There were others, men and women, but it was long ago and all their names and faces I do not remember.
But there was one man whose face somehow drew my gaze as an alchemist's magnet draws steel. He was a leanly built man of slightly more than medium height, dressed plainly, almost austerely, and he wore a sword almost as long as the Spaniard's.
But it was neither his clothes nor his sword which attracted my attention. It was his face. A refined, high-bred face, it was furrowed deep with lines that gave it a weary, haggard expression. Tiny scars flecked jaw and forehead as if torn by savage claws; I could have sworn the narrow gray eyes had a fleeting, haunted look in their expression at times.
I leaned over to that flirt, Marcita, and asked the name of the man, as it had slipt my mind that we had been introduced.
"De Montour, from Normandy," she answered. "A strange man. I don't think I like him."
"Then he resists your snares, my little enchantress?" I murmured, long friendship making me as immune from her anger as from her wiles. But she chose not to be angry and answered coyly, glancing from under demurely lowered lashes.
I watched de Montour much, feeling somehow a strange fascination. He ate lightly, drank much, seldom spoke, and then only to answer questions.
Presently, toasts making the rounds, I noticed his companions urging him to rise and give a health. At first he refused, then rose, upon their repeated urgings, and stood silent for a moment, goblet raised. He seemed to dominate, to overawe the group of revelers. Then with a mocking, savage laugh, he lifted the goblet above his head.
"To Solomon," he exclaimed, "who bound all devils! And thrice cursed be he for that some escaped!"
A toast and a curse in one! It was drunk silently, and with many sidelong, doubting glances.
That night I retired early, weary of the long sea voyage and my head spinning from the strength of the wine, of which Dom Vincente kept such great stores.
My room was near the top of the castle and looked out toward the forests of the south and the river. The room was furnished in crude, barbaric splendor, as was all the rest of the castle.
Going to the window, I gazed out at the arquebusier pacing the castle grounds just inside the palisade; at the cleared space lying unsightly and barren in the moonlight; at the forest beyond; at the silent river.
From the native quarters close to the river bank came the weird twanging of some rude lute, sounding a barbaric melody.
In the dark shadows of the forest some uncanny night-bird lifted a mocking voice. A thousand minor notes sounded--birds, and beasts, and the devil knows what else! Some great jungle cat began a hair-lifting yowling. I shrugged my shoulders and turned from the windows. Surely devils lurked in those somber depths.
There came a knock at my door and I opened it, to admit de Montour.
He strode to the window and gazed at the moon, which rode resplendent and glorious.
"The moon is almost full, is it not, Monsieur?" he remarked, turning to me. I nodded, and I could have sworn that he shuddered.
"Your pardon, Monsieur. I will not annoy you further." He turned to go, but at the door turned and retraced his steps.
"Monsieur," he almost whispered, with a fierce intensity, "whatever you do, be sure you bar and bolt your door tonight!"
Then he was gone, leaving me to stare after him bewilderedly.
I dozed off to sleep, the distant shouts of the revelers in my ears, and though I was weary, or perhaps because of it, I slept lightly. While I never really awoke until morning, sounds and noises seemed to drift to me through my veil of slumber, and once it seemed that something was prying and shoving against the bolted door.
As is to be supposed, most of the guests were in a beastly humor the following day and remained in their rooms most of the morning or else straggled down late. Besides Dom Vincente there were really only three of the masculine members sober: de Montour; the Spaniard, de Seville (as he called himself); and myself. The Spaniard never touched wine, and though de Montour consumed incredible quantities of it, it never affected him in any way.
The ladies greeted us most graciously.
"S'truth, Signor," remarked that minx Marcita, giving me her hand with a gracious air that was like to make me snicker, "I am glad to see there are gentlemen among us who care more for our company than for the wine cup; for most of them are most surprizingly befuddled this morning."
Then with a most outrageous turning of her wondrous eyes, "Methinks someone was too drunk to be discreet last night--or not drunk enough. For unless my poor senses deceive me much, someone came fumbling at my door late in the night."
"Ha!" I exclaimed in quick anger, "some--!"
"No. Hush." She glanced about as if to see that we were alone, then: "Is it not strange that Signor de Montour, before he retired last night, instructed me to fasten my door firmly?"
"Strange," I murmured, but did not tell her that he had told me the same thing.
"And is it not strange, Pierre, that though Signor de Montour left the banquet hall even before you did, yet he has the appearance of one who has been up all night?"
I shrugged. A woman's fancies are often strange.
"Tonight," she said roguishly, "I will leave my door unbolted and see whom I catch."
"You will do no such thing."
She showed her little teeth in a contemptuous smile and displayed a small, wicked dagger.
"Listen, imp. De Montour gave me the same warning he did you. Whatever he knew, whoever prowled the halls last night, the object was more apt murder than amorous adventure. Keep you your doors bolted. The lady Ysabel shares your room, does she not?"
"Not she. And I send my woman to the slave quarters at night," she murmured, gazing mischievously at me from beneath drooping eyelids.
"One would think you a girl of no character from your talk," I told her, with the frankness of youth and of long friendship. "Walk with care, young lady, else I tell your brother to spank you."
And I walked away to pay my respects to Ysabel. The Portuguese girl was the very opposite of Marcita, being a shy, modest young thing, not so beautiful as the Italian, but exquisitely pretty in an appealing, almost childish air. I once had thoughts--Hi ho! To be young and foolish!
Your pardon, Messieurs. An old man's mind wanders. It was of de Montour that I meant to tell you--de Montour and Dom Vincente's mink-faced cousin.
A band of armed natives were thronged about the gates, kept at a distance by the Portuguese soldiers.
Among them were some score of young men and women all naked, chained neck to neck. Slaves they were, captured by some warlike tribe and brought for sale. Dom Vincente looked them over personally.
Followed a long haggling and bartering, of which I quickly wearied and turned away, wondering that a man of Dom Vincente's rank could so demean himself as to stoop to trade.
But I strolled back when one of the natives of the village near by came up and interrupted the sale with a long harangue to Dom Vincente.
While they talked de Montour came up, and presently Dom Vincente turned to us and said, "One of the woodcutters of the village was torn to pieces by a leopard or some such beast last night. A strong young man and unmarried."
"A leopard? Did they see it?" suddenly asked de Montour, and when Dom Vincente said no, that it came and went in the night, de Montour lifted a trembling hand and drew it across his forehead, as if to brush away cold sweat.
"Look you, Pierre," quoth Dom Vincente, "I have here a slave who, wonder of wonders, desires to be your man. Though the devil only knows why."