Kitabı oku: «The Tremendous Event», sayfa 11
CHAPTER VI
HELL ON EARTH
A rascally face was Wilfred Rolleston's, but above all a drunkard's face, in which the noble features of his cousin Edward were debased by the habit of debauch. His eyes, which were small and sunk in their sockets, shone with an extraordinary glitter. A continual grin, which revealed red gums set with enormous, pointed teeth, gave his jaw the look of a gorilla's.
He burst out laughing:
"M. Simon Dubosc? M. Simon Dubosc will pardon me. Before I deal with him, I have a few poor fellows to dispatch to a better world. I shall attend to you in three minutes, M. Simon Dubosc."
And, turning to his henchman:
"First gentleman."
They pushed forward a poor devil quaking with fear.
"How much gold has this one stolen?" he asked.
One of the warders replied:
"Two sovereigns, my lord, fallen outside the barricades."
"Kill him."
A revolver-shot; and the poor wretch fell dead.
Three more executions followed, performed in as summary a fashion; and at each the executioners and their assistants were seized with a fit of hilarity which found expression in cheers and the cutting of many capers.
But when the fourth sufferer's turn came – he had stolen nothing, but was under suspicion of stealing – the executioner's revolver missed fire. Then Rolleston leapt from his throne, uncoiled his great height, towered above his victim's head and buried his knife between his shoulder-blades.
It was a moment of delirious delight. The guard of honour yelped and roared, dancing a frantic jig upon the platform. Rolleston resumed his throne.
After this, an axe cleft the air twice in succession and two heads leapt into the air.
All these monsters gave the impression of the court of some nigger monarch in the heart of Africa. Liberated from all that restrains its impulses and controls its actions, left to itself, with no fear of the police, mankind, represented by this gang of cut-throats, was relapsing into its primitive animal state. Instinct reigned supreme, in all its fierce absurdity. Rolleston, the drink-sodden chieftain of a tribe of savages, was killing for killing's sake, because killing is a pleasure not to be indulged in everyday life and because the sight of blood intoxicated him more effectually than champagne.
"It's the Frenchman's turn"; cried the despot, bursting into laughter. "It's M. Dubosc's turn! And I will deal with him myself!"
He stepped down from his throne again, holding a red knife in his hand, and planted himself before Simon:
"Ah, M. Dubosc," he said, in a husky voice, "you escaped me the first time, in a hotel at Hastings! Yes, it appears I stabbed the wrong man. That was a bit of luck for you! But then, my dear sir, why the deuce, instead of making yourself scarce, do you come running after me.. and after Miss Bakefield?"
At Isabel's name, he suddenly blazed into fury:
"Miss Bakefield! My fiancée! Don't you know that I love her! Miss Bakefield! Why, I've sworn by all the devils in hell that I would bury my knife in the back of my rival, if ever one dared to come forward. And you're the rival, are you, M. Dubosc? But, my poor fool, you shouldn't have let yourself get caught!"
His eyes lit up with a cruel joy. He slowly raised his arm, while gazing into Simon's eyes for the first appearance of mortal anguish. But the moment had not yet come, for he suddenly stayed the movement of his arm and sputtered:
"I have an idea!.. An idea.. not half a bad one!.. No, not half! Look here… M. Dubosc must attend the little ceremony! He will be glad to know that the lot of his dear Isabel is assured. Patience, M. Dubosc!"
He exchanged a few words with his guards, who gave signs of their hearty approval and were at once rewarded with glasses of champagne. Then the preparations began. Three guards marched away, while the other satellites seated the dead bodies in a circle, so as to form a gallery of spectators round a small table which was placed upon the platform.
Simon was one of the gallery. He was again gagged.
All these incidents occurred like the scenes of an incoherent play, stage-managed and performed by madmen. It had no more sense than the fantastic visions of a nightmare; and Simon felt hardly more alarmed at knowing that his life was threatened than he would have felt joy at seeing himself saved. He was living in an unreal world of shifting figures.
The guard of honour fell in and presented arms. Rolleston took off his diadem, as a man might take off his hat in sign of respect, and spread his diamond-studded tunic on the deck, as people might spread flowers beneath the feet of an advancing queen. The three attendants who had been ordered away returned.
Behind them came a woman escorted by two coarse, red-faced viragoes.
