the healer, had awakened in him at the prospect of
a duel with Death, and he was no longer merely the slouching,
good-natured wastrel who doctored horses at the Hippodrome.

He possessed for the moment the dignity of a leader, of the master of a
situation.  He smiled to himself as he moved about humming a verse of
"Let Ireland remember," and swept away a _débris_ of books, a rouge
pot, some dead flowers, and a large over-trimmed hat.

"Shure 'tis back in the surgery again I am," he told himself, while his
lean, ugly face beamed with satisfaction.

No one who knew Michael Furness had ever suspected the regret by which
he was for ever haunted, regret at the loss of his profession.  His
rollicking manner made it impossible to believe him capable of any
depth of feeling, and he had a trick of talking least about the things
for which he cared most.  The failing that banned him from his work was
an inherited one.  He suffered for the sins of his fathers, for the
indulgences of many generations of hard riding, hard living, reckless
hot-blooded Celts.  He was too old to reform now, he would say.
Perhaps later on he would be "making his soul"; in the meantime he
drifted.

Emile, Maria and the boiling water all made their entrée together.  The
eyes of the former travelled first of all to the bed and then to the
heap of vegetation.

"_Qu 'est-ce que c'est que ca_?" he demanded.  "She is better, eh?"

"No, she's worse," answered Michael.  He seized upon the leaves and
began to bundle them into the steaming basin.

"We shouldn't have been gone so long.  What's this did ye say, Poleski?
Well, 'tis the only thing I can do for her.  After I left you I went
and got these.  They're great believers in herbs in this counthry, and
by the light of what I have seen, so am I.  The poor people never use
anything else, and I've seen some fine cures.  It's unprofessional, but
it's giving her a chance and as I told you I can't operate."  He
withdrew his fingers hurriedly.

"Faith, that jade with the dark eyes knew what she was doing when she
made this water hot!  They're ready now, and I'll want a piece of stuff
to lay them on.  Find me a piece of the colleen's finery, something old
that she won't be wanting to use any more."

He pronounced the last two words as "ANNIE MOORE," and would have been
furious if the fact had been pointed out to him, for like all Irishmen
he would never admit the possession of a brogue.

A pale blue silk scarf was found, and ruthlessly utilised as a bandage.
Then Emile lifted the inert figure, while the doctor wound it round her
throat and fastened it securely.

"Lift her higher, man," he adjured Emile.

"There's only one pillow?--Then use this."  He rolled up his coat, and
put it behind her head.

"We've done all we can now, and must just wait till this begins to
draw.  It will make her uncomfortable, and we must watch that she
doesn't pull it off.  Give me a cigarette if ye have one, Poleski.
'Tis hot work this."

He sat down on the bed and took up Arithelli's thin wrist.  In his
shirt sleeves, with his hair well on end, and his robust voice very
little subdued below its usual pitch, Michael did not convey the
impression that he was capable of taking either Life or Death in a
serious spirit.  He talked on gaily, in no way depressed by his
unsympathetic audience, telling tales of his own escapades in the
matter of fighting and love-making, of wild midnight steeplechases
ridden across unknown country, and the delights of the fair town by the
river Lee.

Once he stopped talking for a few minutes to boil some more water on
the stove that Arithelli sometimes used for making coffee, and to renew
the application of leaves.  The fact that his patient was in exactly
the same condition of stupor, and had not stirred, did not discourage
Michael's optimistic views of her recovery.

"Ye must give it time, me bhoy," he told Emile.  "There's no hurry in
Spain, ye know, with anything.  Be careful that ye watch her and keep
her hands off her throat.  She'll not be lying so quiet presently."

Emile growled out an inaudible response.  He was in a smouldering
condition of wrath and impatience.  Reserved and limited of words as he
himself always was, and now rendered savage by anxiety, he found it
impossible to understand the other man's mercurial temperament.  By
this time he was without hope, and certainly without faith in either
Michael or his remedies.

The doctor having skilfully extracted his crumpled outer garment from
under Arithelli's shoulders, regretfully prepared to depart.  He was
obliged to be somewhere about the premises of the Hippodrome during
every performance in case of accident to any of the animals, and
careless as he was where his own benefit was concerned, he had
sufficient wisdom to be always within call.

When he had vanished Emile walked to the window, and threw open the now
useless shutters.  He guessed instinctively that Arithelli needed more
air, and he had himself begun to find the temperature almost
unbearable, for the building was lofty, and the room they were in near
the roof.  He rested his folded arms upon the sill and leaned his head
and shoulders far out.

The house stood at a corner, and while the side of it was in a small
street, the front overlooked one of the many wide and beautiful
_paséos_, with which the city abounded.

A little breeze borne of the incoming tide in the harbour came sweeping
along, and its coolness stirred him into fresh vitality.

It was the hour of pleasure, when the inhabitants threw off their
sun-begotten sloth and thronged the _cafés_ and public gardens and
promenades.

On the Rambla, once the bed of a river, the military bands played waltz
music, and the favourite operas, and hot blood moved faster to the
unfailing enchantment of the Habernera, and the newest works of
Massenet and Charpentier.

It was now dark, and the stars blazed down upon the never-resting city,
with its sinister record of outrages and crimes, and its charm which
was as the alluring of some wild gypsy queen.

Men fleeing from the justice or vengeance of their own country could
find here a City of Refuge.  Here the tide of life ran swiftly, and
churches and cruelty walked hand in hand, and Hate trod close upon the
heels of Love.

Here no man's life was safe, for from time to time an epidemic of bomb
throwing would break out.  Infernal machines would be hurled in an
apparently purposeless fashion wherever there was a large gathering of
people in street or square.  A few policemen, soldiers, or onlookers
would be killed or mutilated, and a panic created, but few arrests were
ever made.  The whole of the Press would unite to lift up its voice in
an indignant appeal to the Government, and then everything would be
forgotten till the next explosion.  People in Barcelona lived from day
to day and accepted lawlessness as a matter of course.

Emile's own particular circle had no hand in these promiscuous
destructions of life.  Their own attempts were invariably well
organised and directed towards some definite end.  They did not destroy
life for mere wanton cruelty, and their victims were marked out and
hunted down with an accurate aim.


It suddenly occurred to Emile that during the last few months he had
looked upon Barcelona with a changed vision.  He had always seen her
beauties and hated them, as a man may hate the fair body of a despised
mistress, while he yet sees it fair.  Now the thought that he might at
any time, and at a few days' notice, be forced to leave the place,
struck him with a feeling of blankness and desolation.

The sense of exile was almost gone, the nostalgia for his own land no
longer keen.  Had he turned traitor to his own country, the country for
whose woes he was now suffering--?

There he had neither home, parents, friends nor lover.  Here he
possessed at least interests.


A rustling sound behind him made him turn quickly.  In the gloom he
could only see the outline of a white moving figure.  He groped for the
matches, struck one and lit a candle.

Arithelli sat upright in bed; she had pushed back the clothes, and her
long fingers were dragging at the blue scarf.  It was knotted at the
back under her plait of hair, and she had almost succeeded in loosening
it.  The fatal inertia was passed, and she was beside herself with heat
and pain and the fight for breath.

A couple of strides brought Emile to the bedside.  He caught her hands
between his own and drew them down.

"Listen, Arithelli," he said quietly.  "You mustn't do that.  This is
to cure your throat.  It may hurt you now, but to-morrow you will be
better, _voyez-vous_?"

The girl writhed in his grasp, turning her head from side to side.  The
wild eyes, the tense, quivering body, made Emile think of some forest
animal in a trap.

The bandage had fallen from her throat and therefore was useless, and
the aromatic scent of the crushed herbs was pungent in the air.  He
remembered Michael's injunction, "See that she keeps it on.  It's her
only chance."

She was still struggling frantically, and he needed both hands.  For a
moment he meditated tying her wrists together, but he decided to trust
to his influence over her to make her do as he wished, she had always
obeyed him hitherto, and he knew that she was perfectly conscious now,
and capable of understanding what he wanted.

He set his teeth and tightened his grip, and spoke again in the same
quiet voice.

"Look at me!  That's right.  Put your hands down, and keep them so.
You must not touch your throat."

He held her eyes with his own as he spoke, and after a momentary
struggle and shrinking she grew quiet, and he felt her body relax.  Her
eyes closed and she sank down against the pillow, turning her face
towards him.

"_Pauvre enfant_!" Emile muttered.

He released her hands and they lay still, and she made no movement to
hinder him as he re-adjusted the bandage.

He stood looking down upon her.  A vast compassion shone in the grey
eyes, that she had only seen hard and penetrating.  The gesture of mute
abandonment, the ready compliance had appealed to his complex nature,
which he kept hidden under an armour of coldness and cynicism.  For an
instant his years of outlawry and poverty were blotted out and he had
gone back to the days in Russia when he had first come into his
kingdom, and had believed women faithful and their honour a thing on
which to stake one's own.

As sweet and yielding Marie Roumanoff had seemed when she had lain in
his arms.  A few years hence if Arithelli did not succeed in breaking
her neck in the ring, she would probably also make Paradise and Hell
for some man.

He could see that the dangerous crisis was over.  She would live and
eventually go back to her work again.  The swift intelligence, the wit
and charm of her--_À quoi bon_?  She had been saved, and to what end?
For a dangerous and toilsome profession, and, in secret, another and
still greater peril.

Husband and children, and the average woman's uneventful, if happy,
fate could never be hers.  Her very beauty was of the type almost
repellent to the strictly normal and healthy man.

She would no doubt have her hour of triumph, of passion.  Some
_connoisseur_ of beauty would purchase her as a rare jewel is bought to
catalogue among his treasures.

In Paris she might achieve notoriety.  Not now, perhaps, but later when
she had developed into a woman and knew her own power.  Paris loved all
things strange, and gave homage to the woman who was among her fellows
as the orchid among flowers.

"_FATALITÉ_," he had named her in jest.  Truly a name to bring
misfortune to any woman.  Her fate had been in his own hands a few
minutes ago.  He could so easily have denied her her chance, her chance
of life.  Perhaps the time might come when she would reproach him for
having helped her to live.

He thrust back the thought and stooped over her.

"_Mon enfant_, do you want anything to drink?  You are thirsty, _n'est
ce pas_?"

"Yes.  And Emile--you won't--go away--yet?"

"_Ma foi_, no!  Drink this and go to sleep."

He was the Emile of every-day life once more, brusque, blunt and
practical.  As he turned away to put the glass back on the table, he
was debating whether it would not be wise to call up Maria.  A woman
would understand better what to do for another woman.  He knew that
Arithelli would never ask for anything under any circumstances.

He had taught her too well his own depressing theory that life "mostly
consisted of putting up with things," and in practice thereof the pupil
had outshone her master.

The rigid tension of her arms and hands as they lay on the coverlet
told of her effort for composure, and he noticed for the first time
that beautiful as the latter still were in shape and colour, one of the
nails was broken, and the finger tips had spread and widened.  When
there had been meetings up in the hills at night she had always been
left to see to the unharnessing of the horses and mules, and these
disfigurements were the result of her struggles with saddle-girths and
straps.  Her work was usually well done, and if it did not happen to be
satisfactory, she came in for the united grumbles of the whole party.

Emile bit into his cigarette as his eyes caught the discoloured lines
of Sobrenski's sign-manual on her wrist.

It was entirely through him, Emile, that she had in the first place
joined the league of conspirators, and this was one of the results.
Sobrenski's judgment had been more far-seeing than his own.  One girl
in a roomful of fanatics, (he was one himself, but that did not make
any difference,) would naturally stand a very poor chance if she was
foolish enough to oppose them.

With masculine thoughtlessness Emile had set the candle close beside
the bed, where it flared full into Arithelli's eyes.

They were wide open now.  The look of desperation had faded, and there
was in them only the appeal of one human being to another for help and
sympathy.

"_Eh, bien_, Fatalité?"

She shifted her position wearily and stretched out her hands towards
him, murmuring, "_Je veux dormir_."

If Emile had possessed either chloroform or any other narcotic he would
at once have given it to her without much thought of the possible
consequences.  An inspiration seized him to use the power for soothing
and alleviating provided by Nature.  He knew that Arithelli would be an
easy subject for the exercise of animal magnetism, and her morbid
condition would make it even easier for him to send her to sleep.

He moved away the candle, so as to leave her face in shadow, and
leaning forward he laid his hand across her forehead and eyes, and
began a series of regular and monotonous passes, always in a downward
direction.  Once he rested his thumbs lightly on her eyeballs,
remaining so for a few seconds, while his will went out to her, bidding
her sleep and find unconsciousness.




CHAPTER XIII

  "There is a woman at the beginning of all great things."
            LAMARTINE.


The whizzing rush and discordant scream of the electric trams, the sun
warm upon his face, aroused Emile from a restless, fitful sleep of a
few hours.  The street cries had begun to swell into a volume of sound,
and at the earliest dawn the whole place teemed with stir and life.
There was no hour in all the night in which Barcelona really slept.
Some of the shops did not close before midnight, and people were
continually passing through the Rambla, and entering and leaving the
_posadas_, which were open for the sale of wine and bread soon after
three o'clock in the morning.

Emile yawned and stretched, and pulled himself up slowly from the chair
by the open window in which he had fallen asleep.  He was cramped and
stiff from his uncomfortable position.  Anxiety and strain had deepened
the lines on his face, and his eyes were dull and sunken.  He looked
less hard, less alert, and altogether more human and approachable.

A glance at the bed assured him that Arithelli was still asleep and in
exactly the same attitude as he had left her.  Though her sleep was not
a natural one, at least it was better than drugs, and he had given her
a respite, a time of forgetfulness.  In a few minutes he would have to
arouse her again to more pain and discomfort, and the inevitable
weariness of convalescence.  He stood inhaling the wonderful soft air
and gathering up his energies to face the work of another day.
Arithelli's affairs had to be put straight, and Vardri provided for in
some way.  He did not in the least know how this was all to be
accomplished, and at present the problems of the immediate future
seemed likely to prove a little difficult.

He was not by nature optimistic, and the events of the last few days
had made him even less so than ordinary.  He felt that he must go back
to his rooms, and finish out his _siesta_ before he could work out any
more plans.

Arithelli awoke at once when he touched her and called her name, but
before she had realised where she was Emile was half way downstairs in
search of Maria.

As it happened it was Sunday morning, and being at least outwardly
devout, the damsel was just on the point of starting for an early Mass,
and was arrayed in her church-going uniform of black gown and _velo_,
and armed with missal and rosary.

Her round eyes widened and her round mouth grew sulky when she heard
that she was expected to go upstairs without further delay and attend
to Arithelli.  Juan would be waiting for her outside the church door,
Maria reflected, and perhaps if she did not come he would seek others.
There was Dolores, of the cigarette factory, for example.  The English
Señora could surely wait a few minutes.  Her expression, and her
obvious unwillingness, supplied Emile with material for cynical
reflections upon the working value of religion.  He did not trouble to
communicate his views to Maria, but merely gave orders and
instructions.  His tone and manner were convincing.  Like all the rest
of her sex Maria respected a man who knew what he wanted, and showed
that he intended to get it.

Emile made his way into the cool, shady Rambla, where a double avenue
of plane trees met overhead, and where a grateful darkness could always
be found even at mid-day.  On either side of the promenade were the
finest shops, the gaiest _cafés_.  A band of students passed him,
waving a scarlet flag and shouting a revolutionary _chanson_ of the
most fiery description.  Emile scowled angrily.  He had not the least
sympathy with these childish exhibitions of defiance, which he
considered utterly futile and a great waste of time.  They did harm to
the serious aims and intentions of the Anarchist community, and were
often the means of getting quite the wrong people arrested.

At the Flower Market (La Rambla de las Flores) he paused to look at the
heaped roses, gorgeous against the grey stones.  Daily they were
brought there in thousands, dew-drenched and fresh from the gardens of
Sária.  He took up a loose handful from the piled mass of sweetness and
laid it down again.

Red roses were not for Fatalité.  They would not suit her, and she had
good reason to loathe the colour that was symbolical of blood and
sacrifice.  He chose instead a sheaf of lilies, long-stalked and
heavily scented, and despatched them in the care of a picturesque
_gamin_.  Sobrenski and the others would certainly have considered him
hopelessly mad if they had known.  It was many years since he had sent
flowers to a woman.  His present life did not encourage little
courtesies and graceful actions.  It was in the natural course of
events that all the comrades should help one another in every possible
way, but none of them made any virtue out of it.  It was all done in
the most matter-of-fact way possible.  As he had told Arithelli when
they had talked up at Montserrat, one only kissed the hands of a Marie
Spiridonova.  And he was sending bouquets as to some _mondaine_ of the
vanished world and of his youth.

He shrugged and walked slowly on.  In passing the house where Michael
Furness lodged, he stopped to leave a message as to Arithelli's
condition, and the advisability of another visit.

When "_The Witch_" touched at Corfu for letters Count Vladimir found
among them one that twisted afresh the thread of two destinies--his own
and that of a woman.  His companion had still the same features and
colouring of the boy who had sung at night under the stars in the
harbour of Barcelona.  Pauline Souvaroff still sang through the hours
between dusk and dawn, but her disguise had been discarded, and now
soft skirts trailed as she passed, and the cropped fair hair had grown
and twisted into little rings.  Her secret had been no secret to Emile,
though Arithelli with her trick of taking everything for granted had
never guessed that Paul, the singer, was other than the boy he
professed to be.  Besides the two women had never talked together
alone, and seldom even seen each other by daylight, for Pauline had
sought no one's company.

