THE pendulum of luck had swung over again to our side and I lost no time in taking advantage of it. I pushed the man away from me at random, and chanced to send him staggering up against the two police horses which were tied up close to the door. They were already snorting with fear at the fire, and they now began to plunge and kick and rear until they had dragged themselves free and dashed off into the darkness.
Nor was this all the luck.
“Come,” I cried to Volna. We ran to the shed and found our own animals standing ready saddled outside. “They were going to bolt on our horses,” I said, as I put her in the saddle and then mounted. “Which is the way?”
“Any way. We’re in luck; let us trust to it,” I answered; and guided by the light of the fire which was now consuming the whole house, we pushed along at random as quickly as we could. Fortune was with us still. We gained the road, and in a few minutes were rattling back at a brisk pace along the road we had travelled so laboriously in the storm some hours before.
“I had given everything up,” said Volna, when we were breathing the horses and were able to talk. “I had the papers in my hand ready to throw them into the blaze.”
“I am glad you didn’t. We’ll get them through yet; but just how to do it is the question. We’ve escaped by sheer luck and that old hag’s devilment in firing the house; but they’ve got the passports, all my papers and what’s almost as bad, nearly all my money.”
“I have a little money. But do you think we could get across the frontier?”
“We shall have to do it at night, because we must manage to sneak over somewhere unseen. If we knew the district it would be easier; but even then we should have to lie low somewhere all through the day. We may bet on it that when that fellow gets back from the fire he’ll spread out a pretty wide search party for us.”
“Does Sylvia ever offer you suggestions?” she asked.
I smiled. “Has Peggy one?”
She nodded. “She’s a little bit afraid to offer it.”
“That’s rather rough on Bob, isn’t it?”
“Paul always ridicules anything I say—never thinks any woman, but Katinka, can have a sensible idea.”
“Why shouldn’t Bob think as much of Peggy’s notions as Paul does of Katinka’s?”
“I like that,” she said, answering my smile. “But it’s rather a wild suggestion.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Couldn’t we go back to that village, Kervatje, and get Father Ambrose to help us? He was mother’s friend.”
“Humph! It is rather a wild one, as you say.”
“I believe we could trust him.”
“And suppose he said no?”
“We could have shelter for the day at least and could try any other plan that offered.”
“He might give us away.”
“His eyes didn’t look like that when he spoke of mother.”
“We’d have to confess we fooled him.”
“Leave me to do that.”
“Your instinct is to trust him?”
“Yes. I feel as sure of him as I did of—of Bob that morning.”
“That settles it. I can’t mistrust that instinct. Come on;” and off we rattled again at a pace we relished a deal better than the scarcely rested horse under me.
“I wonder what has happened at the cottage,” said Volna when we eased up later.
“I have a sort of sneaking hope that the woman got away despite her villainous attempt on us.”
“What a fiend of a woman!”
“Her fiendishness it was that saved us from heaven knows what trouble. I was cudgelling my wits to know how to get out of the mess. She was a cunning devil, too, in her way.”
“And the man, too. A man!”
“She was the man in that house. Say what you will, it was awfully smart to spring that accusation against us.”
“I hope she’ll be punished,” said Volna.
“Oh, she’ll get there some day—if not now. But you are the wonder to me. To go through all you have in the last few hours and yet be as fresh as—as paint. Sylvia has pluck and all that; but she’d go to bed after a rough and tumble of this sort.”
“That’s the first thing I shall ask the priest to let me do.”
“He’ll be a bit surprised when we walk in, I expect,” I laughed. “It’s a pretty cool thing you’re letting us into.”
“Do you think there’s any chance of our being followed?”
“Not yet. I fancy they’ll have their hands full enough with the other couple. We shall be miles on our way before they could start after us; and it’s too early for any one to be about to tell them which way we’ve gone.”
This proved to be the case. We did not meet a soul until we had ridden many miles and were nearing the forked road at the top of the hill which the priest had mentioned to me. There we passed two or three peasants dressed in their best.
“That explains it,” I said.
“What explains what?”
“Why we have seen no one about. It’s Sunday morning and those people are going in to mass. Your friend the priest is evidently popular.”
“Can we reach the village before mass time?”
“No. We had better finish the journey on foot. My idea is to turn off somewhere at the bottom of the hill and just leave the horses. We can’t very well quarter them on the priest as well as ourselves. Besides, it would cause much more gossip than if we were to arrive on foot. And gossip is dangerous.”
On reaching the bottom of the hill, we turned off and rode a mile or so, when I saw a shed in a very lonely spot on a hill side. I slipped the saddles off and led the horses through a couple of fields and shut them into the barn.
“No one is likely to be there till to-morrow, so we may get them again this afternoon if necessary,” I said as I returned to Volna with the bridles. “There’s a bit of feed on the place and that’ll keep them quiet. Now we’ll hide these things in the wood yonder; and leave the rest to chance.”
I buried the saddles under a heap of brushwood, and we made our way back to the main road and soon reached the village.
“I feel disgracefully dirty,” said Volna, as one or two of the villagers eyed us curiously.