Simon shuddered with despair; he had recognized Isabel, but so much changed, so pale! She swayed as she walked, as though her limbs refused to support her and as though her poor distressful eyes could not see plainly. Yet she refused the aid of her companions. A male prisoner followed her, held on a leash like the others. He was an old, white-haired parson.
Rolleston hurried to meet her whom he called his fiancée, offering her his hand and leading her to a chair. He resumed his tunic and took his place beside her. The clergyman remained standing behind the table, under the threat of a revolver.
The ceremony, of which the details must have been arranged beforehand, was short. The parson stammered the customary words. Rolleston declared that he took Isabel Bakefield to be his wife. Isabel, when the question was put, bowed her head in assent, Rolleston slipped a wedding-ring upon her finger; then he unfastened from his uniform the miniature set in pearls and pinned it to the girl's bodice:
"My wedding-present, darling," he said, cynically.
And he kissed her hand. She seemed overcome with dizziness and collapsed for a moment, but recovered herself immediately.
"Till this evening, darling," said Rolleston, "when your loving husband will visit you and claim his rights. Till this evening, darling."
He made a sign to the two viragoes to lead their prisoner away.
A few bottles of champagne were opened, the clergyman received a dagger-thrust as his fee and Rolleston, waving his glass and staggering on his legs, shouted:
"Here's the health of my wife! What do you say to that, M. Dubosc? She'll be a lucky girl, eh? To-night makes her King Rolleston's bride! You may die easy, M. Dubosc."
He drew near, knife in hand, when suddenly there broke out, from the arena, a succession of crackling noises, followed by a great uproar. The fireworks were beginning again, as on the night before.
In a moment the scene was changed. Rolleston appeared to sober down at once. Leaning over the side of the wreck, he issued his commands in a voice of thunder:
"To the barricades! Every man to his post!.. Independent fire! No quarter!"
The deck resounded with the feet of his adherents, who rushed to the ladders. Some, the favoured members of the guard of honour, remained with Rolleston. The remaining captives were tied together and more cords were added to the bonds that bound Simon to the foot of the mast.
However, he was able to turn his head and to see the whole extent of the arena. It was empty. But from one of the four craters which rose in the centre a vast sheaf of water, steam, sand and pebbles spurted and fell back upon the ground. In the midst of these pebbles rolled coins of the same colour, gold coins.
It was an inconceivable spectacle, reminding Simon of the Iceland geyser. The phenomenon was obviously capable of explanation by perfectly natural causes; but some miraculous chance must have heaped together at the exact spot where this volcanic eruption occurred the treasures of several galleons sunk in times gone by. And these treasures, now dropping like rain on the surface of the earth, must have slipped gradually to the bottom of the huge funnel in which the new forces, concentrated and released by the great upheaval, were boiling over now.
Simon had an impression that the air was growing warmer and that the temperature of this column of water must be fairly high, which fact, even more than fear of the pebbles, explained why no one dared venture into the central zone.
Moreover, Rolleston's troops had taken up their position on the line of the barricades, where the firing had been, furious from the first. The mob of marauders, massed at a hundred yards beyond, had at once given way, though here and there a band of lunatics would break loose from the crowd and rush across the slope. They toppled over, ruthlessly shot down; but others came on, bellowing, maddened by those golden coins which fell like a miraculous rain and some of which rolled to their feet.
These men in their turn spun on their heels and dropped. It was a murderous game, an absolute massacre. The more favoured, those who escaped the bullets, were taken prisoners on the line of the barricades and set aside for execution.
And suddenly all grew quiet again. Like a fountain when the water is turned off, the precious sheaf wavered, grew smaller and smaller and disappeared from sight. The troops remaining at the barricades completed the rout of the assailants, while the satellites who made up the guard of honour gathered the gold in rush baskets collected at the fore of the wreck on which Rolleston was performing his antics. The harvest did not take long. The baskets were brought up briskly and the sharing began, a revolting and grotesque spectacle. Eyes burned with greed, hands trembled. The sight, the touch, the sound of the gold drove all these men mad. No famishing beasts of prey, disputing a bleeding quarry, could display greater ferocity and spite. Each man hid his booty in his pockets or in a handkerchief knotted at the corners. Rolleston put his into a canvas bag which he held clasped in his arms:
"Kill the prisoners, the new ones as well as the others!" he shouted, relapsing into drunkenness. "Have them executed! After that, we'll string them all up, so that they can be seen from everywhere and nobody will dare attack us. Kill them comrades! And M. Dubosc to begin with! Who'll attend to M. Dubosc? I haven't the energy myself."