There was for her but one being in the world, and when she could not be
with the man she worshipped she was content to be with her thoughts and
dreams.

At first she had, like many another Russian woman, yearned to make an
oblation of herself in the service of her horror-ridden country, but
with the coming of love she had put aside all thoughts of vengeance.
The Cause was identified for her with the person of her lover.  She
toiled willingly at it still, but from entirely different motives.  His
interests were hers, and while he worked for the revolutionary party,
so also must she.

Pauline Souvaroff had loved much and given freely.  All that she
possessed of beauty and charm, her whole body and soul she had laid at
the feet of the man at whose lightest word she flushed and paled, and
on whom she looked with soft, adoring eyes.  She lived in dreams, a
life of drugged content in which there was neither past nor future.

In all the Brotherhood no one could be considered a free agent, and the
ordering of no man's life was in his own hands.  The private actions of
each member were almost as well known as his public ones, for each man
spied systematically upon his companions.  If the devotion of two
people to one another seemed likely to outrival their devotion to the
Cause, then separation came swiftly.  Nothing would be said, no
accusations made, but each would receive orders that sent them in
opposite directions.  The supporters of the Red Flag movement were
always particularly ingenious in arranging affairs to suit themselves.
An Anarchist could form no lasting ties.  Some time in the future there
was always separation to be faced.

It was in Vladimir's power to settle matters in his own way by ignoring
Emile's letter, and remaining where he was in enjoyment of the present
idyll.  As long as they kept out to sea they were safe.  But he had
pledged his word to answer any summons and to give his help, and with
him, as with all men, love came only second to his work.  Emile had
also explained Vardri's position, and it would be impossible to adjust
anything without being on the spot.

He read the letter over again, slowly and carefully.  It hinted and
suggested more than it had said.  Emile had just come from an interview
with Sobrenski, and there had been a talk of an entire re-organization
of the band.  Some of the members would be required to carry on the
propaganda in other countries, Russia, for example.  They all knew what
that meant--!

As he climbed the ladder by the yacht's side, and swung himself onto
the deck, the girl ran up to him with outstretched hands, her white
skirts fluttering behind her in the wind.  She was as incapable of
disguising her feelings as a child, and she was a joyous pagan in her
happiness.

Vladimir slipped his hand under the warm round arm.  "Have I been long,
_petite_?  Come and walk up and down.  I want to talk to you."

"You have found letters, _mon ami_?" Pauline asked carelessly.

"From Poleski.  Yes.  I'm afraid they are rather important ones.  We
shall have to talk them over later on."

"When you like.  Vladimir, do you remember the girl Monsieur Poleski
brought on board once for a few days.  I never knew her real name.  She
always looked so ill and miserable.  Do you remember?"

"It is about this very girl that he has written."

Pauline looked up quickly.  "She is dead?"

"No!  No!  I suppose you think that because she always looked such a
tragedy.  However, she is very ill, out of danger now, but of course
not able to ride--she was in the Hippodrome, you know--and apparently
she has no money, so one must do something for them.  Poleski has
barely enough for two, especially under these circumstances."

"I am sorry," Pauline said gently.  "I remember how she used to sit all
day and look at the sea.  Monsieur Poleski left her too much alone, and
always spoke so roughly, but I think he loved her."

Vladimir gave a short laugh.

"You're wrong there, child.  No, I'm sure that's not the case with
Poleski."

"But she loves him?"

"Possibly!  She always seemed to me uncanny with those extraordinary
eyes, and that voice.  Poleski has certainly failed to educate her as
regards taste in clothes.  You saw how she was dressed when she came on
board--!"

Half an hour later the anchor was up, and they were cutting through the
white-crested waves.  The girl pointed to a green headland on the left
that rose suddenly and overhung the water like a sentinel on guard.

"I have been watching that all the morning in the distance, and I could
think of nothing but the Winged Victory in the Louvre.  You remember
how she stands on a rough-hewn pedestal at the head of the marble
staircase, and she is all alone against a dull red background.  And as
one looks one goes back all those centuries, and sees her as she was on
the day the Greeks set her up to celebrate their great sea-victory.  It
must have all looked just as it does to-day, those centuries ago in the
Island of Samothrace.  There was a strong wind blowing, and the waves
met and raced and leapt together, and the sky was the same wonderful
colour that it is now, and there were wild birds hovering and screaming
round her."

"What will you say to me, when I take you away from all this,--when we
have to go back to Barcelona?"

"But I shall go with you?"  The blue eyes were searching his face, and
there was fear as well as a question in them.

"Do you suppose I shall leave you here alone, child?"  He hated himself
for the evasive answer.

He turned her thoughts to other things, bidding her talk of those days
they had spent together in Paris.  She had named it Paradise, and to
her it had been indeed a place of enchantment, for she saw it for the
first time, and Vladimir was always with her.

She had seen its treasures of art, and abandoned herself to its glamour
with the enthusiasm and the freshness of a child.

She had looked out of place in the artificial atmosphere of the
boulevards, among the gas-lit _cafés_, dazzling shop-windows,
_flâneurs_ and gaily dressed women.  A man who wrote poetry, and
starved on what he received for his verses in the Quartier Latin, had
stood beside her for a few moments in the Rue de Rivoli, and had gone
home to his garret inspired to produce some lines in which he compared
her to the delicate narcissus blooms that died so quickly in the flower
sellers' baskets.

Together she and Vladimir had strolled among the wonders of the Louvre,
he critical and unmoved, but indulgent and gratified at her pleasure as
at the pleasure of a child.

Pauline had never been able to express what she felt.  She could only
worship dumbly before the changeless unfading beauty of these relics of
the fairy-cities, of Athens, and Rome, and Alexandria.  She had loved
the Greek marbles best.  The weird shapes in the Corridor of Pan, the
glorious torso of the Venus Accroupie with the two deep lines in her
side that make her more human and alive than any other Venus, more
divine even than the Milo, faultless in her "serpentining beauty rounds
on rounds," serene and gracious in the shadow of her crimson-hung
alcove.

And Vladimir was wise, for he allowed her to dream, and did not show
her more than he could help of modern Paris.

From there they had gone to Brussels, then to Vienna, and last, and
most beautiful of all, Buda-Pesth, the city among the hills.  They had
seen it first of all as Buda-Pesth should be seen, at night, hanging
between earth and sky, and with her million lights sparkling against
the soft darkness of the surrounding hills.  Pauline's eyes had never
become satiated with the sight of beautiful things.

Perhaps, as she had told Vladimir, it was her love for him that had
given her this gift of clear-seeing.  Without love she might have
allowed herself to be blindfolded as many other women are, by ambition,
or money, or intellect.




CHAPTER XIV

  "La vie est vaine,
  Un peu d'amour,
  Un peu de haine,
  Et puis bon jour."


In the process of Arithelli's convalescence, comedy fought for place with
tragedy.

For the first time in her life she felt irritable, and inclined to
grumble, and her racked nerves made the lonely hours appear doubly long
and lonely.

Day after day, each one seemingly more unending than the last, the sun
poured into her room, and the dust and litter accumulated in all four
corners, and she lay and gazed at the hideous meandering pattern of the
stained wall-paper, and the cracks and blistering paint on the door.  The
nights were less terrible, for the darkness veiled all sordid details,
and there was a star-lit patch of sky visible through the open window.

The attendance she received could only be described as casual.  Neither
Emile nor Maria possessed one idea on the subject of hygiene between
them.  The methods of the former were, as might be expected, a little
crude, and Maria combined a similar failing with a vast ignorance.
Moreover, she was not original.  At the beginning of Arithelli's illness
pineapple juice had seemed to Maria a happy inspiration, and she
continued to provide it daily.  What was good to drink on Sunday, she
argued, must also be good on Monday.

Arithelli's throat had healed quickly, but the depression and weakness
clung to her persistently.  She fought it and was ashamed of it, true to
her Spartan traditions, but was forced to realise that it was not in her
own power to hurry her return to the world and work.

Michael Furness, who was much elated by the success of the Jewish
herbalist's remedy, continued his treatment on the same lines, giving her
various tisanes of leaves and flowers, which if they tasted unpleasant
were at least harmless.  He had grown fond of his patient, and she always
looked for his visits with pleasure.  He treated her with a genuine,
almost fatherly kindness, and they were drawn together by the kin feeling
of race, so strong among all Celts.  In many respects Michael was not
ideal as a medical attendant.

He smoked vile tobacco,--he dropped some things and knocked over others,
he shaved apparently only on _festas_, and if he happened to arrive late
in the day his speech was thick and his manner excitable.

Upon one occasion Arithelli had complained that her mane of untended hair
made her uncomfortably hot, and Michael brought out a pocket knife,
clubbed it all together in his hand like a horse's tail, and obligingly
offered to relieve her by cutting it off.  Emile had arrived only just in
time to prevent the holocaust, and the two men exchanged fiery words for
the next ten minutes.

Another day, prompted by a desire to amuse her, Michael introduced into
her room a fat mongrel puppy with disproportionate legs and an alarmed
expression.  His wish to provide her with what he was pleased to call a
"divarsion" was, like many of his other good intentions, not entirely
successful.  He had deposited the excited animal on the bed, and in the
course of its frantic gambols it overbalanced and fell sprawling to the
floor on its back.  The ancient canopied bed was high, and the puppy was
frightened as well as hurt, and lifted up its voice in anguished yells.
When Michael had rescued it, and put it outside the door and finished
laughing, he came back to find Arithelli weeping helplessly with her face
buried in the pillow.  His alarmed suggestion that he should fetch Emile
helped her to recover more quickly than any amount of sympathy could have
done.

Sometimes there were other visitors.  The grooms and strappers from the
Hippodrome came often to enquire, and Estelle, forbidden by the Manager
to come at all on account of infection, sat on the stairs and showered
effusive speeches in a high-pitched voice through the open door.

Arithelli had sent no word of her illness to her parents in London.  She
knew their views on the subject of complaints.  They would consider the
whole thing due to imagination, there would be unpleasant letters, and it
was perfectly certain that they would send no assistance in the shape of
money.  Emile had wished to write, but she had begged him not to do so,
and for once he had yielded to what he called her "whims."

From the scraps of information she had received from time to time it
appeared that the uncomfortable _ménage_ of her kindred had become even
more disorganised.  Her father had turned for consolation to the whisky
of his country, her mother spent whole days in bed reading, and weaving
futile dreams of a recovered fortune, and Isobel and Valerie grew taller
and hungrier, and fought and wrangled after the manner of Hooligans.
Lazy and shiftless, they envied Arithelli the life she had chosen, but
had neither the pluck nor the brains necessary to emulate her example.

Emile's manner had troubled her of late, for he had been strangely
bad-tempered and variable in his moods.  She had become more or less
accustomed to his eccentricities of behaviour and speech, but this was
something different, indefinable.  One day he would be extraordinarily
kind and considerate, the next almost brutal, either hardly speaking at
all, or else finding fault with everything she said and did.

She often felt a presentiment that he had something important to tell
her, but he would come and go without imparting any news, and, as always,
she did not worry him with questions as many women would have done.

She wondered if he were feeling harassed over "_les affaires
politiques_," or whether he was afraid that the Manager's small stock of
patience would be exhausted before she was able to appear in the ring
again, and that he would cancel her contract.  If that happened she felt
that the end of all things would have indeed arrived.  She could not
struggle against the Fates any longer, obviously she could not return
home, and it was not fair that Emile should continue to keep her.

He came in one evening about eight o'clock to find her up for the first
time since her illness, and sitting on the edge of the bed draped in the
long blue cloak she used for covering her circus attire.

Her hair was parted over her ears, and divided into two long sleek braids
drawn forward and falling over her shoulders, the ends resting on her lap.

She looked up, as he entered, with the haunting sea-green eyes that
showed larger than ever in contrast to her hollowed cheeks.  Something in
her pose, in the arrangement of her hair, reminded Emile vividly of her
first morning in Barcelona, when he had come in early in the morning to
find her dazed with sleep.  He remembered also how she had asked him to
repeat his remarks, and how carelessly nonchalant had been her manner.

"You look like a witch sitting crouched up there, Fatalité," he snapped.
"What's the matter?  You don't seem very cheerful."

"I don't feel very cheerful," the girl responded.  She spoke with grave
deliberation, and without moving a muscle.  Emile grunted and sat down.

"There has been another explosion of bombs on the Rambla," he said.  "A
market woman killed and two work people injured--I believe one has since
died.  Of course a got-up affair of the Government.  They hope by doing
this sort of thing often enough to make the populace take vengeance on
us."

"Then the Anarchists didn't do it?"

"My dear Fatalité, we don't blow up harmless people simply _pour passer
le temps_.  I've told you that before, and being inside the movement
yourself you ought to know.  It is a favourite trick of the officials to
excite public feeling against us.  They have been doing it now for the
last three years, letting off bombs in various parts of the city.  They
take care always to choose the most frequented places and to kill someone
who doesn't matter, and then all the Republican journals have four
columns of indignation with large head-lines, 'LATEST ANARCHIST OUTRAGE.'
They like to get their exploits well talked about.  Everything seems to
be against us now.  Sobrenski will have it that there is treachery inside
our circle as well as outside.  You know whom he suspects?"

"No."

"Vardri."

"That is my fault," Arithelli said quietly.  "Sobrenski has felt like
that since the night Vardri made a scene about my being lowered down from
the window.  He just stood up for me because I'm a woman.  I'm only a
machine to the rest of you."

She spoke without a touch of resentment.  It was purely a statement of
fact.

"Ah, that's just the point.  The feminine side of you is exactly what we
don't want.  One Félise Rivaz is enough, most of us think.  Try and keep
the elfish boy you were when you arrived.  It will be less trouble,
Fatalité, _ma chère_.  With the other thing there are always
complications.  No, I'm not accusing you of falling in love with Vardri.
I only say, be careful.  Even an elf-child can develop suddenly into a
woman once she arrives at a knowledge of the fact that there is a man
ready to make love to her.  Perhaps you do not know it yourself, but you
have changed lately.  You are losing your fearlessness, your
indifference.  I have watched you sometimes when you have not known, and
have seen your eyes soften, your face change.  You started when I spoke
just now."

"How did you learn things about women?  From books?"

"Books?  _Ma foi_, no!  I liked them well enough at one time, when I
hadn't studied _la vie_.  Now they're _fâde_."

Arithelli was silent for a little while.  She knew only too well that
Emile had spoken the truth, had put into blunt words what to herself was
only a vague, half-formed idea.  Her illness had been Vardri's golden
harvest time, for it had given him the chance of being often alone with
her.  He had read to her, waited upon her, served her with the utmost
chivalry and devotion.  He had made of her a Madonna, a goddess, she who
was fair game for all other men in Barcelona.

Emile's voice broke in upon her meditations.

"You shouldn't worry, Fatalité.  It's not becoming.  Have a cigarette to
make yourself a little distraction."

She shook her head.

"No, thank you, Emile.  I never wanted to smoke, and any way it would not
give me a distraction to-night."

"Then what are you worrying about?"

"I've only been wondering what will be the end of me."

"What has made you suddenly become so anxious about your end?"  Emile
looked at her keenly.

The wide eyes raised to his were tragedy incarnate.  The long nervous
fingers were tightly locked together.

"I'm a coward to-night," the soft hoarse voice went on.  "I've never
grumbled before, have I, Emile?  I seem to have suddenly realised how
hopeless everything looks for me in the future.  I've had time enough to
think it all out since I've been lying in bed.  When I first came here I
thought I was going to do all sorts of wonderful things, but now I see
that this life leads to nothing, and I may go on being just a circus
rider for years.  When I get well and finish out this contract I shall
have to try and get another engagement in Paris or Vienna.  The English
Consul and all the other men wait to see me come out, and throw me
flowers and rings, but when they see me driving with you in the Paséo de
Gracia, they look the other way, especially if they are with their wives
and families.  They like 'ARITHELLI OF THE HIPPODROME' in her proper
place,--the ring.  Gas and glare, paint and glitter!  That is my life.
And they always hope that I shall fall off.  I can feel it.  It's the
Roman arena all over again.  For a long time before I had that accident I
didn't know how to get through the rehearsals.  I nearly fell off two or
three times, but there was no one there to see.  The more I practised the
more cold I got, and I used to have horrible shivering fits.  It's so
queer.  I don't believe I'm made like other people.  Estelle gets hot and
scarlet when she practises."

"Poor little child!"

"Why are you so nice to me?  You've never said anything like that before."

"Because if when you first came here I had begun to pity you it would
have made you realise your position sooner than need be.  You were like
one in a dream.  It was not my place to awaken you.  I left that for
Life, '_la vie_' that you were so anxious to experience.  You made
yourself '_Chateaux en Espagne_.'  We all do that at some time or other."

"Nobody really cares what becomes of me except--" she broke off the
sentence and continued steadily.  "My people don't mind whether I am here
or not.  They won't like it if I come back a failure."

