CHAPTER XIII
THE COMPACT
"Now, what have you to say? We are safe from meddlers here."
Bower spoke curtly. Stampa and he were halfway across the narrow stripof undulating meadow land which shut off the hotel from the village.They had followed the footpath, a busy thoroughfare bombarded withgolf balls on fine mornings, but likely to be unfrequented till thesnow melted. Receiving no answer, Bower glanced sharply at hiscompanion; but the old guide might be unaware of his presence, sosteadily did he trudge onward, with downcast, introspective eyes.Resolved to make an end of a silence that was irksome, Bower halted.
Then, for the first time, Stampa opened his lips. "Not here," he said.
"Why not? We are alone."
"You must come with me, Herr Baron."
"That is not my title."
"It used to be. It will serve as well as any other."
"I refuse to stir a yard farther."
"Then," said Stampa, "I will kill you where you stand!"
Neither in voice nor feature did he exhibit any emotion. He merelyput forward an all-sufficing reason, and left it at that.
Bower was no coward. Though the curiously repressed manner of thethreat sent a wave of blood from his face to his heart, he strodesuddenly nearer. Ready and eager to grapple with his adversary beforea weapon could be drawn, he peered into the peasant's care lined face.
"So that is your plan, is it?" he said thickly. "You would entice meto some lonely place, where you can shoot or stab me at your own goodpleasure. Fool! I can overpower you instantly, and have you sent to ajail or a lunatic asylum for the rest of your life."
"I carry no knife, nor can I use a pistol, Herr Baron," was theunruffled answer. "I do not need them. My hands are enough. You are aman, a big, strong man, with all a man's worst passions. Have younever felt that you could tear your enemy with your nails, choke himtill the bones of his neck crackled, and his tongue lolled out like apanting dog's? That is how I too may feel if you deny my request. AndI will kill you, Marcus Bauer! As sure as God is in Heaven, I willkill you!"
Fear now lent its blind fury to the instinct of self preservation.Bower leaped at Stampa, determined to master him at the firstonslaught. But he was heavy and slow, inert after long years ofphysical indolence. The older man, awkward only because of hiscrippled leg, swung himself clear of Bower's grip, and sprang outof reach.
"If there be any who look, 'tis you who risk imprisonment," he saidcalmly, with a touch of humor that assuredly he did not intend.
Bower knew then how greatly he had erred. It was a mistake ever tohave agreed to meet Stampa alone--a much greater one not to havewaited to be attacked. As Stampa said truly, if anyone in the villagehad seen his mad action, there would be testimony that he was theaggressor. He frowned at Stampa in a bull-like rage, glowering at himin a frenzy of impotence. This dour old man opposed a grim barrier tohis hopes. It was intolerable that he, Mark Bower the millionaire, aman who held within his grasp all that the material world has to give,should be standing there at the mercy of a Swiss peasant. Throughoutthe dreary vigil of the night he had pondered this thing, and couldfind no loophole of escape. The record of that accursed summer sixteenyears ago was long since obliterated in the history of Marcus Bauer,the emotional youth who made love to a village belle in Zermatt, andposed as an Austrian baron among the English and Italians who at thattime formed the select band of climbers in the Valais. But theshort-lived romance was dead and buried, and its memory brought thetaste of Dead Sea ashes to the mouth.
Marcus Bauer had become a naturalized Englishman. The mock barony wasreplaced by a wealth that might buy real titles. But the crime stilllived, and woe to Mark Bower, the financial magnate, if it was broughthome to him! He had not risen above his fellows without makingenemies. He well knew the weakness and the strength of the Britishsocial system, with its strange complacency, its "allowances," itshysterical prudery, its queer amalgam of Puritanism and light heartedforbearance. He might gamble with loaded dice in the City, and peoplewould applaud him as cleverer and shrewder than his opponents. Hisname might be coupled with that of a pretty actress, and people wouldonly smile knowingly. But let a hint of his betrayal of Etta Stampaand its attendant circumstances reach the ears of those who hated him,and he would sink forthwith into the slough of rich parvenus who ekeout their lives in vain efforts to enter the closely guarded circlefrom which he had been expelled.
If that was the only danger, he might meet and vanquish it. Theunscrupulous use of money, backed up by the law of libel, can do agreat deal to still the public conscience. There was another, moresubtle and heart searching.
