Allan prayed; yet his prayer was wordless, formless and unconscious.
He dared not glance down at the automatic. His eyes must hold the smith’s. And he must speak, must parley, at all hazards must still gain another moment’s respite.
What Allan said in those last terrible, eternal seconds he could never afterward recall.
He only knew he was treating with the enemy, making terms, listening, answering—all with mechanical sub-consciousness.
His real personality, his true ego, was absolutely absorbed in the one vital, all-deciding problem of that stiffening pistol-hand.
Suddenly something seemed to cry in his ear:
“You have it now! Fire!”
His hand leaped back with the crashing discharge, loud-echoing in the cave.
H’yemba did not even yell. But at the second when he seemed to crumple all together, falling as an empty sack falls, some involuntary jerk of his finger sent a bullet zooming into the cave.
It shattered beyond Allan in a little shower of steel and lead fragments, mingled with rock-dust.
Before these had even fallen Allan was upon him.
Neglecting for an instant the bruised and screaming child, who lay there struggling on the terrace-path, Allan seized the still-twitching body of the monstrous traitor.
With passionate strength he dragged it to the parapet.
Below, down the path, he caught a swift glimpse of grouped Folk, wondering, staring, aghast.
To them he gave no heed.
He lifted the body, dripping bright blood.
Silent, indomitable, disheveled, he raised it on high.
Then, with a cry: “See, ye people, how I answer traitors!” he whirled it outward into the void.
Over and over it gyrated through vacant space. Then, with an echoing splash, the river took it, and the swift current, white-foaming, boisterous, wild, rolled it and tumbled it away, away forever, into the unknown.
With harsh cries and a wild spatter of bullets aimed high above them, Allan drove the cowed and beaten partizans of H’yemba jostling, fleeing, howling for mercy, down the terrace-path between the cliff and parapet.
Only then, when he knew victory was secure and his own dominance once more sealed on them, did he run swiftly back to his boy.
Snatching up the child, he retreated into the home cave again; and now for the first time he realized his wan and sunken cheeks were wet with tears.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE COMING OF THE HORDE
NOW that, for an hour or two at least, he felt himself free and master of the situation, Allan devoted himself with energy to the immediate situation in Cliff Villa.
Though still weak and dazed, old Gesafam had now recovered strength and wit enough to soothe and care for the child.
Allan heard from her, in a few disjointed words, all she knew of the kidnapping. H’yemba, she said, had suddenly appeared to her, from the remote end of the cave, and had tried to snatch the child.
She had fought, but one blow of his ax had stunned her. Beyond this, she remembered nothing.
Allan sought and quickly found the aperture made by the smith through the limestone.
“Evidently he’d been planning this coup for a long time,” thought he. “The great catastrophe of the landslide broke the last bonds of order and restraint, and gave him his opportunity. Well, it’s his last villainy! I’ll have this passageway cemented up. That’s all the monument he’ll ever get. It’s more than he deserves!”
He returned to Beatrice. The girl still lay there, moaning a little in her fevered sleep. Allan watched her in anguish.
“Oh, if she should die—if she should die!” thought he, and felt the sweat start on his forehead. “She must not! She can’t! I won’t let her!”
A touch on his arm aroused him from his vigil. Turning, he saw Gesafam.
“The child, O Kromno, hungers. It is crying for food!” Allan thought. He saw at once the impossibility of letting the boy come near its mother. Some other arrangement must be made.
“Ah!” thought he. “I have it!”
He gestured toward the door.
“Go,” he commanded. “Go up the path, to the palisaded place. Take this rope. Bring back, with you a she-goat. Thus shall the child be fed!”
The old woman obeyed. In a quarter-hour she had returned, dragging a wild goat that bleated in terror.
Then, while she watched with amazement, Allan succeeded in milking the creature; though he had to lash securely all four feet and throw it to the cave-floor before it would submit.
He modified the milk with water and bade the old woman administer it by means of a bit of soft cloth. Allan, Junior, protested with yells, but had to make the best of hard necessity; and, after a long and painful process, was surfeited and dozed off. Gesafam put him to bed on the divan by the fire.
“A poor substitute,” thought Allan, “but it will sustain life. He’s healthy; he can stand it—he’s got to. Thank God for that goat! Without it he might easily have starved.”
He tied the animal at the rear of the cave, and had Gesafam fetch a good supply of grass. Thus for the present one problem at least was solved.
Beatrice’s condition remained unchanged. Now and then she called for water, which he gave her plentifully. Once he thought she recognized him, but he could not be certain.
And day wore on; and now the hour of noon was at hand. Allan knew that other duties called him. He must go down among the Folk and save them, too, if possible.
Eating a little at random and making sure as always that his pistols were well loaded, he consigned Beatrice and the child into the old woman’s keeping and left the cave.
On the terrace he stopped a moment, gazing triumphantly at the bloodmarks now thickly coagulated down the rocks.
Then, out over the canon and the forest to northward he peered. His eyes caught the signal-fires he knew must be there now, not ten miles away; and with a nod he smiled.
“They’ve certainly trailed me close, the devils!” sneered he. “Since the minute they first attacked my two men and me, trying to repair the disabled Pauillac in that infernal valley so far to northward, they haven’t given me an hour’s respite! Before night there’ll be war! Well, let them come. The quicker now the better!”
Then he turned, and with a determined step, still clad in his grotesque rags, descended toward the caves of the Folk, such as still were left.
Where all had been resistance and defiant surliness before, now all had become obedience and worship. He understood enough of the barbarian psychology to know that power, strength and dominance—and these alone—commanded respect with the Folk.
And among them all, those who had not seen as well as those that had, the sudden, dramatic, annihilating downfall of H’yemba had again cemented the bonds of solidarity more closely than ever.
The sight of that arch-rebel’s body hurled from the parapet had effectually tamed them, every one. No longer was there any murmur in their caves, no thought save of obedience and worship.
“It’s not what I want,” reflected Allan. “I want intelligent cooperation, not adulation. I want democracy! But, damn it! if they can’t understand, then I must rule a while. And rule I will—and they shall obey or die!”
Quickly he got in touch with the situation. From cave to cave he went, estimating the damage. At the great gap in the terrace he stood and carefully observed the wreckage in the river-bed below.
He visited the hospital-cave, administered medicines, changed dressings and labored for his Folk as though no shadow of rebellion ever had come ‘twixt them and him. The news of Bremilu’s death moved him profoundly. Bremilu had been one of his two most competent and trusted followers, and Allan, too, felt a strong personal affection for the man who had saved his life that first night at the cliffs.