In his heart Emile cursed the Fates.  Her awakening had been a complete
one.  At first novelty and excitement had served as merciful
anaesthetics, but they could not last for ever.

He was not in love with her, he still told himself, but he would miss
her.  Women like the Roumanoff were the women to whom men made passionate
love, but Arithelli was unique.  She had become part of his life in
Barcelona.  Their lives had touched and mingled till it was impossible to
believe that he had only known her for a few short months.  A future
without her would be one without interest.  For her he could see no
future.  She would have to go to the devil some way or another
eventually, and there would be plenty of people ready and willing to
provide her with an escort.

He threw away his cigarette, and came across the room to her, and his
hands fell heavily upon her shoulders.

"Look here, Fatalité," he said roughly; "we thought you were dying a
little while ago, and I helped to fight for your life, and all the time,
at the back of my brain I wished you were dead.  Yes, you needn't look so
horrified."  He gave her a fierce shake.  "I hoped to see you in your
coffin.  Can't you understand, Fatalité?  No, of course you can't, and
you think me a brute.  One of these days perhaps you will think
differently.  Probably you imagine I don't care for you, but if I didn't
should I mind whether you were alive or dead?  You've always been saying
that you feel something is going to happen.  It seems you are right.
There have been several unexpected developments during the last few days.
It is most likely that I may be chosen to go back to Russia with
despatches to one of the secret societies there.  Here I cannot be
arrested, there I can.  Of course it means Siberia--eventually.  That's
only what we all expect."

"Then I shall be here alone."

"Yes, and there's no future for a woman in this vile place.  You know the
proverb they have, 'Can any good thing come out of Barcelona?'  Your
looks are against you too."

"There's always the river."

"Then when the time comes choose that--if you still have the courage.
You've been _bonne camarade_ to me, Fatalité.  The men you will meet
later on may not want that."




CHAPTER XV

  "I kiss you and the world begins to fade."
            W. B. YEATS.


Count Vladimir and Emile met and consulted together, the immediate
result of the interview being that Vardri was offered the post of
private secretary to the former.  Emile had gone out leaving them
together, and Vladimir had hardly finished speaking when he found
himself faced by an unexpected situation.

"I accept with pleasure," Vardri said, "but on one condition--that it
means my remaining in Barcelona."

Vladimir hesitated.  "Well, I had not contemplated that.  Naturally one
requires one's secretary to be--"

"I understand, Monsieur.  I hope you will not consider me ungrateful,
but there is a reason."

"It's a woman?"

Vardri bowed gravely.  "Exactly, Monsieur.  It's a woman."

"You are risking a great deal for her.  Poleski has told me something
of your circumstances, and it appears that if you do not get some
appointment very soon, you will starve."

Vardri straightened himself, throwing back his head with a
characteristic gesture.  He looked the older man in the eyes, his own
alight and eloquent under finely drawn brows.

"That's as it may be!  I'll take my chance of work.  In any case I
cannot leave Barcelona.  Of course, I regret greatly that it is
impossible for me to fall in with your arrangements."

Vladimir smiled and shrugged.  He knew the type with which he had to
deal.  Quixotic and generous to the verge of folly, the type that will
sacrifice itself without reserve for an illusion, an ideal; the type
that filled monasteries, and Siberian prisons, and made a jest for half
the world.  Such men were valuable to the Cause, because they gave
ungrudgingly, and never counted cost.  The Russian was a man of
affairs, cautious, cynical and given to analysis, and he was also a
student of human nature.  He was moreover interested in the unknown
woman.

If he had been told that she was Arithelli the circus-rider, who had
sat silently upon the deck of his yacht dressed in gaudy raiment, and
indifferent almost to stupidity, then his smile would have been
contemptuous instead of tolerant.  He was interested too in the unknown
woman's champion.  Something in Vardri's attitude of courteous defiance
appealed to him by the law that will attract strongly one man's mind to
another, diverse in every way.  He could see that Vardri was plainly
consumptive, and that the disease was in its advanced stages.  Even
with the aid of good food and an easier life he could not last more
than a year or two, so one might as well make things a little more
smooth for him during the time.

"I see you have the illusions of youth, my friend," he said carelessly.
"I trust they may remain long unbroken.  Myself I am sorry to have
lived beyond the age when they content one.  Sit down and talk to me."
He motioned Vardri towards a chair.  "Well, since you have refused to
entertain my plan, we must think of something else.  I'm at present
writing a series of articles on '_Militarism in France_,' and should
like to have them translated for publication in an English journal.
You speak the language well, better even than Poleski, for you have a
better accent.  I have been a good deal in London and I notice the
difference.  I suppose you also write it easily?"

"Yes, I had an English tutor."

"Good!  Then you will undertake this work, and you shall fix the price
of payment.  I'm not in the least afraid of your asking more than I
care to give.  You are the type that gets rid of money, not the type
that acquires it.  Also I will give you an introduction which will
enable you to get on the staff of _Le Combat_.  They want another man
there who is a good linguist, as there is a great deal of
correspondence with other countries.  As I have an interest in the
paper, you may consider it settled.  No, don't thank me.  Your thanks
are due to--a woman.  She is unknown to me, but perhaps that is the
reason I--I also owe you something, Monsieur Vardri.  Your example has
made me feel young again."

A week later Vardri went swinging quickly down the Calle San Antonio,
on his way to Emile's rooms.  He was in exuberant spirits, and whistled
as he walked keeping step to the dancing gaiety of '_La petite
Tonquinoise_.'  His headgear, which vied in picturesque disorder with
Emile's historical sombrero, was pushed to the back of his head,
exposing his thick, unruly hair, and over one ear, Spanish fashion, he
had stuck a carnation.

There was more money in his pocket than he had possessed since his days
of luxury in the Austrian chateau, and for him the sun was shining in a
metaphorical as well as a literal sense.  During the last few days he
had been happier than he could have believed possible.  He felt in
better health, for he had been able to go to bed at a reasonable time,
and though he missed the horses and the free life of the Hippodrome,
and found the work of a newspaper office somewhat trying, there were
shorter hours and other advantages.

He had also the joy of knowing that Arithelli was almost well again.
She had not been out yet, but Michael Furness had declared her to be
practically recovered.

One day Vardri hoped to take her along the sea-front towards the old
quarter of the town, where the fishermen and sailors lived, and where
she could sit on the stone parapet and look across the harbour, and let
the sea-air blow strength and vitality into her.

After all he told himself, life was good even if one were a vagabond.
Life with adventure, a little money, and love.

He burst open the door of Emile's sitting-room, and entered headlong.
The sun-blinds were all drawn, making everything appear pitch dark
after the blinding glare of the streets.

"I want some matches, Poleski!  By luck, I've got some cigarettes.  One
never has both matches and cigarettes at the same time."  He had come
to a dead stop and stood staring.

"Fatalité!  Fatalité!  The gods are kind for once!  If only I had known
you were here sooner."

The half-full box of cigarettes descended to the floor, and its
contents went in all directions, and he was kneeling beside her chair
and holding both her hands.  It was Arithelli not "Fatalité" who smiled
back at him.  The little mask-like face changed and grew soft till she
looked more a girl, less an embodied tragedy.  Vardri's wild spirits
were infectious, and, as on the night of the Hippodrome fiasco, Youth
called and Love made answer.

"_Mon ami_, I am so glad you have come."

"Is this the first time you have been out?  Who said you could get up?
The doctor?"

"No, it was Emile."

Vardri nodded towards the communicating door of the bedroom.  "Poleski
is here then?"

"No, and he doesn't know I'm here.  He has gone to Sária and will not
be back till late.  I was horribly irritable this morning, so he thinks
I'm all right now."  A ripple of amusement broke her voice as their
eyes met.

"My sweet, you must ask me to believe some other little _histoire_."

"Oh! but it's true.  You should have heard us!  I knew that it was
funny afterwards, but there was no one to laugh with at the time.  It
was about that dreadful old coat of Emile's.  He threw it on my bed,
and--I can't help being a Jewess, can I?  and I so loathe dust and
dirt, and I said so.  Emile was furious.  'Very well,' he said.  'If
you are strong enough to grumble, you are strong enough to get up.'  So
when he had gone I dressed and came here.  I was so glad to get away
from that room."

"Not as glad as I am to see you here.  And I've heard you laugh,
Fatalité.  You're a little girl today."

"I have moods, dear.  I shall depress you sometimes."

Vardri smiled scornfully, and slid down to the floor, his head resting
against her knee.  "_Je suis bien content_!  What cool hands you have,
and how still you keep.  No other woman in the world was ever so
restful.  You love to be quiet, don't you?  I know you better to-day
than I ever did.  You were always in the wrong atmosphere at the
Hippodrome."

"And I have to go back to it," the girl said under her breath.  "And I
may be hissed again.  You will not be there now, and we shall miss you.
I and Don Juan and Cavaliero, and El Rey, and Don Quixote.  Some of the
grooms are horrible, and the animals get so badly treated."

"It seems to me that everything gets badly treated here," Vardri
muttered.  "Women and horses, it's all the same.  Don't let us talk
about it.  It drives me mad to think, I shan't be able to be near you.
I was some use to you there."

He jumped up and began to move about the room collecting the scattered
cigarettes.

"Shall I play to you, _mon ange_?  I suppose the piano hasn't been
tuned yet."  He struck a few notes, and made a rueful grimace.  "It's
worse than ever."

"I'm afraid it never will be tuned now that I've been ill and caused so
much expense.  Emile always says he will go without cigarettes to
afford it, and I say I will go without powder, but neither of us keep
our heroic resolutions, and the piano gets worse and worse."

Vardri shut down the lid with a bang.

"Well, anyway it doesn't matter," he said, "I don't want to play or do
anything; I just want to be with you."

"Bring up a chair, and sit and smoke, _mon camarade_."  She held out
her hand with a gesture of invitation, and Vardri took it and kissed
it, and went back to his former position at her feet.

"Shall I read to you?" he asked.  "Ah!  I'd forgotten there was
something I wanted to tell you.  I found a poem the other day, a
love-song of De Musset.  Do you know that you lived in this very city
years ago, Fatalité, and he saw you and loved you?  How else could he
have written this?

  "_Avez-vous vu en Barcelone,
  Une Andalouse au sein bruni,
  Pâle comme un beau soir d'Autômne,
  C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne,
  La Marchesa d'Amagui._"

Arithelli listened, her eyes dilating, and a little flame of colour
creeping up under the magnolia skin that made her likeness to the woman
of the poem.  Her awakening senses thrilled to the eager voice, the
riotous challenging words:

  "_J'ai fait bien de chansons pour elle_."

He broke off abruptly and continued: "I hate all the rest of it.  The
woman isn't like you, further on, and the lover laughs at his own
passion, and the whole thing jars.  That first verse haunted me for
days after I'd read it."--The sentence was finished by a convulsive fit
of coughing, which he vainly tried to stifle.

"This is the first time to-day," he gasped, between the paroxysms.
"I'm quite well really.  It's the cigarette.  They often have that
effect.  Don't look so worried, or I shall think you hate me for being
a nuisance."

"If you talk so foolishly I shall go."

She made an attempt to rise, but Vardri caught at her skirts.  "You
won't go!  You don't want to make me worse, do you?  Think how sorry
you'll be if I cough and worry you all the evening!"

"Can't I get you anything?  If only I were not so stupid about illness.
Don't try to talk if it makes you worse."

"I won't--if you'll stay."

To Arithelli caresses did not come easily, but during the last few
weeks she had learnt many things.  She stroked the dark head that
rested against her knee, wondering how it was that she had never before
noticed till to-day how feverishly brilliant Vardri's eyes were, and
how his skin burnt.  She had often heard him coughing before, but he
had always gone away and left her when an attack came on, with some
laughing excuse about the horrible noise he made.  After a while he
shifted his position, and smiled up at her.

"You're getting tired, Fatalité!"

"No.  Tell me, have you anything important to do to-night?"

"No, dear, and if I had I shouldn't do it.  Do you feel well enough to
come out and have dinner with me somewhere?  I'll take you to some
place where it's quiet."

"Why not let us stay here all the evening, and have  supper together?"
Arithelli  suggested.  "We'll take Emile's things.  He loves cooking
_cochonneries_, and there is sure to be a _quelque chose_ somewhere in
the cupboard."

Vardri scrambled to his feet.  "_Bon_!  Sit still, and I'll go and
_acheter les_--things!  We'll leave Emile's _cochonneries_ alone.  I'm
rich now, so we will have luxuries."

"Yes, and I'll hunt for plates and dishes, and wash them properly (not
like the Gentiles do) while you go and _acheter les_--things!"
Arithelli mocked.  "What a dreadful mixture of languages we all use!  I
used to speak German quite well when I was at the convent, but now I
have forgotten nearly all of it.  This place is bad for both one's
French and English, and Emile says that when I try and speak Spanish it
sounds like someone sawing wood."

Vardri went out still coughing, and came back flushed and excitable,
laden with various untidy parcels, from which some of the contents were
protruding.  Long rolls, the materials for a salad, a _pâté_, flowers,
and an enormous cluster of grapes.  They pledged each other in the
yellow wine of the country, and presently Vardri set about the
manufacture of what he inaccurately described as Turkish coffee.  That
the result of his efforts was half cold and evil-tasting mattered not
to either of them.

Arithelli's red hair was crowned with vine leaves that he had stripped
from the grape-cluster and twisted into a Bacchante wreath.  She leant
her elbow on the table, resting her chin upon her hand.  Her eyes
glowed jewel-like, almost the same colour as her garland.  The flame of
love had melted into warmth her statue-like coldness, and given her the
one thing she had lacked--expression.  Yet the mystery, the charm that
surrounded her clung to her even when she appeared most womanly.  To
the boy lover gazing with devouring eyes she seemed that night more
than a woman.  He thought of the tales he had heard as a child from the
peasants on winter nights in his own country.  Tales of the forests and
legends of the Hartz Mountains, of lonely places haunted by nixies and
wood maidens, fairy shapes with streaming hair and vaporous robes,
seeing which a man would become for ever after mad with longing, and
desire no mortal woman.

Arithelli's long limbs appeared nymphlike in her plain blue
high-waisted gown of Emile's choosing, that had no superfluous bow or
trimming, and left free her beauty of outline.  She possessed no
jewellery now wherewith to deck herself, and there was no trace of
artificial red on face and lips.

The candles on the table flickered to and fro in the draught from the
open window and she shivered in the midst of some laughing speech and
glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her.

Vardri, reading her thoughts, said, "You're afraid of something, dear,
what is it?"

"Nothing, at least I thought someone was listening, was coming in.  We
are always talking of spies till one gets absurdly nervous and imagines
all sorts of foolish things.  I have never said so to anyone else, but
there is always the feeling of being watched.  It is so difficult to
know who is for and who against us, and so easy to give evidence
without meaning to be a traitor.  Just before I got ill, Sobrenski sent
me to a little newspaper shop down in the Parelelo quarter.  I was to
ask if they sold '_Le Flambeau_.'  The man looked at me hard and asked
if there was any connection between that journal and the one published
at number 27 Calle de Pescadores.  The sun must have made me feel
stupid, and I answered _Yes_, without thinking.  I had taken it for
granted that the man was one of us, and then I knew suddenly that he
wasn't."

Vardri bent forward across the table.  "Did you tell anyone what you
had said?"

"Not Sobrenski; I told Emile.  He looked me up and down, and said
something that I couldn't hear, and then, 'I thought you could hold
your tongue, Fatalité.  It seems, after all, you are a woman and
can't!' and then he walked out of the room.  Vardri, did you ever feel
as I do when you first began to work for the Cause?  Perhaps one gets
used to it in the end and doesn't care."

"Yes," the boy answered between his teeth, "Yes!  One gets used to it.
Dear, your hands are trembling.  Do you think anyone can hurt you while
I'm here?  You are nervous because you've been ill, that's all.  This
is the first time you've been out and you are overtired.  I'll take you
back soon.  You were all right a few minutes ago.  You thing of moods!"

She tried to smile, "I warned you, _mon ami_."

"I know.  It wasn't any use.  That wreath makes you look like the
statue of Ariadne in Rome."

"I wish you would talk to me about yourself."

"Myself!" Vardri shrugged expressively, "_Ma foi_!"

"Tell me what made you join the Cause."

"Because of a man I believed in.  You have heard of Guerchouni who died
early in the year?  There was a great funeral in Paris.  It was in all
the papers."

Arithelli nodded, "Yes, I heard the men talking about it at one of the
meetings.  I wasn't interested enough to listen then.  Was he--?"

"He was one of our greatest leaders.  His death meant something to me,
because it was really through him that I joined the Red Flag.  He had a
life sentence in Eastern Siberia and he escaped from there and got to
America.  For some time none of us knew exactly where he was, and then
we heard rumours that he was dangerously ill at Geneva.  Then came news
of his death and his funeral in Paris.  His friends had decided to
bring the body there, so that all the comrades might be present, for
there are many anarchists in Paris.  They gave him a guard of honour of
Russian students, men and women surrounding the coffin with linked
hands, and there were hundreds of red roses and red carnations, though
it was in the winter--there had been snow on the ground a few days
before.  There was a crown of thorns from those who had been his
companions in prison, and the canopy of the hearse was a red flag.  If
only I could have been there to do him homage!