He was genuinely in love with Helen Wynton. He had reached an age whenposition and power were more gratifying than mere gilded Bohemianism.He could enter Parliament either by way of Palace Yard or throughthe portals of the Upper House. He owned estates in Scotland and thehome counties, and his Park Lane mansion figured already in theaddress books of half the peerage. It pleased him to think that inplacing a charming and gracious woman like Helen at the head of hishousehold, she would look to him as the lodestar of her existence,and not tolerate him with the well-bred hauteur of one of the manyaristocratic young women who were ready enough to marry him, but who,in their heart of hearts, despised him. He had deliberately avoidedthat sort of matrimonial blunder. It promised more than it fulfilled.He refused to wed a woman who deemed her social rank dearly barteredfor his money.
Yet, before ever the question arose, he knew quite well that thisgirl whom he had chosen--the poorly paid secretary of some harmlessenthusiast, the strangely selected correspondent of an insignificantjournal--would spurn him with scorn if she heard the story Stampamight tell of his lost daughter. That was the wildest absurdity in themad jumble of events which brought him here face to face with a brokenand frayed old man,--one whom he had never seen before the previousday. It was of a piece with this fantasy that he should be standingankle deep in snow under the brilliant sun of August, and in risk, ifnot in fear, of his life within two hundred yards of a crowded hoteland a placid Swiss village.
His usually well ordered brain rebelled against these manifestincongruities. His passion subsided almost as quickly as it hadarisen. He moistened his cold lips with his tongue, and the actionseemed to restore his power of speech.
"I suppose you have some motive in bringing me here. What is it?" hesaid.
"You must come to the cemetery. It is not far."
This unlooked for reply struck a new note. It had such a bizarreeffect that Bower actually laughed. "Then you really are mad?" heguffawed harshly.
"No, not at all. I was on the verge of madness the other day; but Iwas pulled back in time, thanks to the Madonna, else I might neverhave met you."
"Do you expect me to walk quietly to the burial ground in order that Imay be slaughtered conveniently?"
"I am not going to kill you, Marcus Bauer," said Stampa. "I trust thegood God will enable me to keep my hands off you. He will punish youin His own good time. You are safe from me."
"A moment ago you spoke differently."
"Ah, that was because you refused to come with me. Assuredly I shallbring either you or your lying tongue to Etta's grave this morning.But you will come now. You are afraid, Herr Baron. I see it in youreyes, and you value that well-fed body of yours too highly not to doas I demand. Believe me, within the next few minutes you shall eitherkneel by my little girl's grave or tumble into your own."
"I am not afraid, Stampa. I warn you again that I am more than a matchfor you. Yet I would willingly make any reparation within my power forthe wrong I have done you."
"Yes, yes--that is all I ask--reparation, such as it is. Not to me--toEtta. Come then. I have no weapon, I repeat. You trust to your sizeand strength; so, by your own showing, you are safe. But you mustcome!"
A gleam of confidence crept into Bower's eyes. Was it not wise tohumor this old madman? Perhaps, by displaying a remorse that was notall acting, he might arrange a truce, secure a breathi
ng space. Hewould be free to deal with Millicent Jaques. He might so contrivematters that Helen should be far removed from Stampa's dangerouspresence before the threatened disclosure was made. Yes, a waryprudence in speech and action might accomplish much. Surely he daredmatch his brain against a peasant's.
"Very well," he said, "I shall accompany you. But remember, at theleast sign of violence, I shall not only defend myself, but drag youoff to the communal guardhouse."
Without any answer, Stampa resumed his steady plodding through thesnow. Bower followed, somewhat in the rear. He glanced sharply backtoward the hotel. So far as he could judge, no one had witnessed thatfrantic spring at his tormentor. At that hour, nearly every residentwould be on the sunlit veranda. He wondered whether or not Helen andMillicent had met again. He wished now he had interviewed Millicentlast night. Her problem was simple enough,--a mere question of terms.Spite had carried her boldly through the scene in the foyer; but shewas far too sensible a young woman to persist in a hopeless quarrel.
It was one of the fatalities that dogged his footsteps ever since hecame to Maloja that the only person watching him at the moment shouldhappen to be Millicent herself. Her room was situated at the back ofthe hotel, and she had fallen asleep after many hours of restlessthought. When the clang of a bell woke her with a start she found thatthe morning was far advanced. She dressed hurriedly, rather in a paniclest her quarry might have evaded her by an early flight. The finepanorama of the Italian Alps naturally attracted her eyes. She wasstaring at it idly, when she saw Bower and Stampa crossing the openspace in front of her bed room window.