The comrades rushed forward. One of them, more agile than the rest, seized Simon by the throat, jammed his head against the broken mast and, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his temple, fired four times.
"Well done!" cried Rolleston! "Well done!"
"Well done!" cried the others, stamping with rage around the executioner.
The man had covered Simon's head with a strip of cloth already spotted with blood, which he knotted round the mast, so that its ends, brought level with the forehead and turned upwards, looked like a donkey's ear, which provoked an explosion of merriment.
Simon did not feel the least surprise on discovering that he was still alive, that he had not even been wounded by those four shots fired point-blank. This was the way of the incredible nightmare, a succession of illogical acts and disconnected events which he could neither foresee nor understand. In the very article of death, he was saved by circumstances as absurd as those which had led him to death's threshold. An unloaded weapon, an impulse of pity in his executioners: no explanation gave a satisfactory reply.
In any case, he did not make a movement which might attract attention and he remained like a corpse within the bonds which held him fixed in a perpendicular position and behind the veil which hid his face, the face of a living man.
The hideous tribunal resumed its functions and hurried over its verdicts, while washing them down with copious libations. As each victim was condemned, a glass of spirits was served, the tossing off of which was meant to synchronize with a death-struggle. Foul jests, blasphemies, laughter, songs, all mingled in an abominable din which was dominated by Rolleston's piercing voice:
"Now have them hanged. Tell them to string up the corpses! Fire away, comrades! I want to see them dancing at the end of their ropes when I come back from my wife. The queen awaits me! Here's her health, comrades!"
They touched glasses noisily, singing until they had escorted him to the ladder; then they returned and immediately set to work upon the loathsome business which Rolleston had judged necessary to terrorize the distant crowd of marauders. Their jeers and exclamations enabled Simon to follow the sickening incidents of their labours. The dead were hanged, with head or feet downwards alternately, from everything that projected from the ship's deck or its surroundings; and flagstaffs were stuck between their arms, with a blood-soaked rag floating from each.
Simon's turn was approaching. A few dead bodies at most divided him from the executioners, whose hoarse breathing he could hear. This time nothing could save him. Whether he was hanged, or stabbed the moment they saw that he was still alive, the issue was inevitable.
He would have made no attempt to escape, if the thought of Isabel and Rolleston's threats had not exasperated him. He reflected that at that moment Rolleston, the drunkard and maniac, was with the girl who for years had been the object of his desire. What could she do against him? Captive and bound, she was a prey vanquished beforehand.
Simon growled with rage. He contracted his muscles in the impossible hope of bursting his bonds. The period of waiting suddenly became intolerable; and he preferred to draw upon himself the anger of all those brutes and to risk a fight which might at least give him a chance of safety. And would not his safety mean Isabel's release?
Something unexpected, the sensation of a touch that was not brutal but, on the contrary, furtive and cautious, gently persuaded him to silence. A hand behind his back was untying his hands and removing the ropes which held him bound against the mast, while an almost inaudible voice whispered in his ear:
"Not a movement!.. Not a word!."
The cloth around his head was slowly withdrawn. The voice continued:
"Behave as if you were one of the gang… No one is thinking about you… Do as they do… And, above all, no hesitation!"
Simon obeyed without turning round. Two executioners, not far away, were picking up a corpse. Sustained by the thought that nothing must disgust him if he meant to rescue Isabel, he joined them and helped them to carry their burden and hang it from one of the iron davits.
But the effort exhausted him: he was tortured by hunger and thirst. He turned giddy and was seeking for a support when some one gently seized his arm and drew him toward Rolleston's platform.
It was a sailor, with bare feet and dressed in a blue serge pea-jacket and trousers; he carried a rifle across his back and wore a bandage which hid part of his face.
Simon whispered:
"Antonio!"
"Drink!" said the Indian, taking one of the bottles of champagne; "and look here.. here's a tin of biscuits. You'll need all your strength.."
After the shocks of the frightful nightmare in which he had been living for thirty-six hours, Simon was hardly capable of surprise. That Antonio should have succeeded in slipping among the gang of criminals accorded, after all, with the logic of events, since the Indian's object was just to be revenged on Rolleston.