"There are all sorts of wild stories about his escape from Siberia.  I
suppose he bewitched the jailers as he bewitched other men.  He was the
first man I ever heard speak about the Cause.  He came to Vienna and
held meetings for the propaganda and collected enormous crowds.  I had
just begun to take life seriously then, to think about things and to
hate injustice.

"My father drank and wasted money and treated his servants brutally.
My mother was dead, and when she was alive she was an invalid, and
could do nothing.  Most of the people I knew seemed to think the serfs
no better than animals.  I remember how sometimes when we were starting
off in the early morning for a boar hunt in the forest, they would come
begging and whining round the horses' heels.

"They seldom got anything except a kick or a curse.  They looked
scarcely human, yet it was ourselves who were the brutes really.

"Well, Guerchouni spoke and I went and listened to him.  A friend with
whom I had gone to the meetings gave me an introduction to him.  I was
mad on the Cause long before the interview was over.  He was a man
that!  If he had looked at me twice, I would have walked through flames
to please him.  Oh, I wasn't the only one!  We all felt like that more
or less with Guerchouni.  I couldn't describe him.  He was not a tall
man, but he carried himself well, and he was dark and pale with
wonderful blazing eyes.  One knew him at once, and talked as if one had
known him for years.

"Of course I accepted all his theories and doctrines except two.  I
don't believe in '_L'Union fibre_.'  (They all do, you know, or nearly
all) and I never was an atheist.

"A Catholic and an Anarchist!  It sounds impossible, doesn't it,
but"--he flushed boyishly--"I believe in _Le bon Dieu_, and the _union
libre_ is hard on women.  Yes, I adored Guerchouni.  He worked day and
night, he feared nothing, he did impossibilities himself and he made us
do impossibilities."

"He was like Sobrenski."

"Yes, he was like Sobrenski in some ways.  He will be a loss to the
Cause."

For a few moments there was silence, and then Arithelli spoke.  "Tell
me one more thing.  Now we are alone, we can speak the truth to each
other, you and I.  Vardri, do you still care for the Cause--in the same
way you did before?"  She whispered the question fearfully, yet knowing
well what the answer must be.

"I don't feel the same about it since I have known you."

"I have not tried to make you a traitor, have I?  Sobrenski always
suspects me of that."

"My sweet, you have done nothing.  I love you, therefore I must feel
differently about the Cause.  Why?  Because I'm afraid of it for you.
Because these men have no consideration for you as a woman, because
they always make you take the greatest risks.  It is always so in this
work.  Look what happens to the women in Russia.  When there is a
political 'Execution' there, nine times out of ten it is a woman who
throws the bomb.  Look at the things they have done lately.  At the
printing office we see all the anarchist journals, and the comrades get
news privately.  The men do little in risking their lives compared to
the women, and some of them are so young.  An article in '_Les temps
Nouveaux_' of last week said that, '_beside the men these young girls
are as artistes beside artisans_.'  The last case was Sophia Pervesky.
She was arrested for being in charge of a secret printing-press.
Before the police seized her she nearly found time to put her lighted
cigarette down on a pile of explosives.  They wounded her in two
places, threw her down, and stamped on her injuries.  Then they took
her to the hospital and kept her there till she had recovered.  She
waited two months for death and then they brought her out one morning
in the dawn and hanged her.

"'You shall see how a Russian woman dies,' she told them as she ran up
the ladder and flung herself into space.

"You women shame us with your courage.  Now every time I hear of a
thing like that, I think of you.  You may have to run some great risk
here for a caprice of Sobrenski's."

"Vardri, Vardri, I wonder what will be the end of it all?"




CHAPTER XVI

The walls of the Hippodrome were no longer adorned with gaudy posters
whereon flared a travestied portrait of "_The beautiful English
equestrienne_."  No longer for Arithelli were showered roses, the
tribute of head-lines in the weekly journals, and the welcome of many
voices.  She had been absent for nearly a month, therefore she might as
well have been dead as far as the Spanish public was concerned.

The Manager had known this and had been careful to provide his patrons
with a new toy, who had come, even as Arithelli herself, from Paris.
This was a female contortionist with a serpent's grace, and a serpent's
flat head, and wicked slit eyes.  She had proved a success, so he could
afford to exult, and Estelle dangled in triumph a new pair of diamond
earrings.  He had lost nothing and the once famous Arithelli, the
"_She-wolf_" who had been mad enough to defy him, was now simply one of
the crowd.  Her name did not appear on the programme.  She was not even
Madame Mignonne now, but merely a unit among the many other women who
were grouped in the grand spectacle, or a rider in a procession with
twenty others.  He had reduced her salary to a third of what it had
been formerly, and every Saturday she was required to assist with the
correspondence and weekly accounts.  If she did not like this
arrangement, he explained, she could fight out the terms of her
contract in the courts.  Doubtless she had a great opinion of her own
capabilities, but as she could see for herself her place had been
easily filled.  The world was large, and there were plenty of
women--_sacré_, too many!

As usual he was disappointed in the effect of his remarks.  Whether her
silence meant indifference or sheer stupidity he was never quite sure.
As Arithelli had no vanity the loss of her position meant little to her.

The loss of a private dressing-room meant a great deal.  It was a
refined torture to her to be herded among the other women, with their
noise and quarrelling and coarse jokes.  She found changes too.  Her
friend the toothless lion had succumbed to old age, several of the
helpers had been changed, and Vardri was no longer near at hand to lift
her on to her horse and wait to help her dismount.  Whenever he could
get away from Vladimir and the newspaper office, he was among the
spectators, and their thoughts and glances met across the wide arena's
space.  Emile did not come regularly now though he took care there was
always someone sent to bring her home.

Since the night of the alarms in the Calle de Pescadores, the
Brotherhood had decided in council that they must change their place of
meeting, at any rate for a time, and that no part of the city itself
could be considered safe for the purposes of a meeting place.

They must keep to the hut up in the mountains.  This had been seldom
used on account of the difficulty in getting there, and the waste of
time involved by the distance.  In all respects it was safer.  If they
were surprised it was not likely they would all be caught, for in the
open there was always a chance of escape.  The distance and lonely
situation were all in their favour.  In a small house in a narrow
street they were like trapped animals.

The custom was to start at midnight on the outskirts of the town,
collecting by degrees, and when they were well on their way the
cavalcade joined together and formed into Indian file.

Some were on horseback and some on the more sure-footed mules.

Not one among the conspirators could ride with the exception of Vardri
and Emile, and the knowledge of the art possessed by the latter was
poor enough.

The steeds of the general company went at whatever pace they chose and
in what direction they saw fit, and occasionally two or three got
wedged together in some narrow place and there was an interlude of
kicking and squealing.

Then "Fatalité" was called to the rescue as being the only one among
them capable of managing horseflesh.

When not required in her office of peacemaker she was sent on in front
as guide to the procession, dressed in her boy's disguise and astride
the most vicious of the mules.  These excursions meant less rest for
her than ever for the party seldom returned till five o'clock in the
morning.

Emile had told her that she must get her sleep up in the hut.

"You have two hours to yourself," he said.  "You can't sleep up there?
Nonsense!  Make up your mind to do it and then you will."

The building in question, which was more like an outhouse than anything
else, she had christened, "The Black Hole of Calcutta."  The upper
part, which was approached by a ladder as a loft would be, was used as
a meeting-room, while the ground floor became a temporary stable for
the horses and mules, of which she was left in charge.  Since the scene
in that upper room in the Calle de Pescadores she had put herself
outside all consideration; and Sobrenski now excluded her from all work
other than the merest drudgery.  Vardri was also kept under
surveillance.  It was felt by all that in some quarter treachery lurked
as yet undiscovered, and every man suspected his comrades.  There were
indications that someone, hitherto a sworn ally of the Cause, had
turned spy and sold certain information to the authorities.

Even Sobrenski's iron nerves were stretched to breaking point.

The rest tried to drown anxiety in _absinthe_, and all grew daily more
morose and uncertain of temper.

The first sensation came in the shape of a rumour that Count Vladimir's
companion, Pauline Souvaroff, had disappeared.

Only three people knew that she had vanished utterly and completely on
the same day that she had received a communication from the leader.
The note had been brought to her by Vladimir himself.  He could guess
at its contents, but Pauline had revealed nothing.

Two hours afterwards when he went on shore she was shut up in her
cabin, and he had not interrupted her, thinking she was asleep.  When
he returned, and found her door unlocked, and her cabin empty, a
suspicion of the truth occurred to him.

Everything was left in perfect order, but there was no letter, no word
of explanation.  He questioned the crew, and heard that she had been
rowed to shore by two of them soon after he left.  She had given the
men orders not to wait, but to return at once to the yacht.  For a week
Vladimir hunted through street and slum.  At the end of that time he
knew that alive or dead he would never see Pauline Souvaroff again.
The missive he had brought her from Sobrenski had probably meant a
journey for her to one of the great centres of the movement--Amsterdam,
Geneva, or perhaps even London.

Alphonse of Spain was now in England, having escaped two attempts upon
his life in Paris, and in his own capital.  His every moment would be
watched and noted by the destroyers of monarchy.  Probably she had been
chosen to obtain information, because women made better spies than men,
and their movements were not so likely to be noticed by the police.
Many a high official whose name was on the list of those condemned to
death by a revolutionary tribunal had been tracked from city to city by
female agents.

Yet, if she had been sent on such an errand, what reason could she have
had for going in secret, alone and without a word of farewell?  He had
supposed it impossible that she could have kept anything from him; of
course there must eventually be separation.  He had warned her of that.
And when it came he had expected scenes, tears and a frantic appeal.

That she should vanish in silence was inconceivable.  Perhaps she had
not cared for him so much after all.  In any case the episode had been
a charming one, and to him no woman could ever have been more than an
episode.  He had shown her some of the many beautiful things and places
of the world, and by her own words he had made her happy.  Now their
play time was over.  He had his work and she hers.  She had come into
his life as a piece of driftwood floats to shore on the edge of a wave,
and gone out of it as noiselessly.

Vladimir did not discuss his private affairs, so that among all the
conspirators Emile alone knew, and it was Emile alone who guessed the
truth.




CHAPTER XVII

  "Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse."


For some days Arithelli had not seen Emile, and she had wondered.
Since the night she had sat with Vardri in his room, he had scarcely
spoken to her except for a few moments on business matters.

She thought he looked haggard and worried, and there was a change that
she could not define in his manner towards her.  She wondered if he
knew about Vardri, if he thought she was deceiving him.

She wanted to tell of this new, wonderful thing that had befallen her,
but he had given her no chance, and she had begun to think that he did
not even take sufficient interest in her to care what she thought or
felt as long as she performed her allotted tasks and did not worry him
with complaints or questions.

The feeling of a barrier between them troubled her vaguely, and she was
glad when she found him one night waiting for her outside the stage
door.

Half an hour later he was smoking a cigarette in her room while she
brushed her hair.

They had been silent for some time, and both started when the door was
assaulted by a sudden thump, and the scarecrow-like visage of the
depressed landlady appeared in the opening.

Having delivered herself of a small cardboard box, and a few grumbling
comments upon the indecent hours and ways of circus performers, she
withdrew, and Arithelli proceeded to cut the string and remove the lid.

"I can't see what it is in this light," she said; "Emile, may I have
the candle a little nearer?  Flowers?  No one sends me flowers now.
But these are--"

Her voice broke and stopped.  Emile, who had been on the alert from the
moment of the landlady's entrance, sprang up and pulled the girl to one
side.  A mysterious parcel at that hour of the night, too late for any
post.  One might have guessed what it meant.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.  The answer was an incoherent one, and
he could see that she was paralysed with terror.

The opening of the box had revealed a sinister-looking bouquet of
artificial black roses tied with blood-red ribbons.

In Barcelona there are many strange and ingenious ways of conveying
death by explosives.  A clock, a painted casket which might contain
bon-bons; a coffee-pot, a _casserole_--any apparently harmless and
common utensil.

A bunch of flowers was one of the most common mediums for a bomb.

The Anarchist colours showed clearly that it must either have been sent
by an enemy who had been formerly one of the band, and who was now
revenging himself by an attempt to see his former associates "hoist
with their own petard," or else it was an affair of the police.  In any
case, supposing the thing to be harmless, it was a warning of danger.

Emile's wits worked swiftly, and he was used to emergencies.  He looked
round, and found a jug of water, and the floral tribute floated
harmlessly therein.  As it did not sink at once he concluded that there
was no concealed bomb.  Then he turned his attention to Arithelli, and
gave her a vigorous shaking, which was probably, under the
circumstances, the best possible restorative.

"You'll die more than once in imagination before your time comes,
Fatalité.  Probably the next parcel you receive will not need as much
investigation."

She tried to smile.  "I'm sorry!  They looked so uncanny, and when I
saw red I thought--Emile, what does it all mean?"

"It means danger, my dear.  It means that you are suspected.  You
yourself best know whether the suspicion is deserved or not.  Of course
it may be only one of the police tricks, but I don't think so.  Anyway
whether it was charged or not it's safe enough now.  Look in the box
and on the floor to see if there's any note or message.  There isn't?
_Eh bien_!  I suppose they thought this would speak with sufficient
eloquence."

He fished the bedraggled bouquet out of the water and hung it like a
trophy across Arithelli's mirror, which was a fetish of its owner and
the one valuable thing she now possessed.  It had been the gift of
Michael Furness, who had bought it from the Jewish herbalist.  It was
of antique silver gilt in oval shape, and rimmed with rough topaz set
in silver, and was alleged by its former owner to have been the
property of Agnès Sorél.  Arithelli had often declared that in it she
could see visions as in a crystal.

Over it Emile carefully arranged the flowers so that the stained red
ribbons hung limply across the polished surface.  Then he sat down
again and lighted another cigarette.

"You ought not to be afraid of this sort of thing, you know," he said.
"Sudden death is part of our business.  In the oath we take we swear to
'Slay or be slain,' if by so doing we can advance the Cause one small
step forward."

She caught at her breast with a sudden gesture of passion.
Death--could they talk and think of nothing else?  And she was a woman
now, not a weapon, and she wanted life.

"You don't seem very enthusiastic," the cold voice continued.  "A few
months ago the dangerous side of the game was rather an attraction to
you than otherwise.  Now you shrink and shiver at everything.  You do
your work, yes, because, you can't help doing that, but is there any
heart in what you do?"

"None!  Every day I live, I loathe it more!"

"Take care!"

"I'm past caring.  When I came out here first I was a child playing at
a new game."

Emile's back was turned to her, and if his answering speech was brutal,
it was because his conscience was awake and crying fiercely.  He would
not be likely to make the mistake of interfering with people's lives a
second time.  He had seen in her an instrument to be handled at will,
and had charged himself with the burden of her destiny, and now he
supposed she was about to reproach him.

"You are hysterical.  That's the worst of women.  They always are--more
or less.  You had better go to bed, and not talk nonsense.  If you were
a child only a few months ago you are not too old to be treated as one
now."

It hurt him more than it hurt her, but she would never know that.  His
pulses hammered furiously as she dropped at his side with a soft rustle
of garments.  Her clasped hands rested on his knee; the strong, slender
hands that had grown rough with work.

"Emile," she whispered, "can't you see that I've altered?  I'm a woman
now.  You said I should be one soon.  I've wanted to tell you all
along, but I always hoped you had guessed."

"Perhaps I did, but I preferred that you should tell me yourself.  And
since when have you become what you call 'a woman'?  No, you needn't
answer.  When I knew that you and Vardri had been together in my rooms,
I was certain I had not warned you without reason."

"You knew before I did myself."

"_Mon enfant_, I'm neither blind nor a fool.  As they say in this
country, 'love and a cough cannot be hidden.'  I was sure about Vardri,
but about you;--no, one couldn't say.  When you came out here you were
a sexless creature with a brain.  It did not seem likely that you would
develop into the ordinary girl with a lover."

It was the only way he could keep a hold upon himself, by keeping up a
pose of cynicism.  The fragrance of her hair, the curved mouth so close
to his own, maddened him.  He who could have been her lover had been
only her guardian, her taskmaster.  And now she was ready to give
herself to a boy, who thought life was a romance, and who would
probably sit at her feet reading poetry while they both starved.

"You have been together often?"

Her head drooped.  "Yes.  I should have told you before."

"What plans have you made?  I suppose it will be the usual mad scheme
of running away.  I ought to betray you, of course, but--"

"We haven't arranged anything yet; there is plenty of time."

"Plenty of time--Mon Dieu!" the man rasped out.  "How like you,
Fatalité!  What a pair!  Vardri always living _au clair de la lune_,
and you half asleep, and full of illusions.  _Les illusions sont les
hirondelles_.  How often have I told you that?"

"They make life possible," Arithelli answered softly.

Again the man stared and marvelled.  Verily, here was another being who
was neither "Becky Sharp" nor "Fatalité."  The exultation, the triumph
of one loved and desired, was hers for the moment.  Who, seeing her
now, could have the heart to warn her of inevitable disillusion, the
doubts and fears, the clinging and the torments that are the heritage
of all womenkind.

He, too, had once dreamed foolish dreams.

He gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him.

"Vardri is your lover?  You shall answer me before I leave this room."

She did not flinch, or blush, or look away.

"I love him."

Joy shone in her widely open eyes.  Love hovered about her mouth, and
the passion that had stirred in him momentarily shrank back ashamed.
He pushed back her hair with a rough caress.

"It's all right, _ma chère_.  You needn't be afraid.  I shall not be
here to advise you soon, and all I have to say now is, never imagine
yourself secure for an instant.  Sobrenski is bound to discover this in
the course of time, and he has seen this sort of thing before, which
will not make him any more merciful.  He has watched human nature long
enough to know that where there is what you would call love, people
want to create, they no longer want to destroy.  If, as you say, you
have made no plans, then make them.  And now you'd better go to bed,
unless you want to look more like a ghost than usual to-morrow."

As he went out into the moonlit street Emile knew that he had taken the
first step on his _Via Crucis_.  He did not call it that, for of
religion in the orthodox sense he possessed nothing, but he knew that
his feet were set upon the path where snow and blood would mingle in
his footprints.  He was going back to Russia, where death would be a
thing to be welcomed and desired.  He had listened to the tales of
escaped prisoners, and he knew that no words could exaggerate this
frozen Hell in which flourished vices unnamable, where men rotted
alive, and women strangled themselves with their own hair, or cut their
throats with a scrap of glass to escape the brutalities of a gaoler or
Cossack guard.

He wondered whether it would be Akatui, or the mines, for him.  It was
no use to try and delude himself that he could escape the police.

He had got out of Russia by the skin of his teeth last time, and, even
if he managed to get his despatches safely delivered, there would be a
raid on the newspaper office, an arrest in the street.  Of course there
was always the hope that he might come in for a chance shot in a
scrimmage, but that was too much luck to expect.

He had nothing to wait for now after what he had heard to-night, and
the sooner he put himself out of the way, the better.  He would
volunteer at once for the St. Petersburg mission.  The usual custom was
to cast lots, unless some enthusiast begged for the privilege of a
speedy doom.  By virtue of his long service he had a right to claim
that privilege.

If he could go to-morrow so much the better.  After what Arithelli had
confessed it would be dangerous for them both if he stayed.  For a
moment the primaeval man in him leapt up, telling him that he had only
to pit himself against Vardri, and the victory would be assuredly his
own.  His rival was only a boy, and Emile knew that if there came the
struggle between male and male, the odds were all in his own favour.
Arithelli had grown into the habit of obedience to him, and if he
wished it he could make it practically impossible for her to see Vardri
without his knowledge and consent.  She would sorrow for her lover at
first, but he was a man, and he could make her forget.

A thousand little devils crowded close, whispering how easy it would be
to get Vardri sent out of the way.  A few words to Sobrenski, and the
whole thing would be done.

His sense of justice reminded him that he least of all people had a
right to grudge her a few hours of happiness.  If he obliterated
himself he was only making her a deserved reparation for some of the
things she had suffered.  Through him she had joined the Anarchist
ranks, and through him she had taken vows that despoiled her of the
hopes and joys of womanhood, and transformed her into an instrument of
vengeance.  She had apparently never realised that she had been in any
way injured, for she had never blamed him, and been invariably grateful
for anything he had done for her physical comfort.

She loved Vardri, or imagined that she did.  Emile told himself
savagely that he was a fool who deserved no pity, for he had had his
own chance and missed it.  He had been with her by night and day, and
her life had been in his own hands all these months, but he had never
made love to her.  He had only bullied her, taught her, made her work,
looked after her clothes and food, and, he knew it now too late, loved
her.

She had never suspected it, and the secret should remain his own.  Love
and love-making were two very different things.  She did not know that
now, but later on she would, when she was ten years older, perhaps, and
then it would not matter to him, for he would be under two or three
feet of snow in a Siberian convict settlement.

He had gone about persuading himself that she was still a child, and
this Austrian boy, this wastrel and dreamer, had awakened her.

It was no use wasting time in sentiment and regrets.  _À la Guerre,
comme à la Guerre_.  The episode was finished.

He would have work enough to divert his mind soon.  There was nothing
left to him now but the Cause.

He would see Sobrenski to-morrow, and hurry on all arrangements for
departure.

After all, as he had once told Arithelli, in any venture it is only the
first step that counts.




CHAPTER XVIII

  "Would I lose you now?  Would I take you then?
    If I lose you now that my heart has need,
  And come what may after death to men,
    What thing worth this will the dead years breed?"
            THE TRIUMPH OF TIME.


Three days later the early morning post brought Arithelli a letter.

She sat up in bed eagerly to receive it, and with the heaviness of
sleep still upon her eyes.  As she read, the lace at her throat
trembled with her quickened breathing, and her heart called back an
answer to the tender, reckless phrases.

Vardri was idealist as well as lover, and graceful turns of expression
came to his pen readily and without effort.  In many pages of
characteristic, hurried, irregular writing he set forth wild and
unpractical schemes for their future.

He urged her to take the dangerous step of leaving Barcelona and
cutting herself free of the bonds of her allegiance to the Cause.

If there was risk in going, he wrote, there was infinitely more risk in
remaining.

If he abandoned his political views it was more than likely that his
father would receive him.  Their quarrel and parting four years ago had
been solely on those grounds, and he was the only son, and there were
large estates to be inherited.

If it were the price of gaining her he was prepared to renounce all his
theories, socialist and revolutionist.

He had been able to save a little money lately, enough for their
journey to Austria.  He was sure of a welcome among the officials and
work-people of his former home.  The wife of the steward had been his
mother's maid, and she and her husband would give him shelter till he
could see his father and make terms.

If things turned out well then his life and Arithelli's would be one
long fairy-tale, which should begin where all other fairy-tales ended.
If his father refused to see him then surely they could both find some
engagement in another circus or Hippodrome.

She had the advantage of the reputation she had gained here, and he
could work in the stables again, and they would be free and together.

Arithelli kissed the letter, before she put it down, and lay back with
her hands over her eyes, trying to think.  She had begun her adventures
by running away from home, and now for the second time her only course
was flight.  Even Emile had told her not to waste time in going.  For
her it seemed there was never to be any peace or rest.

If they could only find some haven away from all the world, she
thought.  A forest or desert, some unknown spot where there was air and
space and natural savage beauty, a tent to dwell in, a horse to ride,
complete freedom, the life of her remote ancestors, simple, dignified.

Once she had craved for change.  Now she feared it.  She knew what
Vardri had ignored, that the moment they both left Barcelona they would
become fugitives.  If they were discovered they would be treated simply
as deserters from the ranks of an army.

Instinctively her thoughts turned to Emile.  It was he who must help
her to decide.  She slid out of bed, and commenced her toilet, while
she recalled to mind the things that must be got through during the
day.  There was a manuscript to be delivered to Sobrenski, an article
of Jean Grave's from _Les Temps Nouveaux_ which she had copied for
reproduction.

She finished dressing her hair, and pushed the window more widely open,
for the sound of music in the distance had caught her ear.

Though it was now autumn, and in England there would have been mist and
gloom and fogs, here the sun shone, and the air was sweet and mild.

The parching, exhausting heat of the summer was gone, and everything
smelt fresh and clean, without any touch of winter cold.

Down below in the Calle Catriona the music swelled louder and higher
till her attic room was filled with the dancing notes.

Along the pavement two men walked slowly with guitar and flageolet.

They walked turning in opposite directions, their heads thrown back,
their feet keeping step, two black-haired, supple vagabonds of gypsy
breed, who had come down to the city from their mountain home on the
heights of Montserrat.

The guitar twanged merrily, the reed-like notes of the flute were true
and clear as the song of a thrush.  The melody turned and climbed and
twisted, rose to a climax, and re-commenced again the same phrase.
Arithelli listened, hypnotised and bewitched, as she always was by
music.

Something wild and primitive in her responded to the shrill, sweet,
insistent call.  She had felt like that before, listening to the
Tziganes on the Rambla, and it was as if the heart were being dragged
out of her body.  She thought of the childish story of the Piper of
Hamelin.  She could understand now what had made the children follow
him with dancing footsteps, through street to street, on, on from dawn
till dusk.

The guitar-player glanced up in passing and mocked her with laughing
eyes.  An orange-coloured scarf left his brown throat exposed, and
there were gold rings in his ears.  She kissed her hand and called down
greetings in Spanish, and stood at the window, watching and listening
and longing to run out into the street and follow as the children
followed through the town of Hamelin.

All the joy of life was in those oft-repeated and alluring phrases, the
fall of water, the hum of bees, the shiver of aspen leaves, the slow
music of a breaking wave.

She strained to hear the last faint echoes till all sound was hidden by
a turn of the road, and the brief enchantment was at an end, leaving
her to the realities of life.

She dressed slowly, singing under her breath as she plaited her hair
before Agnès Sorél's mirror.  Before she left the room she thrust the
loose sheets of Vardri's letter between the folds of her blouse,
leaving the envelope lying among the bed clothes.

Late in the afternoon one of the "comrades" brought her a cipher
message, warning her of a meeting arranged to take place in the "Black
Hole" up in the hills.

Half an hour after she left the Hippodrome she was in boy's clothes and
riding out to the _rendezvous_ to wait till the others appeared.  She
had hoped for the chance of a talk with Emile, but to her surprise he
was not among those who mustered outside the town.  She had never known
him to be absent from a meeting before, but it was not her business to
ask questions.

While the rest of the company occupied themselves with long and
bloodthirsty orations, and hatched fresh schemes for the destruction of
their fellow-creatures, and the regeneration of the whole earth, she
went quietly about her duties as stable boy.

When she had finished she set the lantern at the furthest end of the
stable, and pulling off her hat and black curly wig stretched herself
wearily at full length on a truss of hay in a dark corner among the
tethered horses.  The ways of men she had begun to fear and hate, but
of the beasts she had no fear, for they were always grateful to those
who cared for them, and they also had suffered at the hands of their
masters.

A lethargy had taken possession of her whole body, and her limbs felt
heavily weighted.  She closed her eyes and sank inertly into the bed of
soft and fragrant hay.

Her loose shirt of faded dusky red had fallen open at the throat, and
showed the dead-white skin.  Her feet, in riding boots of brown
leather, were crossed beneath the dark drapery of her cloak.  A leather
strap served as a belt for the slender hips that were more like those
of a boy than a woman.  The horses fidgeted and stamped, and a mule
dragged at its halter with laid-back ears and vicious sidelong glances.
Sometimes a stirrup or a bit clashed against another with a musical
ring and jingle.

Arithelli heard nothing till she awoke to find herself in Vardri's
arms, and being lifted into a sitting position with her back against
the wall.

In answer to her sleepy murmur of surprise, a hand was laid over her
mouth with a whispered--"_Gare à toi petite! ne fais pas de bruit_."

She sat up fully awake, and swept the veil of hair out of her eyes.

"Oh!  it's you, _mon ami_!  Is it time to go?  I must get up and see to
the horses."

But he held her kneeling by her side.

"No, no!  Lie still, dear.  There's time enough.  Yes, Sobrenski is
still talking.  Can't you hear him?  You had my letter safely?"

She laid her hand on her breast.

"It's here."

"Thank you!  How long is it since I've seen you?  It seems like a
century.  Those brutes up there were driving me mad with their
cold-blooded arrangements for wholesale murder.  The latest idea is to
explode a bomb outside one of the big _cafés_ when Alfonso comes here
next week to inspect the troops.  They might as well leave him alone.
What harm has he done them?  As long as they can see people flying into
atoms with the help of a little nitroglycerine they are quite happy.
Vengeance, vengeance!  That is their eternal cry.  Of course in Russia
it's a different thing.  One must either be an autocrat and
slave-driver or a Nihilist out there, but here--they are mad, all of
them!  They have just settled to draw lots to-morrow night.  I wonder
who will have the 'honour' of becoming executioner?  I suppose they
can't do it to-night because Poleski isn't here."

Arithelli shook her head.

"That is not the reason.  They have given Emile other work to do in
Russia.  He is leaving here very soon.  I thought you knew."

"Who told you that Poleski is going away?  It may not be true."

"Emile himself.  Oh! it's true enough.  I don't know when he will go.
He doesn't know himself, but soon."

"Will you trust me to take care of you when Poleski is gone?"

"I'll trust you always."

"Promise me you'll come away with me.  If you care you'll come.  I'll
give up the Cause for your sake.  I've told you so in my letter and now
I say it again."

"So I've made you a traitor.  Sobrenski was right."

"My sweet, how can I live with violence and death and misery since I
have known you?  I want to get away from men and back to Nature to be
healed.  It doesn't follow that because I have grown to hate some of
the revolutionist methods that I am against all their theories.  I
believe they are right in sharing things, in fighting for those who are
trodden down by the rich, but you and I can still believe all that
without becoming inhuman.  Think of Sobrenski.  He's a werewolf, not a
man!  Promise me that you'll come soon.  Let me take you away before
they make you one of their 'angels of vengeance,' as they call these
women of the revolution."

Excitement and the feverish devil of consumption had turned his blood
to fire.  He would take no denial, pay no heed to Arithelli's
entreaties for time to think, and to consult Emile.

For once he forgot to be gentle, and dragged her head back roughly,
whispering passionate words, his face pressed against her own.  For a
moment he saw no longer the goddess on her ivory throne, but a woman of
flesh and blood, warm, living, and fragrant and to be desired after a
man's fashion.

Arithelli closed her eyes and leant back, yielding herself to his
caresses.  The pressure of his hand across her throat hurt her, but in
some strange way it also gave her pleasure.  Love, the schoolmaster,
again stood by her side teaching her the lesson learnt sooner or later
by all women, that pain at the hands of one beloved is a thing close
akin to joy.  She felt incapable of any struggle or resistance, bodily
or mental.  She had given her heart therefore her body was also his to
use as he willed, and feeling her thus abandoned to him all the boy's
chivalry was stirred anew, and the hunger for possession was lost in
the desire to serve and protect.

Possibly if he had been forty instead of twenty-eight, he would perhaps
have demanded a man's rights.  Being, however, according to the world's
standard, a fool and a dreamer, he chose to let the moment pass, to
refuse what the gods offered, to think of Arithelli rather than of
himself.

"I'm hurting you, dear."  His voice shook a little, in spite of his
efforts to control it.

"No.  Nothing hurts now.  And I'm glad you love me."

"I hurt you a minute ago.  I was mad and a beast.  Will you forgive me?
You are not frightened?"

"No.  I was only thinking of the future of tomorrow."

"Let us forget to-morrow," the boy pleaded.  "Can you not forget for
once?"

"We have to-day, and each other.  '_Aujourd'hui le Printemps, Ninon_.'
It's summer for us now, Fatalité!  When one loves there is always
summer."

He drew her out into the starlight as he heard the noise of the men
pushing back their seats and moving about overhead.

Several voices were raised in angry altercation.

He raged inwardly as he thought how in a few minutes he would have to
see her at the orders of them all, sent here and there, at everyone's
call, and forced to work without either thanks or reward.

"Let me go in, dear," Arithelli said.  "They will expect to find things
ready."

But Vardri held her back.

"Let them expect!  Give them the trouble of looking for you.  They keep
you up all night, so they can afford to waste a few minutes extra."

It was both a foolish and useless protest and Arithelli knew that she
would pay afterwards for these snatched moments, but she did not grudge
the price, for to her they seemed worth the payment required.

She was glad of the air too.

She turned a little in Vardri's arms, lifting her face to the soft
night wind.  The coolness and the dark were like the touch of a
soothing hand.

The branches of the tree under which they stood rustled softly, and the
undergrowth stirred with the startled movements of some awakened bird
or small animal.

A bat flew past, almost brushing them with its velvet wings.  From the
marsh lands below the dangerous white mist hovered like a fairy veil.

"I love the night," Arithelli whispered.  "It makes me want to do all
sorts of things.  Do you remember the story of Marguerite of France,
who heard the gypsies singing under her window and leant out and called
to them to take her away.  I feel like that.  Do you understand?"

Vardri drew her closer.  "I know, my heart.  Tell me more."

"There were some gypsies singing under my window this morning,"
Arithelli went on.  "I wished I could have gone out and followed them
'over the hills and far away' like the children in the old rhymes.  The
Irish and Jewish people have always been wanderers.  Perhaps that is
why I am fated never to stay long in one place."

He answered her in the same mood.

"We'll start at once, shall we, Fatalité?  We'll saddle two of the
horses and ride, ride day and night till we come to Montserrat, and
there we shall find your gypsies and their tribe.  When you come to my
country there'll be gypsies too, and they shall play and sing for you,
and you'll know what music is for the first time."

"How foolish we are!"  Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling.  "If
Emile heard me talking like this he would be so angry."

"He talked like this once," Vardri replied.  "Poleski was young too not
so very long ago, and he loved someone."

"Yes, I know."  She found it almost impossible to think of Emile as a
lover in spite of the photograph she had found, and the words in his
own writing upon his songs.  She knew them by heart.  "_Emile à Marie.
Sans toi la mort_."  And on another, "_Etoile de mon âme!  Je vous
adore de tout mon coeur, ton Emile_."

Perhaps it was the memory of this passion of his youth that had made
him kind to her.