Stampa, of course, was unknown to her. In some indefinable wayhis presence chimed with her fear that Bower would leave Malojaforthwith. Did he intend to post through the Vale of Bregaglia toChiavenna? Then, indeed, she might be called on to overcome unforeseendifficulties. She appreciated his character to the point of believingthat Helen was his dupe. She regretted now that she was so foolish asto attack her one-time friend openly. Far better have asked Helen tovisit her privately, and endeavor to find out exactly how the land laybefore she encountered Bower. At any rate, she ought to learn withoutdelay whether or not he was hiring post horses in the village. If so,he was unwilling to meet her, and the battle royal must take place inLondon.
A maid entered with coffee and rolls.
"Who is that man with the English monsieur?" inquired Millicent,pointing to the two.
The servant was a St. Moritz girl, and a glance sufficed. "That? He isChristian Stampa, madam. He used to drive one of Joos's carriages; buthe had a misfortune. He nearly killed a lady whom he was bringing tothe hotel, and was dismissed in consequence. Now he is guide to anAmerican gentleman. My God! but they are droll, the Americans!"
The maid laughed, and created a clatter with basin and hot water can.Millicent, forcing herself to eat quickly, continued to gaze afterthe pair. The description of Stampa's employer interested her. Hisdrollery evidently consisted in hiring a cripple as guide.
"Is the American monsieur named Charles K. Spencer?" she said,speaking very clearly.
"I do not know, madam. But Marie, who is on the second, can tell me.Shall I ask?"
"Do, please."
Leontine bustled out. Just then Millicent was amazed by Bower'sextraordinary leap at Stampa and the guide's agile avoidance of hiswould-be assailant. The men faced each other as though a fight wasimminent; but the upshot was that they walked on together quietly. Besure that two keen blue eyes watched their every motion thenceforth,never leaving them till they entered the village street anddisappeared behind a large chalet.
"And what did it all mean? Mark Bower--scuffling with a villager!"
Millicent's smooth forehead wrinkled in earnest thought. How queerit would be if Bower was trying to force Spencer's guide into thecommission of a crime! He would stop at nothing. He believed he couldbend all men, and all women too, to his will. Was he angered byunexpected resistance? She hoped the maid would hurry with her news.Though she meant to go at once to the village, it would be a pointgained if she was certain of Stampa's identity.
She was already veiled and befurred when Leontine returned. Yes, Mariehad given her full information. Madam had heard, perhaps, how HerrBower and the pretty English mademoiselle were in danger of beingsnowed up in the Forno hut yesterday. Well, Stampa had gone with his_voyageur_, Monsieur Spensare, to their rescue. And the young lady wasthe one whom Stampa had endangered during his career as a cab driver.Again, it was droll.
Millicent agreed. For the second time, she resolved to postpone herjourney to St. Moritz.
* * * * *
Bower was surprised when Stampa led him into the main road. Havingnever seen any sign of a cemetery at Maloja, he guessed vaguely thatit must be situated close to the church. Therein, in a sense, he wasright. It will be remembered how Helen's solitary ramble on themorning after her arrival in Maloja brought her to the secludedgraveyard. She first visited the little Swiss tabernacle which hadattracted her curiosity, and thence took the priest's path to the lastresting place of his flock. But Stampa had a purpose in following acircuitous route. He turned sharply round the base of a huge pile oflogs, stacked there in readiness for the fires of a long winter.
"Look!" he said, throwing open the half door of a cattle shed behindthe timber. "They found her here on the second of August, a Sundaymorning, just before the people went to early mass. By her side was abottle labeled 'Poison.' She bought it in Zermatt on the sixth ofJuly. So, you see, my little girl had been thinking a whole month ofkilling herself. Poor child! What a month! They tell me, Herr Baron,you left Zermatt on the sixth of July?"
Bower's face had grown cold and gray while the old man was speaking.He began to understand. Stampa would spare him none of the horror ofthe tragedy from which he fled like a lost soul when the news of itreached the hotel. Well, he would not draw back now. If Stampa and hewere destined to have a settlement, why defer it? This was his day ofreckoning,--of atonement, he hoped,--and he would not shirk theordeal, though his flesh quivered and his humbled pride lashed himlike a whip.
