Entr'acte

: The Doomsman

There had been no final understanding between Constans and Piers Major

as to the precise line of the attack upon the citadel. That must depend

upon the successful carrying of the defences at the boundary and upon

the duration of the skirmishing in the streets. Both had agreed,

however, that a night assault offered the better chances of victory. The

Stockaders had no siege artillery with which to batter down the gates at

long range; they would have to march straight to the walls, and the

darkness would be in the nature of a protection from the missiles of the

enemy. The moon, a little past the full, rose about nine o'clock, but

its light was liable to be obscured by clouds. One of the sudden changes

characteristic of the month of May was in progress, and a cold wind was

blowing from the northwest. It promised to be half a gale by midnight,

and already the sky was partially overcast. The initiative lay, of

course, with Piers Major, and Constans must use his own judgment in

making the diversion in the rear.



"They are throwing up an inner barricade," said Piers Minor, at

Constans's elbow. He looked, and saw that the space immediately in front

of the storehouses was being enclosed by a barrier of earth and

paving-stones. The Doomsmen were prepared, then, for the possible

carrying of the main walls by assault. What could be the weak point in

the defence?



"The gate," suggested Piers Minor.



Constans levelled his glass and examined the barrier with attention. The

vaulted archway through the walls was about sixteen feet long by ten

wide and as many high. At the street end it was closed by a gate

consisting of two wooden leaves, swung on hinges in the ordinary manner,

and having as a central support a stout post firmly sunken into the

ground. The timber construction was of the heaviest, but axe and sledge

would make short work of it could they be brought near enough for

effective use.



At the inner entrance to the archway was suspended a portcullis of

wrought-iron bars. This was the real barrier, for, even if the attacking

party succeeded in battering down the outer gate, they would find

themselves cooped up in the passageway and exposed to missiles

discharged both through the grating and from trap-doors in the vaulted

ceiling. A well-conceived theory of defence, but its present practice

was complicated by an unexpected difficulty--the portcullis, long

unused, had become jammed in the ways and refused to descend. A squad of

men were sweating at the task, but so far they had accomplished nothing.



"You are right," said Constans, letting the glass fall and turning to

Piers Minor. "What can they be thinking of--wasting time in that

hopeless tinkering? The one important thing is to close the

passageway--if possible, by means of the portcullis; failing that, to

block it up. If Piers Major but knew--nay, he must know."



Piers Minor nodded; he understood the appeal.



"I am going to tell him," he said, imperturbably. "I will be careful

about keeping out of sight until well away from the vicinity of the

'Flat-iron.' So as not to spoil sport for you," he added, smiling.



Constans accompanied Piers Minor to the street entrance, going over in

detail the message that he was to bear to his father. A final admonition

of caution, and they parted. It was still broad daylight, and Constans

returned to his post of observation.



Of course, the expected happened. A report of the portcullis's

unserviceable condition had been finally made to Quinton Edge, and

already he was on the scene--a master indeed. The confusion, the

contradictory babel of voices, dies away into order and silence, and, as

Constans had foreseen, his orders were to suspend operations on the

portcullis and proceed with all speed to the blocking-up of the archway.

Choked to the ceiling with loose stones and other debris, it would be a

formidable barricade to carry by assault.



Constans strode up and down the room, devoured by impatience. Piers

Minor had been gone now upward of half an hour, and yet there was no

sign of preparation in the camp of the allies. It would take possibly an

hour longer to make the vaulted passage impassable; Piers Major must

advance within half that time if he would take advantage of this secret

weakness in the defence. Failing to do so, he would be thrown back upon

the desperate adventure of the scaling-ladders, and the whole issue

would then hang upon the effectiveness with which Constans could bring

off his attack from the rear.



The restless fit passed, and Constans leaned out upon the window-sill,

watching the darkening sky. A fierce revulsion seized him as he pictured

to himself the scene upon which the morning sun would look--the kennels

red with blood, the horrors huddled in every corner, all the dreadful

jetsam cast up by the ensanguined tide of war. Of necessity, perhaps,

must such things be--the endurance of a lesser evil that the greater

wrong might be forever blotted out. And yet his heart was heavy.



He looked out again upon the ruined wilderness of stone that hemmed him

in. How he hated this monstrous city of Doom, infernal mother of

treacheries and spoils! How weary he was of wandering through its stony

labyrinths, fit symbol of his own oft-thwarted hopes! A vision of green

fields and quiet waters rose before him, he seemed to be walking

knee-deep in the lush grass starred with purple asters and the sweet

meadow-flag--it was the old home paddock of the Greenwood Keep; there

was the copse of white beeches, and through it came the flutter of a

woman's gown. Eagerly he watched as she came to meet him--Issa; then she

turned her face full towards him, and he saw that it was Esmay. He

sprang forward.



A roll of drums beating the charge, and Constans started. "At last!" he

said.