"Did you fire at me with a blank cartridge?" asked Simon, "and saved my life?"
"Yes," replied the Indian. "I got here yesterday, when Rolleston was already beginning to drive back the mob of three or four thousand ruffians crowding round the fountains. As he was recruiting all who possessed fire-arms and as I had a rifle, I was enlisted. Since then, I've been prowling right and left, in the trenches which they've dug, in the wrecks, more or less everywhere. I happened to be near his platform when they brought him the papers found on the airman; and I learnt, as he did, that the airman was no other than yourself. Then I watched my opportunity and offered myself as an executioner when it came to a matter of killing you. But I didn't dare warn you in his presence."
"He's with Miss Bakefield, isn't he?" asked Simon anxiously.
"Yes."
"Were you able to communicate with her?"
"No, but I know where she is."
"Let's hurry," said Simon.
Antonio held him back:
"One word. What has become of Dolores?"
He looked Simon straight in the eyes.
"Dolores left me," Simon replied.
"Why?" asked Antonio, in a harsh voice. "Yes, why? A woman alone, in this country: it's certain death! And you deserted her?"
Simon did not lower his eyes. He replied:
"I did my duty by Dolores.. more than my duty. It was she who left me."
Antonio reflected. Then he said:
"Very good. I understand."
They moved away, unobserved by the rabble of henchmen and executioners. The boat – a Channel packet whose name Simon read on a faded pennant: the Ville de Dunkerque; and he remembered that the Ville de Dunkerque had been sunk at the beginning of the upheaval – the boat had not suffered much damage and her hull was barely heeling over to starboard. The deck was empty between the funnels and the poop. They were passing the hatch of a companion-way when Antonio said:
"That's Rolleston's lair."
"If so, let's go down," said Simon, who was quivering with impatience.
"Not yet; there are five or six accomplices in the gangway, besides the two women guarding Lord Bakefield and his daughter. Come on."
A little farther, they stopped in front of a large tarpaulin, still soaked with water, which covered one of those frames on which the passengers' bags and trunks are stacked. He lifted the tarpaulin and slipped under it, beckoning to Simon to lie down beside him.
"Look," he said.
The frame contained a skylight protected by stout bars, through which they saw down into the long gangway skirting the cabins immediately below the deck. In this gangway a man was seated with two women beside him. When Simon's eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness which showed objects somewhat vaguely, he distinguished the man's features and recognized Lord Bakefield, bound to a chair and guarded by the two viragoes whom Rolleston had placed in charge of Isabel. One of these women held in her heavy hand, which pressed on Lord Bakefield's throat, the two ends of a cord passed round his neck. It was clear that a sudden twist of this hand would be enough to strangle the unfortunate nobleman in the space of a few seconds.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD
"Silence!" whispered Antonio, who divined Simon's feeling of revolt.
"Why?" asked Simon. "They can't hear."
"They can. Most of the panes are missing."
Simon continued, in the same low tone:
"But where's Miss Bakefield?"
"This morning I saw her, from here, on that other chair, bound like her father."
"And now?"
"I don't know. But I suppose Rolleston has taken her into his cabin."
"Where's that?"
"He's occupying three or four, those over there."
"Oh," gasped Simon, "it's horrible! And there's no other way out?"
"None."
"Still, we can't.."
"The least sound would be Miss Bakefield's undoing," Antonio declared.
"But why?"
"I am sure of it… All this is thought out… That threat of death to her father; it's blackmail. Besides.."
One of the women moved to a cabin door, listened and returned, sniggering:
"The chit's defending herself. The chief will have to employ strong measures. You're resolved to go through with it, are you?"
"Of course!" said the other, nodding in the direction of her hand. "Twenty quid extra for each of us: it's worth it! On the word of command, pop! And there you are!"
The old man's face remained impassive. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be asleep. Simon was distracted:
"Did you hear? Isabel and Rolleston: she's struggling with him.."
"Miss Bakefield will hold out. The sentence of death has not been issued," said Antonio.
One of the men keeping watch at the entrance to the gangway now came along on his rounds, walking slowly and listening. Antonio recognized him:
"He's one of the original accomplices. Rolleston had all his Hastings stalwarts with him."
The man shook his head:
"Rolleston is wrong. A leader doesn't concern himself like that with trifles."
"He's in love with the girl."
