A Tatter of Scarlet Part 40

He bent and kissed it reverently. As he did so the door opened and there stood in the dark pa.s.sage-way a startling figure. It was Keller Bey, his head wrapped about with bandages like cere cloths, his reddish white beard s.h.a.ggy and unkempt, his arm bandaged, and his dressing-gown frayed and tarnished. But in his eyes the fire of fever burned like the braise of a Yule log, dull and ominous.

With one lean finger he pointed to Chanot as he sat by the table. He called him by name.

"What do you here, bandit and traitor?" he demanded. "But for you there would have been peace in Aramon, the best of governments, and--you broke it all up. Touch not the hand of the daughter of kings! There is blood upon your own, sower of the wind, a.s.sa.s.sin, wild a.s.s of the desert!"

Here he leaped into Arabic, understood only by Alida and Gordon Cawdor.

"Go--get hence, hound!" he thundered. "You have done enough evil--would you pursue me even to this quiet place?"

"Hush, father!" said Alida, going hastily to his side; "he has saved my life--perhaps all our lives."

"He is my enemy!"

"He is my friend!"

As Alida said this, she turned and smiled upon Chanot. The young man repressed a groan.

"If I had known," he muttered, "ah, if I had known. But it is too late."

Linn had been watching her time, and now, by a swift intervention, got Keller Bey out of the library and back to his own room. He had in fact missed her presence and wandered out in search. Then, at sight of the arch-enemy of his ideal rule, memory had returned to him.

After the departure of Keller Bey my father left the room to a.s.sure himself that all was well in the sick man's chamber, and that Linn wanted for nothing. Chanot and Alida were left practically alone, for Chardon, obedient to his chief's eye, had withdrawn into an alcove where, with a book in his hand, he slept or pretended to sleep.

"My father is wandering in his mind," she said, letting the light of her young eyes dwell upon his. "He had a bullet which grazed the brain----"

"I fired that bullet," said Chanot, with bent head.

"But not in anger--not to do him any hurt?" The voice of Alida was almost pleading now. She wanted to think well of this young man.

"Not more than any other," he answered, after a look at her. "We did not wish--we could not permit--I will not weary you with politics, but I want you to know that I put down Keller Bey. I fired the River Quarter.

I was the chief of the plunderers. I deserve death a score of times. I came here to rob and if necessary to kill----"

"No--no!" cried Alida, reaching out her hand a second time. "I saw you with the little Italian. He had a knife. I saw him reaching for it, and that made me feel for mine. You see, I am from Algeria and go armed. He came to kill, if you like. But not you--you are a gentleman!"

"Thank you," said Chanot quickly, but still not taking her hand, "it will help--that which you have said--when it comes to the pinch. I am--I was a gentleman!"

"A brave one and true," said the girl, and then, something she had heard or read working in her head, she added, "gentle and a gentleman."

The day was coming up over the river, and soon the lamps in the room burned faint and yellow. Chardon, waking, opened the window by which he sat and the fresh air of the May morning fanned out the heated atmosphere. The coolness brought a faint flush to Alida's cheek and her lips grew redder.

Chanot rose to his feet and held out his hand.

"Good-bye, dear lady--I have met you too late. Yet do not think quite unkindly of me, of whom much evil will be spoken."

"Chardon," he said, "I leave you here on guard. I commit these ladies to you--should--should any of our people--you understand."

Chardon stood without bareheaded, watching his leader go. Chanot reached the Garden Cottage in time to find himself face to face with a company of soldiers--red-breeched infantry men they were, of the 131st of the line. These were under the command of a very young officer in a tremendous haste. He held a piece of paper in one hand and with the other he knocked loudly, with the hilt of his recently acquired sword, on the door of the Garden Cottage.

"I have a warrant for the instant arrest of the chief of the Aramon insurrection. I am advised that he lives here. His name is Keller, Charles Keller."

"I am the chief of the Aramon insurrection," said Chanot calmly, "I am Keller!"

The rattle of the _peloton_ fire came irregularly from above, among the rocks of St. Andre. Chanot heard it and knew his fate. No lingering trial for him, no stupid military commanders murmuring sleepily over a foregone verdict.

"There against the wall--we must cross the river--there is no time to lose. Form a firing party." The young officer, in a hurry, fairly jetted out his orders.

"_Mon lieutenant_," said Chanot coolly, "there are ladies within the Chateau of Gobelet--the house you see yonder through the trees. It belongs to a great English scholar, who is a friend of Monsieur Thiers, and a historian like him. I have no objections to being shot, but you will have the goodness to let me march with you till we turn the corner of the policies. Then we will have a steep cliff and the river below, which will be convenient."

The lieutenant nodded. His men were ordered in that direction, and so it chanced that twenty of the defenders of our Chateau Schneider witnessed the end of the Black Insurrection of Aramon.

Jack Jaikes and the others of the old machine-gun gang greeted the appearance of Chanot guarded and marching to execution with a yell of triumph.

"Allerdyce--Allerdyce!" they shouted, and turned aside that they might see. I also went with them, not knowing aught of the history of the night. We came out on a plain sward overlooking the river. A path ran along and there was a low wall, with lizards darting everyway in the sun.

The _peloton_ formed up with the readiness of practice, and the officer raised his sword. Chanot stepped briskly to the wall, and as he drew up his tall figure and stood facing us with squared shoulders, I think I never saw anyone so transfigured. The sullen wolfishness was all gone.

His eyes shone like those of a boy engaged in some innocent frolic. But his mien was grave as befitted the circ.u.mstances. He had been smoking a cigarette when the officer accosted him. He threw away the remainder with a smile.

"Have you anything to say?" demanded the officer.

"Only good-bye!"

"Anything to leave?"

"Only life!"

"Then you are ready?"

"I am ready!"

The officer let his sword drop and as from a great distance I seemed to hear his voice commanding "Fire!" The volley rang out, and Chanot, taking a step backwards as if driven by the impact of the bullets, toppled over into the deep and rapid Rhone and was seen no more.

The young officer was methodical. He drew out of his breast a note-book, and into this he entered several lines which, perhaps that we might bear witness, he read aloud.

"May 25th, 1871. Upon the hill called St. Andre, immediately above the Rhone, I caused to be executed one Charles Keller, upon his own confession, as being the chief of the revolt in Aramon-les-Ateliers."

"No, no!" cried Jack Jaikes and several others before they thought.

"Eh! what's that?" demanded the infantry lieutenant, wheeling upon us with his note-book and pencil still in his hand. I had just time to whisper one word to Jack Jaikes. That word was "Fool!" To the others I conveyed as well as I could that they were to hold their tongues.

"Who are you, and what do you mean by 'No, no'?"

"I am Dennis Deventer's second-in-command," said Jack Jaikes. "I stood the two sieges in command of the machine guns, which I had made myself, and by saying 'No--no' I meant that there were other chiefs besides this one whom you have sent to his account!"

"No doubt," said the officer drily; "the others are up yonder under the walls. We surrounded them while they were blocked by young Deventer's wire entanglements and dazzled by his electric light. But why have you left your fortifications and why----"

He stopped his questions, for just then Rhoda Polly strolled nonchalantly upon the sward. He stood staring at her. Rhoda Polly held out her hand to the young man.

"I am Dennis Deventer's daughter," she said, English, smiling, and frank, "not his only one, but the only one who counts on days like these."