The squalid stable was peculiarly offensive. Owing to the gale, thecattle that ought to be pasturing in the high alp were crowded therein reeking filth. Yesterday, not long before this hour, he was hummingverses of cow songs to Helen, and beguiling the way to the Forno witha recital of the customs and idyls of the hills. What a spiteful thingwas Fate! Why had this doting peasant risen from the dead to drag himthrough the mire of a past transgression? If Stampa betrayed anger,if his eyes and voice showed the scorn and hatred of a man justlyincensed because of his daughter's untimely death, the situation wouldbe more tolerable. But his words were mild, biting only by reason oftheir simple pathos. He spoke in a detached manner. He might berelating the unhappy story of some village maid of whom he had nopersonal knowledge. This complete self effacement grated on Bower'snerves. It almost spurred him again to ungovernable rage. But herealized the paramount need of self control. He clenched his teeth inthe effort to bear his punishment without protest.
And Stampa seemed to have the gift of divination. He read Bower'sheart. By some means he became aware that the unsavory shed wasloathsome to the fine gentleman standing beside him.
"Etta was always so neat in her dress that it must have been adreadful thing to see her laid there," he went on. "She fell justinside the door. Before she drank the poison she must have looked onceat the top of old Corvatsch. She thought of me, I am sure, for she hadmy letter in her pocket telling her that I was at Pontresina with myvoyageurs. And she would think of you too,--her lover, her promisedhusband."
Bower cleared his throat. He tried to frame a denial; but Stampa wavedthe unspoken thought aside.
"Surely you told her you would marry her, Herr Baron?" he said gently."Was it not to implore you to keep your vow that she journeyed all theway from Zermatt to the Maloja? She was but a child, an innocent andfrightened child, and you should not have been so brutal when she cameto you in the ho
tel. Ah, well! It is all ended and done with now. Itis said the Madonna gives her most powerful aid to young girls whoseek from her Son the mercy they were denied on earth. And my Etta hasbeen dead sixteen long years,--long enough for her sin to be cleansedby the fire of Purgatory. Perhaps to-day, when justice is done to herat last, she may be admitted to Paradise. Who can tell? I would askthe priest; but he would bid me not question the ways of Providence."
At last Bower found his voice. "Etta is at peace," he muttered. "Wehave suffered for our folly--both of us. I--I could not marry her. Itwas impossible."
Stampa did look at him then,--such a look as the old Roman may havecast on the man who caused him to slay his loved daughter. Yet, whenhe spoke, his words were measured, almost reverent. "Not impossible,Marcus Bower. Nothing is impossible to God, and He ordained that youshould marry my Etta."
"I tell you----" began Bower huskily; but the other silenced him witha gesture.
"They took her to the inn,--they are kind people who live there,--andsomeone telegraphed to me. The news went to Zermatt, and back toPontresina. I was high up in the Bernina with my party. But a friendfound me, and I ran like a madman over ice and rock in the foolishbelief that if only I held my little girl in my arms I should kiss herback to life again. I took the line of a bird. If I had crossed theMuretto, I should not be lame to-day; but I took Corvatsch in my path,and I fell, and when I saw Etta's grave the grass was growing on it.Come! The turf is sixteen years old now."
Breaking off thus abruptly, he swung away into the open pasture.Bower, heavy with wrath and care, strode close behind. He strove tokeep his brain intent on the one issue,--to placate this sorrowing oldman, to persuade him that silence was best.
Soon they reached a path that curved upward among stunted trees. Itended at an iron gate in the center of a low wall. Bower shuddered.This, then, was the cemetery. He had never noticed it, though informer years he could have drawn a map of the Maloja from memory, sofamiliar was he with every twist and turn of mountain, valley, andlake. The sun was hot on that small, pine sheltered hillock. The snowwas beginning to melt. It clogged their feet, and left green patcheswhere their footprints would have been clearly marked an hour earlier.And they were not the only visitors that day. There were signs of onewho had climbed the hill since the snow ceased falling.
Inside the wall the white covering lay deep. Bower's prominent eyes,searching everywhere with furtive horror, saw that a little space hadbeen cleared in one corner. The piled up snow was strewed with brokenweeds and tufts of long grass. It bore an uncanny resemblance to theedges of a grave. He paused, irresolute, unnerved, yet desperatelydetermined to fall in with Stampa's strange mood.