"A funny way of being in love!.. He has been persecuting her now for four days."
"Why does she refuse him? To begin with she's his wife. She said yes just now."
"She said yes because, ever since this morning, some one has been squeezing dear papa's throat."
"Well, she'll say yes presently so that it shan't be squeezed a little tighter."
The man bent down:
"How's the old chap doing?"
"Impossible to say!" growled the woman, who held the cord. "He told his daughter not to give in, said that he'd rather die. Since then, you'd think he's sleeping. It's two days since he had anything to eat."
"All this sort of thing," retorted the sentry, moving off, "isn't business. Rolleston ought to be on deck. Suppose something happened, suppose we were to be attacked, suppose the enclosure was invaded!"
"In that case, I've got orders to finish the old man off."
"That wouldn't make us come out on top."
A short time elapsed. The two women talked in very low tones. At moments Simon seemed to hear raised voices from the cabin:
"Listen," he said. "That's Rolleston, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the Indian.
"We must do something, we must do something," said Simon.
The door of the cabin was flung open violently. Rolleston appeared. He shouted angrily to the women:
"Are you ready? Count three minutes. In three minutes strangle him," and, turning round, "You understand, Isabel? Three minutes. Make up your mind, my girl."
He slammed the door behind him.
Quick as thought, Simon had seized Antonio's rifle, but, hampered by the bars, he was unable to take aim before the villain had closed the door.
"You will spoil everything!" said Antonio, crawling from under the tarpaulin and wresting the rifle from him.
Simon, in turn, stood up, with distorted features:
"Three minutes! Oh, poor girl, poor girl!"
Antonio tried to restrain him:
"Let's think of something. There must be a porthole in the cabin."
"Too late. She will have killed herself by then. We must act at once."
He reflected for a moment, then suddenly began to run along the deck and, reaching the hatch of the companion-way, jumped to the bottom. The gangway began with a wider landing where the sentry sat playing cards and drinking.
They rose. One of them commanded:
"Halt! No passage here!"
"All hands on deck! Every man to his post," shouted Simon, repeating Rolleston's words. "At the double! And no quarter! The gold! The rain of gold has started again!"
The men leapt to their feet and made off up the companion. Simon darted down the gangway, ran into one of the two women, whom his shouts had attracted, and flung the same words at her:
"The gold! The rain of gold! Where's the chief?"
"In his cabin," she replied. "Tell him!"
And she made off in her turn.
The other woman, who held the cord, hesitated. Simon felled her with a blow on the point of the chin. Then, without troubling about Lord Bakefield, he rushed to the cabin. At that moment, Rolleston opened the door, shouting:
"What's up? The gold?"
Simon laid hold of the door to prevent his closing it and saw Isabel, at the back of the cabin, alive.
"Who are you?" asked the villain, uneasily.
"Simon Dubosc."
There was a pause, a respite before the struggle which Simon believed inevitable. But Rolleston fell back, with haggard eyes:
"M. Dubosc?.. M. Dubosc?.. The one who was killed just now?"
"The same," said a voice in the gangway. "And it was I who killed him, I, Antonio, the friend of Badiarinos whom you murdered."
"Ah!" groaned Rolleston, collapsing. "I'm done for!"
He was paralysed by his drunkenness, by his state of stupor and even more obviously by his natural cowardice. Without offering the least resistance, he allowed himself to be knocked down and disarmed by Antonio, while Simon and Isabel rushed into each other's arms.
"My father?" murmured the girl.
"He's alive. Don't be afraid."
Together they went to release him. The old lord was at the end of his forces. It was all that he could do to kiss his daughter and press Simon's hand. Isabel too was on the verge of swooning; shaken with a nervous tremor, she fell into Simon's arms, faltering:
"Oh, Simon, you were just in time. I should have killed myself!.. Oh, what degradation!.. How shall I ever forget?"
Great as was her distress, she had nevertheless the strength to check Antonio's hand when he raised it to stab Rolleston:
"No, please don't… Simon, you agree, don't you. We haven't the right.."
Antonio protested:
"You're wrong, Miss. A monster like that has to be got rid of."
"Please!."
"As you will. But I shall get him again. We have an account to settle, he and I. M. Dubosc, lend me a hand to tie him up!"