While they talked and lingered, Sobrenski was descending the rickety
ladder that served as a staircase.

He had noticed Vardri's exit from the room, as he noticed everything
else.  All the other men had been too excited to care whether one more
or less was there or not.  In the hot argument that raged in the upper
room, the absence of one of the members of the Brotherhood was
apparently forgotten.

Their leader, however, did not lose his head or his powers of
observation even when matters of life or death were in the balance.
Whatever he did was always done deliberately and in cold blood.

All the time he had been apparently presiding over the discussion he
had also been thinking rapidly.

It would be to his ultimate advantage not to interfere with Arithelli
and Vardri just now, but to let them be together, to see as much of
each other as possible.  It was as well that Vardri should become
thoroughly infatuated, as then he would be certain to take some step
that would bring things to a crisis.  They would be sure to try to
escape out of the country and hide themselves somewhere.  They would
not be the first people who had tried that sort of thing before.

In the course of his life he had known others who had flung the Cause
and their vows to the winds from fear or passion and tried to hide
themselves under some disguise.

If they happened to be clever and have plenty of money their escape had
been fairly easy, and they had even been safe for perhaps a year or so.
Then just as they had begun to feel secure and had grown careless, the
vengeance of their own particular circle had overtaken them.  There had
been accounts in the newspapers of a mysterious tragedy to which no
motive could be assigned, and for which no one could be brought to
justice, and that was all.

They were all monotonously alike, these affairs!

Sobrenski had said little to anyone else of his suspicions.

No need to declare anyone a traitor till it was proven.  Such things
had a demoralising effect, and treachery was an infectious disease.

He descended the uneven rungs of the ladder, treading soft-footed as a
cat.

There was no noise of talking, so of course she was asleep.  _Sacré_,
these lazy women!  So she could not keep awake even for a lover!

The place was dark except for the glimmering light at the far end, and
he was obliged to feel his way to avoid the mules, who had an evil
trick of lashing out with their heels at anything in the vicinity.

At the foot of the steps he trod on a riding whip, which he recognised
as one belonging to Vardri.

In the dim circle of light cast by the smoky lamp there was only a
truss of hay disordered as if someone had lain upon it, and the
_manta_, and other things belonging to Arithelli.

There was one thing more, a sheet of paper covered closely with an
untidy scrawl.

The lynx eyes flashed, and Sobrenski bent eagerly forward.

Bad as the light was it had not taken him long to recognise the writing.

He held it close to the lamp, and smiled with satisfaction.

Nothing could be better from his point of view.  In the first sentence
there was all, even more, than he wanted.

He smoothed it out between his pointed fingers, folded it, and bestowed
it carefully in an inside pocket.

It was just the kind of thing he would have expected from a girl of
Arithelli's type,--to go about dropping letters.  She had not method
enough even to put on her clothes decently; they always looked as if
they were falling off, and her hair as if it was coming down.

_Sapristi_!  A fine agent for the Cause! and one fit to be trusted with
important documents.

Poleski must have been quite mad when he suggested introducing her to
the Brotherhood, and he himself deserved even more blame for having as
much as listened to the suggestion.

A girl of that age, picked up from nowhere, and like the rest of her
sex a mass of lies and vanity.

He held the lantern above his head, and peered round.  Surely they had
not been so utterly insane as to have attempted to escape to-night?
All the horses and mules were there safe enough, and obviously they
would not attempt to walk.

He strode towards the door, meeting them on the threshold, and in spite
of himself could not help being impressed by the uncanny likeness
between the two, in form and outline.

They had even the same trick of movement.

The thought of what he had found made him feel almost good-humoured,
although he took good care that no one else should benefit by this
unusual mood.

"You have found yourself a little distraction, _hein_?" he said,
ignoring Arithelli's presence.  "We are not up here for amusement all
the same.  There's nothing done.  I supposed you had come down to see
to the horses."

Vardri strolled across to a rack, and took down an armful of saddles
and stirrups.

"I have," he answered laconically.  "They'll be ready in five minutes."

Sobrenski turned to the girl, and spoke to her in an undertone.  "What
are you wasting time for?  See to your work."  Vardri raised his head
from the adjustment of a girth.

"I'm doing Mademoiselle Arithelli's work.  There is no need for her to
trouble."  His accents possessed both dignity and command.  For an
instant their positions were reversed.  The leader smothered an oath;
but said no more.  He reflected that he could well afford to wait for
his revenge.  The game was absolutely in his own hands if only they had
known it.

He could see that they were both perfectly unconscious of the fact that
they had lost anything.  When they discovered they would most likely
conclude it had happened during the ride up.

When Arithelli had dragged herself up into her bedroom the sky was
lighting with the dawn.  They had mistaken the road and gone a mile or
two out of the way, and one of the men had been thrown off and twisted
his ankle, and made another halt and delay.  She drew the curtains
closely and lay down without undressing.

Before she slept she put her hand into her breast, and felt the rustle
of the thin paper on which Vardri's letter had been written.

It was not until the landlady had nearly battered down her door that
she stirred four hours later, and then she unfastened her blouse and
drew out instead of the original two sheets, only one.

She did not feel particularly alarmed; supposing it had been put with
the envelope that she had left about in the morning.  Her things so
often got lost, and it was Emile who generally found them.




CHAPTER XIX

  "Must a man have hope to fight?
  Can a man not fight in despair?"
            "A Polish Insurgent," JAMES THOMPSON.


How he lived through his last day in Barcelona Emile never quite knew.
A strong will, strong tobacco, and plenty of work were all aids in
helping him to preserve his sanity.

He soon arranged things with Sobrenski, and found no difficulty in
obtaining the post of messenger in the St. Petersburg affair.

He walked to the Hippodrome while the _matinée_ performance was in
progress, and left a message for Arithelli at the stage door.

Then he went back to his rooms in the Calle San Antonio, and began to
make the few necessary preparations for departure.  He was not
encumbered with worldly goods, and his wardrobe was not extensive, so
there remained only to look through and destroy all documents, books,
or letters that could not be carried about or that might involve the
safety of others.

Certain songs and pieces of music he put together in a pile, the rest
he tore across and threw into a corner.  He would have no need of these
amusements now.  Cultivation of the fine arts is not encouraged in the
political prisons.

At five o'clock Arithelli entered the room, her clothes put on
carelessly, the grey pallor of intense weariness upon her face.  She
had been working early and late during the past two days, and the
thought of the missing letter worried her from time to time.  Sometimes
she felt almost certain that she had dropped it in changing from her
circus clothes, and that it had been appropriated out of curiosity by
one of the women who shared the dressing-room.  As it was written in
English, they would probably throw it away at once in disgust, annoyed
at being deprived of the excitement of a romance or scandal.

She knew it would be useless to make enquiries.  If it had been left
there it had been done late at night, and the dressing-rooms were
always cleaned early next morning, and it would have been swept away
with the other rubbish.

She had not said anything about her loss to Vardri.  It would make him
even more anxious than herself, and she must bear the penalty of her
own carelessness.

She hoped that after all it would come to light in some box or drawer
among her clothes.

She came forward noiselessly across the polished, carpetless floor.

"_Bon jour_, Emile!  You wanted me?"

He pointed to a chair.

"Sit down!  Your hat is on crooked--as usual!  Are you so little of a
woman that you never use a mirror?"

A gleam of fun lit up her eyes.

"You covered mine up the other night with that horrible wreath and
streamers.  I can only see myself in little bits now."

"Well, sit down and I'll talk to you presently."

Emile returned to the sorting and destruction of his correspondence,
and Arithelli lay back in her chair with a sigh of content, and closed
her eyes.  When she opened them again he was standing beside her with a
glass of red wine in his hand.

"Drink this," he said, giving it to her.

"It isn't _absinthe_, is it?" she asked.  "I can't see in this light,
and I don't want--"

"It doesn't matter what it is or what you want.  Don't argue, but
finish it.  How fond you women are of talking!"  He waited till she had
obeyed him.

"You see that music?  Well, you can take it back with you.  I shall not
have any more use for music when I leave here.  And listen to me now,
and don't go to sleep for the next five minutes if you can help it."

He kept full control of himself and his feelings.  If anything his
voice was a little more rasping than usual, and his dry words of
counsel and advice were spoken in his ordinary hard, practical manner.
An outsider would have found it difficult to say which was the more
indifferent in appearance of these two who had been so strangely
intimate for half a year, and who were now about to part.

The girl was apathetic from physical fatigue and past emotions.

She thought as she looked round the familiar room how impossible it was
to believe that she would never be there again after to-day, and that
Emile would never again come to her.

The wine cleared her brain and made her blood run more quickly.  She
roused herself to listen to what Emile was saying, and to answer the
questions he was asking her about her own arrangements.  She thought he
seemed relieved when she told him of Vardri's scheme, and she
restrained a strong desire to tell him also about the missing letter.

He gave her an address in the Russian capital to which she could write
during the next month, warning her at the same time to be careful in
what she said, to mention no names, and to avoid all references to
politics, as his correspondence would run the risk of being edited by
the police.  Inside the envelope on which the address was written he
had enclosed forty francs.

"You'll probably find a little money useful one of these days," he
said.  "Keep it till you really want it.  You can't wear more than one
pair of boots at once, and there are other things more important.  I
don't want you to thank me.  You can go and sing something instead, and
do your best as it's for the last time."

Arithelli rose at once and went to the piano, eager to do something
that might give him pleasure.

She could play for herself now.  Emile had succeeded in teaching her a
few easy accompaniments, so that he could listen without distraction.

She hesitated for a minute, turning over his big music book, and then
chose the popular song of the _café-chantants_ and streets, the famous
"_La Colombe_" with its lilting time, and mingled gaiety and sorrow.
One heard it everywhere, sung in Spanish, in the local patois, and in
French, by _artistes_ in the theatres, by factory girls, and sailors,
and market people.  The _gamins_ and beggars whistled and hummed it in
the streets and squares.

Emile walked up and down the room as he listened.  He had made her sing
in the hope of lessening in a small degree the strain he was enduring,
but what had possessed her to choose this song of all others?  The
words told of one who was about to set sail, and lingered bidding adieu
to his Nina, the woman he loved.

  "_Le jour où quittant la terre pour l'océan,
  Je dis, priez Dieu, priez Dieu pour votre enfant.
  Avant que nous mettre en route je crus revoir,
  Nina! qui pleurait sans doute de désespoir._"


One could hear the rocking of the boat at anchor, the rippling of the
out-going tide.

In the second verse the time was changed, the words were hurried and
insistent.

  "_Nina! si je succombe, el qu'un beau soir,
  Une blanche colombe vient te voir,
  Ouvre-lui ta fenêtre car ce sera,
  Mon âme qui peut-être te reviendra._"


Her voice had grown weaker since her illness, and she sang with visible
exertion and faulty breathing, but it was still the golden voice of the
Israelitish woman, and there was the same _tîmbre_ that had attracted
him, and made him speak to her that afternoon in May at the station.

And all that had only happened six months ago!  When she had finished
he said nothing in approval, but he asked her to sing again, and she
understood, and was pleased.

"You may thank the Fates for having given you a voice," he told her.
"It's better than a face.  It lasts longer.  No man having once heard
you would listen to another woman."

It was the first compliment he had ever made her, but Arithelli did not
answer.  Her back was turned towards him as she gathered together the
music.

He could see that her whole body was trembling with repressed sobs.  If
he could only have been sure they were for him, he would have taken her
in his arms.  She was sorry he was going, perhaps, in a way, but not in
the way he wanted.  She had become dependent upon him, and he had
filled a certain place in her life.  If she made a scene it was
entirely his own fault.  Farewells were always a mistake, and he had
been foolish enough to allow her to sing sentimental verses about doves
and people's wandering souls.  She was over-tired and over-wrought, and
a woman's tears were more often due to physical than to mental reasons.
So he argued, trying to convince himself, yet knowing all the time that
Arithelli was not one of the women whose emotions are on the surface.

Once before he had seen her cry, and now as then he stood apart.  It
was for Vardri to dry her tears.

He glanced at the clock.  Of course it was wrong, but he knew by the
shadows that filled the room that it must be time for her to leave if
she was to appear in public again to-night.

He must hurry the interview to a close, for he could not play his part
much longer.

"You ought to be glad to get rid of me, Arithelli.  _Vous avez la
chance_!  What have I given you but work and grumbles, eh?"

The soft, broken voice answered him:

"I shall feel afraid without you."

"You will have Vardri,--your lover."  His tone was brutal as the blow
of a knife.  The natural animal jealousy of a man had risen in him
again.  When he was between stone walls, she would have the warmth of a
lover's arms; every nerve in his own body would know it, and long for
that which he had himself resigned.

He would have long hours to sit and think the thoughts that drive men
to insanity or self-destruction.

"Yes, but one can care in different ways, and you have done so many
things for me."

The man drew in his breath sharply.  The knife was in her hand now, but
she had stabbed unconsciously.  He knew that she spoke quite simply,
thinking only of his care for her physical well-being.

Truly he had done things, things that he would have given several years
of life to undo.

Now he had that for which he craved,--the assurance that she cared,
that she would miss him.  Still he did not delude himself.  He knew
that what she felt towards him was not the love between a woman and her
mate, but the affection of dependence, of habit.  Yet for such as it
was his soul uttered thanksgiving.  Any other woman gifted with a less
sweet nature would have felt for him nothing but hatred, but in
Fatalité's mind neither spite nor malice ever found a place.  The petty
vices of womankind had never been hers.  He knew now that he had been
something to her, and that knowledge would make sunshine for him even
in the shadow of a prison.  It gave him courage also to play out the
tragi-comedy to the end, to make a brave jest, to lie convincingly.

"We needn't make each other eternal adieux, _mon enfant_.  You must not
take all I said about Siberian dungeons _au serieux_.  Russia isn't
quite as dangerous as it's made out to be.  Of course the police keep a
watch more or less on the 'suspects,' but we know all their tricks, and
how to avoid them.  Plenty of us go to St. Petersburg and even to Kara
and come back again.  The Schlusselburg fortress is about the only
place we haven't succeeded in getting out of yet.  It's fairly easy to
manage a false passport.  You can write to me at the address I've given
you."

      *      *      *      *      *      *

It was all over now, and he was alone.  He had taken both her hands for
an instant, and felt the convulsive clinging of the thin fingers.  He
had longed to kiss them, but dared not trust himself.  His words were
only such as might have been used by anyone of the Brotherhood.

"_Au revoir, camarade_!"

"_Au revoir_!"

Her tears were falling still, though she answered him steadily enough.

Then she turned away, pulling down her veil, and he saw her grope
blindly for the fastening of the door.  It shut gently behind her, and
he was alone.  He sat down by the table with its litter of books and
newspapers, and stared dully round the room which her passing had left
more hopeless and ugly than ever.

Life itself would be more _fâde_ and ugly now.  As well for him that
after to-day he would have no time to sit and brood.  It would be all
stern reality soon, enough to cure him of lovesickness.

First the work and risks of a secret printing press in some cellar or
sordid room behind a shop, and later on the inevitable police-raid, a
trial that would be no trial with the condemnation signed before-hand,
and afterwards the _travaux forcés_, the long marches, the agonies of
farewell at the Siberian boundary-post--not for him, for his were said,
but for his companions in misery--the miseries of the sick and dying,
the partial starvation, and the horrors of dirt and vermin.  There were
sure to be some women too among the "politicals," and he would be
obliged to watch their sufferings.

There would be no imaginary grievances in that life at all events.

On the floor, as it had dropped from among the music there lay a
photograph, face downwards.

He picked it up and looked back at the childish, smiling face, the
tiny, rounded figure of Marie Roumanoff.

"_Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse_."

His mouth twisted into a cynical smile.  She had been a true prophetess
when she had written that.

He tore the picture across, and threw it upon the rest of the _débris_.

The Roumanoff would never haunt his dreams again.

Her portrait was easily destroyed.  A flimsy thing of print and paper,
as slight and fragile as herself.

Of Arithelli he possessed no tangible likeness, but he would have her
always with him, for her image was seared deep upon both heart and
brain.

_The Witch_ sailed out of Barcelona harbour with the early morning
tide.  Besides Emile and Vladimir, and a small picked crew, she carried
an assortment of strangely-shaped machines, things that looked like the
inside of a clock, and were full of wheels and cogs, firearms, and
ammunition, some copies of a revolutionist manual on street fighting
tactics, and other inflammatory literature.

Their plan was to enter Russia by way of Finland, leaving all the
things there to be smuggled through by degrees.

When they came to the frontier they would part company.  Emile would
make his way towards the city that holds its trembling autocrat as
closely guarded in his palace as any convict in the mines, while
Vladimir was to go back to Spain overland to report success or failure
in the landing and disposal of their dangerous cargo.

All day the two men sat together, talking, plotting, preparing for all
contingencies.

There were no feminine voices to be heard on board the yacht now, no
singing on deck in the evenings, no hint of the presence of a woman,
either as wife, mistress, or companion.

They neither discussed nor recalled these vanished days, though one had
hours of memory and regret, and the other was consumed with a savage
hunger for that which he had lost.

Both had taken upon themselves vows that put them outside the pale of
human ties and affections.