"There is nothing to fear," said the old man gently. "They brought herhere. You are not afraid--you, who clasped her to your breast, andswore you loved her?"
Bower's face, deathly pale before, flamed into sudden life. The strainwas unbearable. He could feel his own heart beating violently. "Whatdo you want me to do?" he almost shouted. "She is dead! My repentanceis of no avail! Why are you torturing me in this manner?"
"Softly, son-in-law, softly! You are disturbed, or you would see thehand of Providence in our meeting. What could be better arranged? Youhave returned after all these years. It is not too late. To-day youshall marry Etta!"
Bower's neck was purple above the line of his white collar. The veinsstood out on his temples. He looked like one in the throes ofapoplexy.
"For Heaven's sake! what do you mean?" he panted.
"I mean just what I say. This is your wedding day. Your bride liesthere, waiting. Never did woman wait for her man so still andpatient."
"Come away, Stampa! This thing must be dealt with reasonably. Comeaway! Let us find some less mournful place, and I shall tell you----"
"Nay, even yet you do not understand. Well, then, Marcus Bauer, hearme while you may. I swear you shall marry my girl, if I have to recitethe wedding prayers over your dead body. I have petitioned the Madonnato spare me from becoming a murderer, and I give you this last chanceof saving your dirty life. Kneel there, by the side of the grave, andattend to the words that I shall read to you, or you must surely die!You came to Zermatt and chose my Etta. Very well, if it be God's willthat she should be the wife of a scoundrel like you, it is not for meto resist. Marry her you shall, here and now! I will bind you to herhenceforth and for all eternity, and the time will come when herintercession may drag you back from the hell your cruel deeddeserves."
With a mighty effort, Bower regained the self-conceit that Stampa'swords, no less than the depressing environment, had shocked out ofhim. The grotesque nature of the proposal was a tonic in itself.
"If I had expected any such folly on your part, I should not have comewith you," he said, speaking with something of his habitual dignity."Your suggestion is monstrous. How can I marry a dead woman?"
Stampa's expression changed instantly. Its meek sorrow yielded to aferocity that was appalling. Already bent, he crouched like a wildbeast gathering itself for an attack.
"Do you refuse?" he asked, in a low note of intense passion.
"Yes, curse you! And mutter your prayers in your own behalf. You needthem more than I."
Bower planted himself firmly, right in the gateway. He clenched hisfists, and savagely resolved to batter this lunatic's face into apulp. He had a notion that Stampa would rush straight at him, and givehim an opportunity to strike from the shoulder, hard and true. He wasbitterly undeceived. The man who was nearly twenty years his seniorjumped from the top of a low monument on to the flat coping stones ofthe wall. From that greater height he leaped down on Bower, who struckout wildly, but without a tithe of the force needed to stop the impactof a heavily built adversary. He had to change feet too, and he wasborne to the earth by that catamount spring before he could avoid it.For a few seconds the two writhed in the snow in deadly embrace. ThenStampa remained uppermost. He had pinned Bower to the ground facedownward. Kneeling on his shoulders, with the left hand gripping hisneck and the right clutching his hair and scalp, he pulled back thewretched man's head till it was a miracle that the spinal column wasnot broken.
"Now!" he growled, "are you content?"
There was no reply. It was a physical impossibility that Bower shouldspeak. Even in his tempest of rage Stampa realized this, and loosenedhis grip sufficiently to give his opponent a moment of preciousbreath.
"Answer!" he muttered again. "Promise you will obey, you brute, or Icrack your neck!"
Bower gurgled something that sounded like an appeal for mercy. Stamparose at once, but took the precaution to close the gate, since theyhad rolled into the cemetery during their short fight.
"_Saperlotte!_" he cried, "you are not the first who deemed mehelpless because of my crooked leg. You might have run from me, MarcusBauer; you could never fight me. Were I at death's door, I wouldstill have strength left to throttle you if once my fingers closedround your throat."
Bower raised himself on hands and knees. He cut an abject figure; buthe was beyond all thought of appearances. For one dread moment hislife had trembled in the balance. That glimpse of death and of thegloomy path beyond was affrighting. He would do anything now to gaintime. Wealth, fame, love itself, what were they, each and all, whenviewed from the threshold of that barrier which admits a man once andfor ever?