The Indian lost no time. Knowing the ruse which Simon had employed to remove the guards, he expected them to return at any moment, no doubt escorted by their comrades. He therefore shoved Rolleston to the other end of the corridor and bundled him into a dark cupboard.
"Like that," he said, "his accomplices won't find their chief and will look for him outside."
He also bound and locked up the big woman, who was beginning to recover from her torpor. Then, despite the exhausted condition of Lord Bakefield and his daughter, he led them to the companion.
Simon had to carry Isabel. When he reached the deck of the Ville de Dunkerque, he was astounded to hear the rattling sounds and to see the great sheaf of pebbles and water spurting towards the sky. By a lucky coincidence, the phenomenon had occurred just as he announced it and caused an excitement by which he had time to profit. Isabel and Lord Bakefield were laid under the tarpaulin, that part of the wreck being deserted. Then Antonio and Simon went to the companion in quest of news. A band of ruffians came pouring down it, shouting:
"The chief! Where's Rolleston?"
Several of them questioned Antonio, who pretended to be equally at a loss:
"Rolleston? I've been hunting for him everywhere. I expect he's at the barricades."
The ruffians streamed back again, scampering up on deck. At the foot of the platform they held a conference, after which some ran towards the enclosing fence, while others, following Rolleston's example, shouted:
"Every man to his post! No quarter! Shoot, can't you, down there?"
"What's happening?" whispered Simon.
"They're wavering," said Antonio, "and giving way. Look beyond the enclosure. The crowd is attacking at several points."
"But they're firing on it."
"Yes, but in disorder, at random. Rolleston's absence is already making itself felt. He was a leader, he was. You should have seen him organize his two or three hundred recruits in a few hours and place each man where he was best suited! He didn't only rule by terror."
The eruption did not last long and Simon had an impression that the rain of gold was less abundant. But it exercised no less attraction upon those whose work it was to collect it and upon others who, no longer encouraged by their leader's voice, were abandoning the barricades.
"Look," said Antonio. "The attacks are becoming fiercer. The enemy feels that the besieged are losing hold."
The slope was invaded from every side; and small bodies of men pushed forward, more numerous and bolder as the firing became less intense. The machine-gun, whether abandoned or destroyed, was no longer in action. The chief's accomplices, who had stood in front of the platform, finding themselves unable to enforce their authority and restore discipline, leapt into the arena and ran to the trenches. They were the most resolute of the defenders. The assailants hesitated.
So, for two hours, fortunes of the fight swayed to and fro. When night fell, the battle was still undecided.
Simon and Antonio, seeing the wreck deserted, collected the necessary arms and provisions. They intended to prepare for flight at midnight, if circumstances permitted. Antonio went off to reconnoitre, while Simon watched over the repose of his two patients.
Lord Bakefield, although fit to travel, was still badly pulled down and slept, though his sleep was disturbed by nightmares. But Simon's presence restored to Isabel all her energy, all her vitality. Sitting side by side, holding each other's hands, they told the story of those tragic days; and Isabel spoke of all that she had suffered, of Rolleston's cruelty, of his coarse attentions to her, of the constant threat of death which he held over Lord Bakefield if she refused to yield, of the nightly orgies in camp, the bloodshed, the tortures, the cries of the dying and the laughter of Rolleston's companions..
She shuddered at certain recollections, nestling against Simon as though she feared to find herself once more alone. All around them was the flash of fire-arms and the rattle of shots which seemed to be coming nearer. A din at once confused and terrific, made up of a hundred separate combats, death-struggles and victories, hovered above the dark plain, over which, however, a pale light appeared to be spreading.
Antonio returned in an hour's time and declared that flight was impossible:
"Half the trenches," he said, "are in the hands of the assailants, who have even penetrated into the enclosure. And they won't let any one pass, any more than the besieged will."
"Why?"
"They're afraid of gold being taken away. It seems that there's a sort of discipline among them and that they're obeying leaders whose object is to capture from the besieged the enormous booty which they have accumulated. And, as the assailants are ten or even twenty to one, we must expect a wholesale massacre!"
The night was full of tumult. Simon observed that the dense layer of clouds was breaking up in places and that gleams of light were falling from the starry sky. They could see figures darting across the arena. Two men first, then a number of others boarded the Ville de Dunkerque and went down the nearest companion way.
"Rolleston's accomplices returning," murmured Antonio.
"What for? Are they looking for Rolleston?"