* * * * *



Piers Minor, keeping as closely as possible to cover, worked his way

slowly to the northward and towards the Stockader camp, on the Palace

Road. But, being unfamiliar with the topography of the district, he

insensibly kept edging into dangerous proximity to the Citadel Square;

suddenly he found himself within a short block of its eastern front. He

turned to retreat, and came face to face with a slender, black-eyed

youth who must have been following close upon his heels. Discovered, he

tried to dodge, but Piers Minor was too quick, and they closed. The

youth struggled gallantly, but the Stockader had all the advantage in

strength; in another moment Piers Minor had his antagonist crushed

helplessly into a corner. He looked at the boy contemptuously.



"Not a sound, mind, or I'll twist your throat as I would a

meadow-lark's. Why were you following me?"



The black eyes snapped back at him unwinkingly.



"Let me speak, then--you hurt me."



Piers Minor loosened his hold upon the slender throat.



"Go on."



"You are a Stockader, and there is a young man with you, fair-haired and

with dark eyes--Constans by name? Do you know him?"



"Well, and if I do?"



"Will you tell me where and how I can see him? Just a word, or, if not,

then to send him a message."



"It is impossible," said Piers Minor, stolidly. "This is a time of war,

and only for life and death----"



"It is a question of that," insisted the youth.



Piers Minor shook himself impatiently.



"Speak out, can't you? What is it that he would care to know?"



"Tell him, then, that last night Esmay disappeared, and yet still

remains in Arcadia House. He will understand, for he knows Quinton

Edge."



"A woman!" ejaculated Piers Minor, in supreme disdain. "Always that."



"Yes, always that," retorted the boy, and Piers Minor burst into a

laugh.



"You are a bold one," he said, half admiringly. "Well, I will tell him;

I promise you that. And now what am I to do with you?"



The boy made a grimace. "We may part as we have met, with no one the

wiser."



"I am not so sure of that," said the other, suspiciously. "You are a

Doomsman, and you know me to be a Stockader--a spy, if you like. If it

were for myself alone I might trust you, but so much may hang----"



He stopped abruptly and his eyes darkened. "The only sure way lies at my

knife-point." He scanned intently the face which paled before his gaze,

yet changed not in the smallest line.



"Good!" said Piers Minor, heartily. "Although, indeed, I could never

have done it. Yet I must bind and gag you," he added.



The boy pouted. "No; I will not have you touch me." He tried by a sudden

movement to slip under Piers Minor's detaining hand. The shock displaced

his cap, a fastening gave way at the same instant, and a mass of long,

black hair tumbled down upon the youth's shoulders. Even then Piers

Minor, being of masculine slow wit, might not have guessed the truth but

for a bright blush that overspread brow and cheek, a confession that

even his dull senses could not misinterpret.



"A woman!" he said, confusedly, and blushed as unrestrainedly in his

turn.



Beholding his embarrassment, Nanna was relieved of her own.



"You will have to trust me, you see," she said, coldly.



The abashed Piers Minor murmured an indistinct assent.



"And you will not forget my message?"



"No, no! He shall have it at the earliest possible moment."



"Very good--it is understood, then. Now you may go."



Piers Minor had not a word to say. He had been meditating upon a

thousand possible explanations, excuses, apologies, and his tongue would

not utter one of them. He accepted his orders meekly, but as he turned

to go he managed to stammer out, "Of course--to meet again."



Nanna, to her own infinite amazement, answered with a look that meant

yes, and knew that he had not failed to so understand it. As she walked

over to the Citadel Square she could feel that he was standing where she

had left him and looking after her. She would have turned to fittingly

rebuke behavior so indecorous, but something told her that her insulted

dignity would be better saved by removing it to a greater distance.



Nanna entered the Citadel Square after some parley with the sentinels on

the walls, who grumbled at the trouble to which they were put to let

down a rope-ladder; but, being a daughter of the Doomsmen, she could not

be denied.



A little crowd of women and elderly men gathered about an ox-cart in the

centre of the square attracted her attention. They were listening to a

speaker who, standing upright in the wagon-body, was haranguing them

earnestly. Nanna recognized him--Prosper, the priest.



It was the old story--repentance, the wrath of the Shining One, and the

imminence of the judgment. The men of the garrison, absorbed in their

preparations for defence, paid no heed; only this handful of old men and

fearful women, who crept a little closer together as they listened and

sought one another's hands. "To-day, to-day, even to-day, and Doom is

fallen, is fallen!"



A disquieting thought flashed into Nanna's mind, the remembrance of

those carefully arranged broken wires in the empty house not more than a

block away from the Citadel Square. Then of those other wires in the

temple of the Shining One, spluttering their wicked-looking sparks. She

strained her ears to catch the humming drone of the engines in the House

of Power, but there was no sound to be heard--they could not be running.



"Yet there will be mischief worked to-night if the priest has his way,"

said Nanna to herself, and shook her black-polled head safely. "I almost

wish that I had told him of that, too." And then, unaccountably, she

blushed again, for all that it was dark and no one was looking at her.



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