In deep, laboring gasps his breath came back. The blood coursed freelyagain in his veins. He lived--ah, that was everything--he still lived!He scrambled to his feet, bare headed, yellow skinned, dazed, andtrembling. His eyes dwelt on Stampa with a new timidity. He founddifficulty in straightening his limbs. He was quite insensible of hisridiculous aspect. His clothing, even his hair, was matted with softsnow. In a curiously servile way, he stooped to pick up his cap.
Stampa lurched toward the tiny patch of grass from which he hadcleared the snow soon after daybreak. "Kneel here at her feet!" hesaid.
Bower approached, with a slow, dragging movement. Without a word ofprotest, he sank to his knees. The snow in his
hair began to melt. Hepassed his hands over his face as though shutting out some horrificvision.
Stampa produced from his pocket a frayed and tattered prayer book--anItalian edition of the Paroissien Romain. He opened it at a markedpage, and began to read the marriage ritual. Though the words wereLatin, and he was no better educated than any other peasant in thedistrict, he pronounced the sonorous phrases with extraordinaryaccuracy. Of course, he was an Italian, and Latin was not such anincomprehensible tongue to him as it would prove to a German orEnglishman of his class. Moreover, the liturgy of the Church of Romeis familiar to its people, no matter what their race. Bower, stupefiedand benumbed, though the sun was shining brilliantly, and a constantdripping from the pine branches gave proof of a rapid thaw, listenedlike one in a trance. He understood scattered sentences, brokenly, yetwith sufficient comprehension.
"_Confiteor Deo omnipotenti_," mumbled Stampa, and the bridegroom inthis strange rite knew that he was making the profession of a faith hedid not share. His mind cleared by degrees. He was still under thespell of bodily fear, but his brain triumphed over physical stress,and bade him disregard these worn out shibboleths. Nevertheless, thewords had a tremendous significance.
"_Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum ...dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribusnostris...._"
It was quite easy to follow their general drift. Anyone who had everrecited the Lord's Prayer in any language would realize that he wasasking the Deity to forgive him his trespasses as he forgave those whotrespassed against him. And there came to the kneeling man a thrillingconsciousness that Stampa was appealing for him in the name of thedead girl, the once blushing and timid maid whose bones were crumblinginto dust beneath that coverlet of earth and herbage. There could beno doubting the grim earnestness of the reader. It mattered not a jotto Stampa that he was usurping the functions of the Church in anoutlandish travesty of her ritual. He was sustained by a fixedbelief that the daughter so heartlessly reft from him was present inspirit, nay, more, that she was profoundly grateful for this belatedsanctifying of an unhallowed love. Bower's feelings or convictionswere not of the slightest consequence. He owed it to Etta to makereparation, and the duty must be fulfilled to the utmost letter.
Strong man as he was, Bower nearly fainted. He scarce had the facultyof speech when Stampa bade him make the necessary responses inItalian. But he obeyed. All the time the devilish conviction grew thatif he persisted in this flummery he might emerge scatheless from aghastly ordeal. The punishment of publicity was the one thing hedreaded, and that might be avoided--for Etta's sake. So he obeyed,with cunning pretense of grief, trying to veil the malevolence in hisheart.
At last, when the solemn "_per omnia secula_ _seculorum_" and apeaceful "Amen" announced the close of this amazing marriage service,Stampa looked fixedly at his supposed son-in-law.
"Now, Marcus Bauer," he said, "I have done with you. See to it thatyou do not again break your plighted vows to my daughter! She is yourwife. You are her husband. Not even death can divide you. Go!"
His strong, splendidly molded face, massive and dignified, cast inlines that would have appealed to a sculptor who wished to limn thefeatures of a patriarch of old, wore an aspect of settled calm. He wasat peace with all the world. He had forgiven his enemy.
Bower rose again stiffly. He would have spoken; but Stampa now fell onhis knees and began to pray silently. So the millionaire, humbledagain and terror stricken by the sinister significance of thoseconcluding words, yet not daring to question them, crept out of theplace of the dead. As he staggered down the hillside he looked backonce. He had eyes only for the little iron gate, but Stampa came not.
Then he essayed to brush some of the clinging snow off his clothes. Heshook himself like a dog after a plunge into water. In the distance hesaw the hotel, with its promise of luxury and forgetfulness. And hecursed Stampa with a bitter fury of emphasis, trying vainly topersuade himself that he had been the victim of a maniac's delusion.