The Collected Works of James Oliver Curwood (Illustrated Edition). James Oliver Curwood
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upon the ground and lie there for endless, restful years. What consciousness was left in him was ebbing swiftly; he saw black, fathomless night about him and the earth seemed slipping from under his feet.
A voice dragged him back into life—a voice that boomed in his ears like rolling thunder and set every fiber in him quivering with emotion. He drew himself erect with the involuntary strength of one mastering the last spasm of death and as they dragged him through the door he saw there within an arm's reach of him the great, living face of Strang, gloating at him as if from out of a mist—red eyed, white fanged, filled with the vengefulness of a beast.
The great voice rumbled in his ears again.
"Take that man to the dungeon!"
CHAPTER X
WINNSOME'S VERDICT OF DEATH
The voice—the condemning words—followed Nathaniel as he staggered on between his two guards; it haunted him still as the cold chill of the rotting dungeon walls struck in his face; it remained with him as he stood swaying alone in the thick gloom—the voice rumbling in his ears, the words beating against his brain until the shock of them sickened him, until he stretched out his arms and there fell from him such a cry as had never tortured his lips before.
Strang was alive! He had left the spark of life in him, and the woman who loved him had fanned it back into full flame.
Strang was alive! And Marion—Marion was his wife!
The voice of the king taunted him from the black chaos that hid the dungeon walls. The words struck at him, filling his head with shooting pain, and he tottered back and sank to the ground to get away from them. They followed, and that vengeful leer of the king was behind them, urging them on, until they beat his face into the sticky earth, and smothered him into what he thought was death.
There came rest after that, a long silent rest. When Nathaniel slowly climbed up out of the ebon shadows again the first consciousness that came to him was that the word-demons had stopped their beating against his brain and that he no longer heard the voice of the king. His relief was so great that he breathed a restful sigh. Something touched him then. Great God! were they coming back? Were they still there—waiting—waiting—
It was a wonderfully familiar voice that spoke to him.
"Hello there, Nat! Want a drink?"
He gulped eagerly at the cool liquid that touched his lips.
"Neil," he whispered.
"It's me, Nat. They chucked me in with you. Hell's hole, isn't it?"
Nathaniel sat up, Neil's strong arm at his back. There was a light in the room now and he could see his companion's face, smiling at him encouragingly. The sight of it was like an elixir to him. He drank again and new life coursed through him.
"Yes—hell of a hole!" he repeated drowsily. "Sorry for you—Neil—" and he seemed to sleep again.
Neil laughed as he wiped his companion's face with a wet cloth.
"I'm used to it, Nat. Been here before," he said. "Can you get up? There's a bench over here—not long enough to stretch you out on or I would have made you a bed of it, but it's better than this mud to sit on."
He put his arms about Nathaniel and helped him to his feet. For a few moments the wounded man stood without moving.
"I'm not very bad, I guess," he said, taking a slow step. "Where is the seat, Neil? I'm going to walk to it. What sort of a bump have I got on the head?"
"Nothing much," assured Neil. "Suspicious, though," he grinned cheerfully. "Looks as though you were running and somebody came up and tapped you from behind!"
Nathaniel's strength returned to him quickly. The pain had gone from his head and his eyes no longer hurt him. In the dim candle-light he could distinguish the four walls of the dungeon, glistening with the water and mold that reeked from between their rotting logs. The floor was of wet, sticky earth which clung to his boots, and the air that he breathed filled his nostrils and throat with the uncomfortable thickness of a night fog at sea. Through it the candle burned in a misty halo. Near the candle, which stood on a shelf-like table against one of the walls, was a big dish which caught Nathaniel's eyes.
"What's that?" he asked pointing toward it.
"Grub," replied Neil. "Hungry?"
He went to the table and got the plate of food. There were chunks of boiled meat, unbuttered bread, and cold potatoes. For several minutes they ate in silence. Now that Nathaniel was himself again Neil could no longer keep up his forced spirits. Both realized that they had played their game and that it had ended in defeat. And each believed that it was in his individual power to alleviate to some extent the other's misery. To Neil what was ahead of them held no mystery. A few hours more and then—death. It was only the form in which it would come that troubled him, that made him think. Usually the victims of this dungeon cell were shot. Sometimes they were hanged. But why tell Nathaniel? So he ate his meat and bread without words, waiting for the other to speak, as the other waited for him. And Nathaniel, on his part, kept to himself the secret of Marion's fate. After they had done with the meat and the bread and the cold potatoes he pulled out his beloved pipe and filled it with the last scraps of his tobacco, and as the fumes of it clouded round his head, soothing him in its old friendship, he told of his fight with Strang and his killing of Arbor Croche.
"I'm glad for Winnsome's sake," said Neil, after a moment. "Oh, if you'd only killed Strang!"
Nathaniel thought of what Marion had said to him in the forest.
"Neil," he said quietly, "do you know that Winnsome loves you—not as the little girl whom you toted about on your shoulders—but as a woman? Do you know that?" In the other's silence he added, "When I last saw Marion she sent this message to you—'Tell Neil that he must go, for Winnsome's sake. Tell him that her fate is shortly to be as cruel as mine—tell him that Winnsome loves him and that she will escape and come to him on the mainland.'" Like words of fire they had burned themselves in his brain and as Nathaniel repeated them he thought of that other broken heart that had sobbed out its anguish to him in the castle chamber. "Neil, a man can die easier when he knows that a woman loves him!"
He had risen to his feet and was walking back and forth through the thick gloom.
"I'm glad!" Neil's voice came to him softly, as though he scarcely dared to speak the words aloud. After a moment he added, "Have you got a pencil, Nat? I would like to leave a little note for Winnsome."
Nathaniel found both pencil and paper in one of his pockets and Neil dropped upon his knees in the mud beside the table. Ten minutes later he turned to Nathaniel and a great change had come into his face.
"She always seemed like such a little child to me that I never dared—to—tell her," he faltered. "I've done it in this."
"How will you get the note to her?"
"I know the jailer. Perhaps when he comes to bring us our dinner I can persuade him to send it to her."
Nathaniel thrust his hands into his pockets. His fingers dug into Obadiah's gold.
"Would this help?" he asked.
He brought out a shimmering handful of it and counted the pieces upon the table.
"Two hundred dollars—if he will deliver that note," he said.
Neil stared at him in amazement.
"If he won't take it for that—I've got more. I'll go a thousand!"
Neil stood silent, wondering if his companion was mad. Nathaniel saw the look in his face and his own flushed with sudden excitement.
"Don't you understand?" he cried. "That note means Heaven or hell for Winnsome—it means life—her whole future! And you know what this cell means for us," he said more calmly. "It means that we're at