The Goddess whom they both served had risen, claiming their allegiance,
their service, and with the lives and ways of mortal women they had no
concern.  The Cause had triumphed.




CHAPTER XX

  "Do you not know I am a woman?"
            AS YOU LIKE IT.


Sobrenski was a man who wasted no time in making up his mind.  His
success as a leader had depended upon his swiftness of action and
unscrupulousness, and his latest manoeuvres had turned out an admirable
success, upon which he might safely congratulate himself.

The day following the resolution of the Committee, he had written to
Arithelli, telling her to come to his flat to receive instructions.
She would arrive in due time, and then he would explain things.

He wondered whether she would faint or scream or perhaps refuse, but
probably she would be easier to manage now that Poleski was safely out
of the way.  He had schemed that business well too, and could now spare
all his attention for Vardri and the girl.

As to the amount of work they both did, they would be no great loss,
for he could easily supply their places by other human machines who
would carry out his desires without question.  The majority of the men
who composed the circle were completely dominated by him, and incapable
of opposing his will or argument, and by some he was worshipped as a
hero.  Callous of suffering in others, he was equally indifferent to it
for himself, and if he did not spare his tools he also slaved
incessantly day and night.

The large bare room in which he sat possessed very little furniture and
no signs of comfort.  There were a quantity of books piled on the floor
and mantelpiece, and the centre space was filled by an enormous bureau
heaped with a mass of printed and written papers, for besides his
extensive correspondence he was part-editor of one of the Anarchist
journals, which he enlivened by daring and sarcastic contributions.
The fragment of the letter that Arithelli had dropped, lay open in
front of him.  He read it through again and smiled to himself.

"I'll give up even the Cause for your sake," Vardri had written.
"Seeing how these men have made you suffer has changed my views.  There
must be something wrong about our ideas if they produce this cruelty to
women.  Sobrenski and the others are killing you slowly.  I wanted
struggle and excitement at one time, and whether it meant Life or Death
it was all the same.  There was no one to care.  Now I want Life and
Love and You!"

Another madman like Gaston de Barrés!  How alike all these effusions
were, all in the same strain.  They had found a pile of ravings when
they had searched among the property of the heroine of that affair.
These were the people who did an incredible amount of harm, who were
even more dangerous than the ordinary traitor.

He pushed the letter underneath some others, and Arithelli had knocked
more than once, before he called "_Entrez_!"

He saluted her with a cold scrutiny, telling her to wait till he had
finished.  He invariably made a point of using no title in addressing
her, and never even gave her the customary Anarchist greeting of
_camarade_.  He did not invite her to sit down, and she would have been
surprised if he had done so.  There was another chair at the far end of
the room, and she did not trouble to fetch it.  Her heart was still
further weakened by her illness, and she was breathless after climbing
two long flights of stairs.  She leant up against the wall, breathing
quickly, and thankful for a few moments' respite.

She supposed she was required to play "errand-boy" as usual, and to go
through the well-known routine: A crumpled-up slip of paper, which she
must hide in her hair or dress, a long walk, or a ride in the electric
tram if she happened to have any money, and then perhaps at the end of
it she would find the man for whom she was seeking absent, and then she
would have to wait till he returned.  It was never safe to leave a
message.  Everything had to be given directly into the hands of those
for whom it was intended, and she had spent many weary hours in the
rooms of Sobrenski's followers.

She studied his face as he rapidly stamped his letters, flinging them
on to a pile of others that lay ready.  It crossed her mind how Emile
had once likened a certain group of the conspirators to a pack of court
cards, saying that they were alternately red and black.

Sobrenski's hair and small peaked beard were of a curiously unpleasant
colour, and his thin lips, pointed teeth and long sloping jaw gave him
a wolfish appearance.  His eyes, deep-set and narrow, were too close
together to satisfy a student of Lavater as to his capacity for
truthfulness.  The forehead alone was good, and showed reasoning and
intellect.  He was about fifty, and like all fair men looked less than
his age.  He was better dressed, and altogether more careful of his
appearance than most of the other men, though he spent nothing on
luxuries and never touched the _absinthe_, to which most of them were
addicted.  The sole luxuries in which he indulged were Work and Power.

"Probably you have heard a great deal of talk about spies lately," he
began, addressing Arithelli in French.  "For some time I have suspected
one of our own number of treachery.  However, one cannot condemn
without proofs.  For these I have been waiting and they have now come
into my hands.  I'm perfectly satisfied that the man I have all along
suspected is a traitor, and there is no need to delay action any
longer.  I suppose Poleski has informed you of how we treat those who
are unwise enough to betray us?"

"Yes."

She was on her guard now, and stood upright, all her languor gone.  Why
could he not say what he meant at once?  She wondered why he had taken
the trouble to seek for proofs of anyone's guilt.  Enough for a man of
his type to find an obstruction in his path.  He would need no
authority but his own for removing it.  She hated him all the more for
his parade of justice.  It had not occurred to her that his speech was
a prelude to anything that concerned Vardri.  If anyone was implied she
imagined it was herself.  These men were never happy unless they were
suspecting evil of someone.  The Anarchist leader found in her
incomprehension merely another sign of feminine stupidity.  Her outward
air of indifference was as irritating to him as it had been to the
Hippodrome Manager.  Sobrenski's blood had never stirred for any woman,
however charming, and Arithelli's type of looks was repulsive to him.
He loathed her thinness and pallor, her silence and immobility of
expression.  He vowed inwardly that she should look less indifferent
before he had finished with her.

"You do not appear to have the least idea of the identity of the man to
whom I am referring," he continued.  "Your friend Vardri is not a very
careful person.  He is young, and shall we say, a little foolish.  It
is always risky to say or write anything against the Cause one is
supposed to be serving."

"To say _or write_."  It dawned upon her all at once.  The piece of the
letter she had missed, had been dropped in the stable up in the hills
and found by Sobrenski.  It was all her own fault, sheer rank
carelessness.  Emile had so often warned her against her fatal habit of
leaving everything about.  She never locked up anything, jewellery,
clothes, money or papers.

Perhaps in the hurry of dressing that night, she had only taken with
her the first page, and when she was out her rooms had been searched,
and the rest stolen.  Sobrenski would stop at nothing to get the
evidence he wanted.  If she accused him of having taken it he would
simply deny the charge, and to seem anxious would be further evidence
that the letter contained something that would compromise either Vardri
or herself.  In any case it appeared that the mischief was done.  To
expect either justice or mercy from her enemy was out of the question.
She would try and fight him with his own weapon, feign ignorance, tell
lies if necessary.

"Vardri?  What has he done?"

The note of surprise in her voice was well assumed and she could
control her face, but her hands betrayed her.  Sobrenski had seen the
blue veins stand out and the knuckles whiten unnaturally with the
pressure on the black fan she carried to shield her eyes in the street.

"Done?" he echoed contemptuously.  "Nothing so far.  He has only talked
and written.  It is to provide against his doing anything important
that the Committee have decided upon his removal.  There was a meeting
held last night and the voting was unanimous.  Vardri has been
condemned as a traitor to his vows, and a danger to everyone connected
with our work."

"Condemned without a hearing!" the girl flamed out.  "_Mon Dieu_!  Your
justice!  What has he done?"

"Have you a right to question the judgment of the Committee?"  The
voice was like a scourge falling on bare flesh.  Arithelli drew her
shoulders together involuntarily.

"No!" she answered.

"Yet you do it!  These womanly inconsistencies are a little fatiguing."

Sobrenski caressed his beard with a narrow, bloodless hand, on the
middle finger of which was a curious ring of twisted gold wire.

He waited to see if she would make any further protest, but she set her
lips firmly and refused to speak.  There was nothing more to be said on
her side.  Evidently Sobrenski had found the letter, and when or where
it had been found mattered not at all.  He continued:

"The sentence has been passed and it falls upon you to execute it."

The answer came back swiftly:

"And if I refuse?"

For once in his life Sobrenski was taken aback, and experienced a new
sensation, that of surprise.  He looked at her with almost approval.
If he was cruel he was also courageous, and able to appreciate the
virtue in others.

"You know what your refusal implies?" he questioned, more gently than
he had yet spoken.  "You refused some time ago to carry a message.  You
will perhaps remember that I gave you the choice between doing as you
were told, or--" he gesticulated expressively.  "You were wise then.  I
hope you will be wise now."

Arithelli's thoughts were going at racing speed.  No one could be long
in a room alone with Sobrenski without being impressed by his
overpowering personality.  He affected her in a way that no one else
ever did, in provoking her to futile outbursts of defiance and anger.
She had never lost her head with anyone else, but he always made her
incapable of reasoning, raging one minute, and cowed the next.
Hitherto Emile had always been there to screen and protect her, to
stand between her and her enemy.  She knew now why he had so often
hoped to see her in her coffin.

"I can't murder!  I undertook to work for the Cause, but not that--_Mon
Dieu_! not that!"

"We don't talk about murder," Sobrenski sneered.  "We merely 'remove'
those who have proved themselves untrustworthy.  You undertook to obey
orders, I believe.  You may contradict me if I am incorrect."

He leant forward with the glittering eyes of the fanatic.  "You talk of
murder and forget that to us human life is nothing.  Do you think you
will save Vardri by refusing?  Am I to suppose that he has infected you
also with the taint of disloyalty?  It is your business to loathe a
traitor as we do.  You wear your badge, but do you never read the words
on it?  Poleski used to tell me great things of your enthusiasm, your
devotion.  Now I am putting you to the test.  You like to act a
picturesque part, it seems, to wear boy's clothes, to sing, to be the
only woman among us, to act the heroine.  We do not want acting here.
This is Life, not the stage.  Now you are asked to give a practical
proof of your loyalty!"

The pitiless tongue lashed, and Arithelli shrank against the wall, her
hands over her eyes.  There had been stories current among the younger
members of the Barcelona Anarchists that Sobrenski possessed the power
of hypnotism and did not scruple to use it.  Some of the most daring
and successful outrages of the past years had been carried out under
his direction, and executed by these youths.  He always made a point of
choosing men who were highly strung and impressionable.  He was known
to boast that after three interviews with him he could make anyone,
either man or woman, into a will-less automaton.

He exhorted, jeered, encouraged and derided, finally giving Arithelli
five minutes in which to make her decision.  She did not keep him
waiting, though he could scarcely hear the murmured words of assent.
Her nerve was broken at last.  She would promise anything, do anything
if only he would let her go.  Dazed with fear and misery, she watched
him get up, unlock a drawer of the bureau and come across to her
holding out something.

"I shall arrange for you to be together one night up in the hut.  I
don't know whether you have any idea of shooting, but you can hardly
miss at such close range."

The brutal words steadied her, and drove back the feeling of mental
paralysis.  She realised suddenly all that her promise meant.  Vardri
had given her love, and in return she was to give him Death!  Her own
dawning love had enabled her to see more clearly what his devotion
meant.  With the growth of a woman's soul she had also begun to
experience womanly emotions, fear, anxiety, the need of sympathy and
affection.

She snatched the pistol from Sobrenski's hand, and he stepped back a
pace, throwing up his arm instinctively as she raised, levelled and
fired.

The weapon clicked harmlessly, her hand dropped to her side, and she
stood shivering, and wondering at her own madness.  The whole thing had
been done without thinking, as an animal driven into a corner turns,
snarling and showing its teeth.

Sobrenski recovered himself first and laughed.

"So you thought it was loaded?" he said.  "Do you take me for a fool?
Allow me to congratulate you on your--failure!"

Then changing his tone of sarcasm to command: "You must hide that
pistol carefully.  Put it inside your dress or somewhere safe.  I
suppose you would like to march down the Paséo de Gracia, carrying it
in your hand, and wearing a tragic expression,--and get locked up by
the first agent de police you meet!  You have pluck enough, but you
should avoid these exhibitions of hysteria."

He gripped her by the shoulder, swung her round, and pointed to the
door, "_Allez_!"




CHAPTER XXI

  "My crown is without leaves,
  For she sits in the dust and grieves,
    Now we are come to our kingdom."
            "Anthony and Cleopatra," KIPLING.


Once more the procession of conspirators toiled on its way up the
irregular mountain path.  The horses slipped and stumbled under their
unskilful riders, the mules climbed steadily upwards.  No one spoke.

As usual Arithelli led the way.

Vardri, who had arrived last of all, rode forward to join her, but was
curtly ordered to the rear by Sobrenski.

They should see enough of each other later on,--when it was time.

Before they started on their ride he spoke to Arithelli alone, and gave
her his final instructions, and saw for himself that the pistol she
wore at her belt was properly charged.  He never left anything to
chance, especially in important undertakings such as the present one.

"There will not be a long meeting to-night," he said.  "You will have
an hour free to do your work.  You hear?"

His eyes were fixed on hers, compelling an answer.  None came, though
she bowed her head in token of acquiescence, and though he could hear
no word Sobrenski was satisfied.  He had seen that shrinking attitude,
that mechanical gesture before.  In the plot to assassinate General
Morales there had been a young Spanish student who had given some
trouble.  He had developed a conscience at the last minute, and vowed
that he could not kill an old and defenceless man, that he would rather
die himself.

He had died, and so had Morales, and both by the explosion of the bomb
that had been launched by the hand of the former.

Sobrenski held rightly that those who meddled with politics on either
side must dispense with such useless things as scruples.

The night was still and sultry, with a full moon hanging low in the
sky.  The weather had been unnaturally warm for the time of year, all
day, down in the city.

They were all glad when they had mounted above the sea-level.

There was a little breeze met them, and the tired and patiently
plodding horses raised their heads.

Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle,
and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.

The _manta_ in which she was wrapped stifled her, and the weight of her
own hair under the wig and sombrero made her head ache and throb
violently.

As they rode she rehearsed her plans in her own mind, telling herself
over and over again the things that she must say and do when she was
alone with Vardri.

To-night would see Sobrenski's triumph, his grand coup, and when it was
all over perhaps she would have peace.

How slowly they all seemed to ride, she thought.  She wondered how many
of the other men knew that she was chosen to act the part of murderess.
Some of them had been kind to her in a rough way, especially the older
ones.

But even if they did pity her a little, not one among them but would
expect her to do the thing that they would consider obviously her duty.

No one would raise a voice on her behalf, whatever their private
sentiments.

The majority of them would probably look upon her as a heroine, for she
would have rid them of a spy, a traitor.

She could only hope that she might keep her brain clear, her courage
firm till the supreme moment.

Once in the course of that awful day her nerves had given out in
physical collapse, and her shaking hands had let fall the mirror of
Agnès Sorél.

It lay on the floor in her bedroom, broken in three places.

Her early days in Ireland had given her a belief in the omens of good
and evil, for in the "emerald gem of the Western world" superstition
runs riot.

The faith in it was in her blood, though it needed no broken mirror to
tell her what dread thing awaited her, towards which she must advance,
urged by fate.

She had only written one letter, and that one was to Emile.  Now that
he was gone there was no one else who cared.

Something told her now that his last words had only been an attempt to
comfort her, to ease her mind, and that she would wait in vain for his
return.

Estelle would weep for a little while, and drink a great deal to drown
her tears, and then forget.  They were nearly at the hut now.  She
could see it, a grotesque shadow thrown across the silvered earth.

She slipped off and walked, leading her mule by the bridle.

Behind her were subdued curses, the rattle of slipping hoofs and
falling stones, as the animals climbed the last and steepest piece of
road, which ended in the plateau on which the building stood.

In front of it was a single large tree, but most of the ground close by
bore nothing higher than dwarf shrubs and long grass.

When the cavalcade drew up and dismounted, Vardri was discovered to be
missing.

He had been late in starting, lagged behind the others and dropped out
of sight before they were scarcely clear of the town.  Being the last
of the file his disappearance had not at first been remarked.

Sobrenski refused to allow of time being wasted in a search.

He ordered the rest of the men up into the loft, and Arithelli to her
work of unharnessing.

He himself remained standing in the shadow of the doorway, his eyes
narrowed with anger, his thin lips compressed till they were merely a
line.

Here was a complication that he had not foreseen.  For the first time
in his life his wit and cunning had been at fault.

He must have been mad not to have kept a sharper lookout on Vardri, but
he had reckoned he was secure with Arithelli as decoy.

Could it be possible that she had been mad enough to warn Vardri?  If
so, then why was she here herself?

Either she had more courage or else she was more foolish even than he
could have believed it possible for a female creature to be.  Women
took good care of their own skins in general!

If Vardri meant to try and escape, surely they would have gone together.

Perhaps his, Sobrenski's, detailed descriptions of the fate of others
who had attempted flight had made her decide that it would be safer to
remain and throw herself on the mercy of himself and his companions.

He might have miscalculated the force of her attraction for Vardri, but
he felt perfectly certain that she was reduced to a state of mechanical
imbecility.  She could not escape now at all events, even if she
suddenly changed her mind.

He would give them both five minutes, and then if Vardri did not
appear--!

He began to walk up and down outside, like some prowling animal
awaiting its prey.

At regular intervals his shadow crossed and recrossed the patch of
light from the open door.

Meanwhile Vardri was riding leisurely up the slope, reining back his
horse, and stopping at intervals to put a fair distance between himself
and the others.  He intended to make a chance of seeing Arithelli alone
again, so he meant to wait till the whole crew, and especially
Sobrenski, were safely embarked on their eternal discussions.  Then he
would slip in and help her with the animals, and live in Paradise again
for a little space of time.