“They’ll only think we’ve come some distance to mass; and they are accustomed to the sight of dirty people about here.”
Volna laughed. “Thank you. But even here the people wash themselves on Sunday.”
“Here’s the priest’s house, next the church,” I answered irrelevantly. We walked up to it and just as we reached the door it was opened by a woman, bonnetted and prayer book in hand.
I stepped inside without shewing any hesitation; as if we were expected. “Good-morning. Is Father Ambrose in his study or already at church?”
“The Father is in church, sir. You can’t come in, please,” she replied, resenting our intrusion.
“I was afraid we should be just too late and too early,” I said lightly to Volna. “He said before ten or after half-past twelve. But we couldn’t manage it.”
“Is the Father expecting you, sir?”
“Well, not exactly at this moment evidently, or he would have told you to be ready for us. But we can wait, and my sister will be greatly obliged to you if you can let her just wash her face and hands.”
“I am on my way to mass, sir; the Father said nothing to me of your coming.”
“So I see, my good soul. But did he not tell you we were likely to come for breakfast?”
“The Father fasts until mass on Sunday, sir.”
“Yes, of course, but I am not a priest: nor is my sister.”
She hesitated and then led us into the study.
Volna threw herself with a sigh of fatigue on to one of the hard wooden chairs; took off her hat and with a smile exclaimed in the most natural way in the world: “Dear Father Ambrose. He is one of my mother’s dearest friends.”
It was such apparently ingenuous evidence of sincerity that the good woman was instantly and most favourably impressed.
“Excuse me a minute,” she said, and went out.
“How readily you tell them, Bob,” said Volna, smiling.
“It was your acting that carried us through, young lady. Dear Father Ambrose, indeed. As if you had known him all your life.”
“I think she’s going to let us stay.”
She came in again then, having taken off her bonnet. “Will you come with me?” she said to Volna, who rose. “The Father’s dressing room is through there, sir,” she added to me, pointing to a door.
I made use of it promptly; washed and shaved and did what I could to make myself look less like a tramp, before I returned to the good man’s study.
I must confess that the prospect of meeting him was vastly less to my taste now than it had appeared when we were twenty miles away; and I paced the floor considerably ill at ease.
Presently Volna came in, looking as neat and natty as if all the events of the past day and a half were a dream.
“How on earth have you managed it?” I cried, gazing at her in sheer admiration.
“That is the dearest old soul in whom nature ever planted the curiosity of a woman. She just fussed over me as though she was a hen and I her one chicken.”
“You look as though you hadn’t had anything to make you turn a hair for the last fortnight. The way you girls manage these renovations always beats me. Twenty miles away you said you wanted to go to bed; and here you are as fresh as paint.”
“You said that before; but it isn’t paint,” she answered. “I’ve another feeling now than a desire to sleep.”
“So have I—disinclination to meet the priest. Is that what you mean?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, indeed, I mean a desire to eat. I was never so hungry in my life.”
“It’s a very human feeling; but I wish you hadn’t said anything about it,” I replied.
“I’m a very human individual, if it comes to that. I declare I could even relish some of that awful woman’s black bread.”
Most aptly the housekeeper came to tell us she had prepared some breakfast for us in the opposite room. “The good Father would have wished this,” she said. “It is the best I can do for the moment.”
Eggs, ham, potted meats, good white wheaten bread, butter and delicious coffee needed no sort of apology. It was like a feast for the gods in our famished eyes; and down we sat at once. We had nearly finished and were lingering over the coffee and laughing carelessly together at something which Volna had said—I had my cup in my hand, I remember—when the door was opened all unexpectedly and the priest entered.
I don’t think I ever felt so foolish and confused in my life. I set the cup down, flushed to the roots of my hair, and rose with a most shame-faced, down-at-heel manner, stammering some kind of apology, as I met his grave, protesting, surprised look.
But Volna came to the rescue with magnificent self-possession. Girls have these inspirations and beat us hollow in such cases. Without a sign of awkwardness or self-consciousness she rose and went up to him, smiling winsomely.
“Father Ambrose, I am in sore trouble and have come to ask my dear mother’s old friend to help me.”
It was an inspiration. Nothing less. All the protest died out of his eyes in the softened look of puzzled inquiry he bent on her.
“Your mother?” he repeated, so gently.
“I am Volna Drakona.” He turned toward me. “That was not the truth we told you yesterday. Before you condemn us, hear all our story. My mother’s peril was the reason. You will listen to me?”
“I do not understand, but your mother’s child could never appeal to me for a hearing in vain. And this gentleman?”
“He is Mr. Robert Anstruther, an Englishman, who has risked his liberty and his life to help me.”
I saw that this partial explanation only added to the good man’s utter bewilderment. He stood looking from one to the other of us and then passed his hand slowly across his brow. Next he laid it gently on Volna’s head and smoothed her hair while he gazed into her face.
“Yes, you must be her daughter. Come to my study and just tell me everything.”
He opened the door for her and I was following when he turned and said courteously but with unmistakable significance: “I will speak with you afterwards, sir.”
Then the door closed on them.