He had been to her rooms earlier in the day but she had sent down a
message to beg him to excuse her.  She had a headache, and was lying
down, so he had been obliged to go away unsolaced, and longing for the
evening.

Now that she had given him her promise to go with him to Austria, there
was only to arrange the day and the hour of their departure.  For once
he was alive to the necessity for prompt action.  There was her safety
to be considered now.  When he had been alone it had not mattered how
anything was done or not done, but now everything was different.  The
world itself was another place.  He had already actually written and
posted a tentative letter to his father, such a letter as he could
never have written if only his interests had been concerned, but he
found any sacrifice an easy one now, even the sacrifice of pride.

There was no reason why they should not start to-morrow.  It would be
safer to get out of the place by going round by the Mediterranean and
thence across by way of Italy.

Water-travelling was cheaper, too.  He laughed to himself to think how
practical he was becoming.  How strange it would seem to live in a
civilised fashion again, to not be obliged to look at every sou before
it was spent, to have servants to wait upon one; enough to eat and
drink, and the luxury of cleanliness.

Yet the vagabond life had had its charm, too.  He had encountered
kindness often, generally from those in more evil plight than his own,
and there had been flowers and music and sunshine.  True, he had felt
horribly ill and dejected on some days, and his wretched cough was an
annoyance to himself and to other people, but at times he felt ready
for anything, and more energetic than any three of those lazy Spaniards.

Love and Arithelli would be a sure antidote for any misery or disease.
For her he had created a House of Dreams, and now the dreams were on
the verge of becoming realities.  Instead of the sand and stones of
that desert that men call Life, a rainbow-coloured future lay stretched
out before him.  Sunshine and the summertime of love, all that he had
ever hoped for, were coming nearer.  And joy was hovering near at hand,
till he could almost touch her flying robe.  Soon he would hold her in
his arms, would possess her entirely.

How different Arithelli was from all other women!  With her there was
never caprice or fickleness.  Whatever she said was his law, whatever
she wished to do was the right thing.

Now he had abjured the Revolution, his father would be only too glad to
have him back, to see him married to a woman of Arithelli's charm and
breeding.  There had never been any quarrel with his family, except
when he had joined the Red Flag party, and it was only natural that
they should quarrel over that.  Love or the Revolution?  There would
never be any more doubt now as to which he would choose.

In the old days he had preferred starvation, and the freedom to act,
and think as he liked.  He had gloried in being an outcast, in
suffering for the Cause.  Life had been hard at times, but he had known
men of ideals and enthusiasms and there had been a certain fascination
in the excitement of being hunted.  But now that was all over and a new
day was dawning for them both, for himself and for Arithelli.

He spoke to his horse and stirred it into a quicker pace.

They must be well out of the way and she would think he was never
coming.

Inside the stable Arithelli, tall and straight in her scarlet shirt,
moved to and fro at her work, hanging up saddles and bridles, carrying
pails of water, ranging on either side of the hut the horses and the
mules.  Tortured as she was with anxiety, she did not forget the wants
of her friends the animals.  It came across her mind how once when she
had said to Vardri, "Let us see to the horses first," he had said half
in jest, "If I were a Spaniard I should be jealous.  You always think
of the animals before everything else."

One by one the rest of the conspirators tramped heavily up the ladder,
leaving her alone with Sobrenski, who stood with his back to the
doorway, following her with his eyes as she moved to and fro in the
shadows cast by the solitary lamps.

Before he mounted the ladder in his turn, he came across the hut, took
her by the shoulder and spoke to her.  "Be careful how you do your
work, for if it is not well done others will do it for you."

She could not answer; she shuddered at his touch; her hands went up and
covered her face.

Sobrenski turned and mounted the worn rungs of the narrow ladder with a
lithe, active step.  He was quite sure of her now.  She would not fail
to carry out his will.




CHAPTER XXII

  "Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."


For a few minutes after he had gone, Arithelli stood motionless, still
with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, trying to command her
brain to work clearly.  Her will and her limbs seemed paralysed.  She
could only wait for Vardri's approach.  Once she prayed an inarticulate
wordless prayer, that inspiration might be sent her to find a way out
of this _impasse_ in which there seemed neither light nor opening.

Time was passing, and every moment was bringing her nearer the most
appalling destiny that could ever be meted out to any woman.  If she
did Sobrenski's bidding she would be not only a murderess, but the
murderess of the being she loved most in the world.  Vardri, who was so
different from all the other men; Vardri, who could never bear anything
to be hurt, or even to be made uncomfortable.  She knew that it was
perfectly useless for both of them to attempt to escape.  Someone was
most likely posted at the window of the loft, they would get no
distance on foot without being overtaken, and if she attempted to lead
out any of the horses or mules, the noise would probably attract
attention.

Her hands fell to her side, and her head went up as she listened
intently.  So he was coming, after all.  In that undisturbed space and
clear dry air, sound travelled quickly, and she could hear the
approaching hoof-beats while he was still some way off.  With the
knowledge of his approach the blood flowed again warmly in her veins
and courage and decision came back to her.  Her senses, unnaturally
acute, told her that Vardri had now dismounted and was leading his
horse.  She could distinguish his footsteps, and then the monotonous
regular footfalls of his mount.  She ran out into the patch of
moonlight, casting a hurried backward glance at the side of the hut.
Thank God! the window was on the other side!

Vardri was coming slowly towards her, his horse's bridle over his arm.
Before she covered the distance between them she made a gesture that
enjoined silence and stopped his greeting.  "Don't bring your horse
in," she whispered.  "Tie him up out of the way over there, a good way
off the hut.  I'll explain presently."

In another moment Vardri was beside her in the hut and had her in his
arms.

"What is it, _mon petit_?  There must be something wrong.  Has
Sobrenski--?"

"No, no, he has done nothing.  It's just that I don't want you to be up
here too long to-night.  I want you to do something for me.  Will you,
Vardri?"

"Do you think you'll need to ask me twice to do anything for you, dear?"

He stood with his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes gazing down at
her hungrily.  "Did you think I was never coming?  I stayed behind on
purpose.  I felt that Sobrenski intended to prevent our talking
together."  Arithelli snatched eagerly at his words.  They had given
her the clue she wanted.

"Yes, that's it.  It's dangerous for me if we are seen often together.
I've done something so mad and foolish, Vardri, you must help me to put
it right,--you _can_.  Those letters you have written me saying all
sorts of things against the Cause,--I left a piece of one about
somewhere,--I don't know where,--and Sobrenski found it.  He has just
told me that in about half an hour's time before all the rest of them
leave, he is going to send on one of the men in advance.  He will get
down to the town before us, go to my rooms and yours and collect all
the letters that have passed between us; and use them, as then he will
have what he has always wanted,--the proofs that we are what he would
call traitors.  And when he has these proofs, neither of us will be
safe for an instant.  It will mean death to both of us sooner or later.
But even Sobrenski can't murder us without sufficient evidence.  He
will be obliged to make some formal parade of justice to put it all
before the rest of the society.  If he doesn't get our letters he will
not have sufficient evidence."

"But if we go away together to-night, as we intended?  We've got a
start.  We can take the best horses.  That is the best plan."

Arithelli shook her head.  "Listen to me, dear, and believe in a
woman's wisdom for once.  If we go to-night and together, we are bound
to be recaptured before we are out of Barcelona.  By doing what I
suggest we avoid suspicion, we give ourselves breathing-space, time to
arrange a disguise, to think of all sorts of things that we have
overlooked.  We have everything in our favour to-night, Sobrenski does
not know you are here yet.  If you go soon you will get away without
his having seen you at all.  Here is the key of my room.  Go there
first, and you will find all your own letters in a wooden box in my big
trunk.  That isn't locked.  Open it and burn them all.  Then go on to
your own room, do the same with yours and stay there.  If they raid my
room, they will find nothing suspicious.  You could pretend you were
ill, and that's the only reason you haven't come tonight, and I am here
doing my work as usual.  Nothing could be less suspicious.  Then when
they are off their guard we can escape."

The minutes were flying.  Death thrusting his lean face before the rosy
face of Love.  Sobrenski's phrase sounded in her ears like the tolling
of a bell.  "You have an hour free to do your work."  An hour, only an
hour!  How long had they been there already?  Time and all else alike
seemed blurred.  All her will must be concentrated upon one thing--to
make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible.  Yet she dare not show a
sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and
refuse to go.

"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying.  "But
how can I leave you here alone with these devils?  It makes me cold to
think of it."

"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone.  You _must_ see that,
_mon ami_."  She clung to him, putting up her face towards his.  Every
art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and
to save him.  "Will you not do as I ask you?"

"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly;
"I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."

"I know, _mon ami_.  And this is such a little thing, and so much
depends upon its being done quickly."

What was that?  A step on the ladder?  She could not control a violent
start.  No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.

"But you haven't broken your promise to me.  You swear to come away
with me soon?"

"To-morrow if you will.  Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe.
Only one day more.  It doesn't make any difference."

"It does to me, _mon petit_.  Every moment, every hour without you is
time wasted."

"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"

"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go.  You're right
about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them.
As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are
destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting
off.  I'll go, darling.  I'll get down the hills in no time.  It's the
best horse of the lot, that one outside.  But before I go give me
yourself for a few minutes."

Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut,
and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a
cloak.  She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes
together.  Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the
child, were all crying out for him.  How gentle he had been, how he had
always cared for her.  No one had ever touched her like this before,
spoken to her in this caressing voice.  Emile had been kind in his way,
but he had been always rough.  Her own emotions had always lain buried
deeply, and now they had been called to life she longed for the natural
expression of her love through the medium of physical things, by word
and touch.

"Now for my reward," Vardri said.  "I want to take your hair down."

Arithelli bent her head towards him without speaking and he drew the
pins, and undid the braid with deft fingers, spreading it out till it
covered her as with a veil.

"If only I could paint you!  How beautiful you are to-night, but how
still and cold!  Fatalité, tell me you love me a little, _mon coeur_!"

She put her arms round his neck, laying her cheek against his.  "_Mon
ami_, I love you!"

He held her in his arms as one holds a child, rocking her to and fro.
"_Voilà chérie_!" he whispered.  "After to-morrow I shall have you
always, I shall never let you go again.  My dream is coming true."

Arithelli listened with dry eyes and an aching heart.  She was past
crying, and her brain felt curiously reasonable and alert.  She could
not send him from her at once, yet with every passing second Death drew
stealthily nearer and nearer.  Time swept on relentless and inflexible.

"Perhaps you will be disappointed in me one of these days, find me
depressing and full of moods.  I've always been so lonely, you know,
till I met you.  _Je suis une âme detachée_."

"Never again while I'm alive!  I think of you and with you.  When you
are happy I know it, and when you are miserable I know it too.
Fatalité!  Fatalité! believe that I don't want anything in return.
I'll wait on you, work for you, lie, starve, steal, do anything.  I
only want to know you're there, to have the right to serve you, to feel
you don't hate me.  I couldn't go on living it I lost you.  Since the
first day I saw you at the Hippodrome you've haunted me.  I led Don
Juan down to the entrance to the ring.  You don't remember?  How should
you?  I've never forgotten!  You smiled and thanked me.  You looked so
strange beside Estelle and those other women."

He was kneeling beside her, his lips pressed against the hollow of her
arm, from which the loose red sleeve had slipped back to above the
elbow.  Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being
entranced, unseeing, unhearing.  The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid
face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.

"Fatalité!  Fatalité!"

The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance.  She roused
herself, and tried to smile.  "_Mon ami_, I'm a little tired to-night,
a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters!  I shall feel so
much safer when they're burnt."

"I'll go at once--just one moment.  Arithelli, you do believe that I
love you, and that I want nothing?  See, I'll not even touch your hand
if it doesn't please you."

The soft hand was laid gently on his.  "But if it _does_ please me,
_mon camarade_--"

"_Dieu_!  How sweet you are!  But don't call me '_Camarade_,' _mon
petit_.  Those wolves above call each other that!"

"I won't, if you hate it.  Yes, that's really love to give all and take
nothing."  Arithelli spoke dreamily.  "Emile made me sing to him before
he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert?  He loved it.

  "La mort est une amie,
  Qui rend la liberté."


"C'est bien vrai ca!  I used to sing it without thinking at one time.
How alike all those songs are.  Always Death;--Death and Liberty!"

"Don't talk of those things, dear.  It's going to be Life for both of
us--after to-morrow."

"I was thinking of poor Emile."

"He was always fond of you.  He'll be glad when he hears you're married
and safe."

"Yes, he'll be glad.  Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just
say _au revoir_ to me and go as quickly as you can.  I want to be
quiet.  It's good to be loved.  How gentle you are!  Emile was always
so rough when he touched me."

Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness.  Of all
men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet
and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen.
He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her
forehead.

A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she was
Eastern in her love of perfumes.  The stifling, dirty hut became a
Paradise while she lay thus in his arms.

Once again they kissed and clung together.  Though Arithelli's lips
burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those
of passion.

In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to
the door.

"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arithelli said.

"To-morrow we shall be safe.  We'll be out of this hell altogether in
another day or two, _à la bonne heure_!  You're not afraid, Fatalité?"

"I shan't be--when the letters are safe.  Take care of yourself, _mon
ami, et à bientot_!"

"_Mon Dieu_! what pluck you have!  How I love you for it!  Go back and
rest, dear, till those brutes come down.  Give me your hand again,
Fatalité, _bien aimée! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous_!"

She answered him steadily.  "_À demain_.  _Adieu, mon ami_.  Ride as
quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."




CHAPTER XXIII

  "Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"


He was gone, and Arithelli was back in the hut again, and now the worst
of it all was still to come.  If Vardri was to have a fair start she
must wait out the hour alone, realising every moment of the time what
awaited her at the end of it.

A mad impulse seized her to rush up the steps to the loft, interrupt
the meeting, defy them all and boast how she had schemed her lover's
escape, and laugh at them and their plots, goad them into shooting her
at once and finishing it all quickly.  She felt that she could not
endure any more suspense and strain.  Anything would be better than
this interminable, awful waiting in the semi-darkness and loneliness,
with neither friend nor lover at hand, no single human to take her part
or defend her.  Emile had gone and now Vardri, and she must face
everything alone.  If she waited Vardri would have perhaps half an
hour's grace and while they were dealing with her it would give him
still another few minutes, and every minute counted.

She fought down the temptation, and began to move about, speaking to
the mules and, horses, taking down saddles and bridles.  She must not
be too quiet, or they might suspect something, and come down sooner to
see if she were still there.  She must pretend to be busy, play out the
play to the end.

She unhooked the lantern from its nail and placed it on the ground, and
then stood still again to listen.

The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead.  It stopped suddenly,
and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones.  No doubt
they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his
gospel of destruction.  Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her
ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had
bidden her outrage her sex.

She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her
own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there
whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers
a charm.

Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else?  Had it
been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these
months in Spain?  Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome"
who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her
belief in herself and her career?  She had known an hour of love and
passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her
that people were not meant to be happy long _ici-bas_.  She must pay
now for her hour.  The gods were angry and must have a sacrifice.

After she had been out in Barcelona only a week, Emile had taken her to
one of the gambling-hells of the place, where the lights and mirrors
and gilding hurt her tired eyes, and the croupiers called incessantly
through the strained silence, "_Le jeu est fait_.  _Rien ne vas plus_!"

It was like that with her now, "_Le jeu est fait_."  How that sentence
heat in her brain!  She wondered if she were becoming delirious.  Then
she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her
belt.  Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder.  He
was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom.
Only one of them there!  The girl or Vardri, which was it?

Then the whole place was in darkness, for Arithelli had overturned and
extinguished the solitary lamp.  The excited whinny of a horse mingled
with the sound of two shots fired in rapid succession, a rustling noise
among the hay, a groan, and silence.  Before he set foot on the ladder
Sobrenski shouted to the rest of the conspirators to bring a light.  He
did not wait to look at the prone figure, but made straight for the
door.  His business it was first to see whether his quarry were still
in sight.

All the other men were hustling each other in a hasty descent.  "_Que
diable_!" one of them said.  "What is it now?  A spy?"

The man who had lowered Arithelli from the window of the house in the
Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arithelli lay and
stood beside her.  He could only see dimly the outline of a figure
which might have been either that of a man or woman.  "Bring a light
here," Valdez called impatiently.  "Which of them is it?"  Though he
was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been
as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it
was not the girl.  Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed
the light on what rested motionless at their feet.  Arithelli lay on
her face as she had fallen.  Her hair streamed over her shoulders and
mingled with the dark folds of the cloak.  The hand that still held the
pistol was flung wide.

"It's not Vardri," the other man said.  "Is it--?"  Sobrenski cut
across the question.  "A traitor," he said.  "What does it matter about
the name?  Get back all of you and see to the horses.  There should be
two of them and there's only one here.  We've got to find the other
one."

With a sudden brusque movement Valdez knelt down, turned the limp body
over, and rested the head upon his knee.  "_Pardieu_!" he ejaculated as
he let it fall gently back.  "It's Fatalité!"





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