HIS worst fears were realized.
In the eerie half-light he saw four black shadows draw near to the house and a knock at the door followed. He heard Pascal grumbling as he got out of bed. Then the inn-keeper’s voice:
“Who is it?”
The answer came in the harsh metallic voice he knew so well.
“Travellers from Vizzavona. Open quickly. We are cold.”
Pascal was unbolting the door.
“Pardon, gentlemen. I did not expect guests at so late an hour. Please to enter.”
He heard them stumbling into the big room with the fire, then again that grating voice.
“Ah! you have another guest?”
“Yes, a young man who arrived this evening.”
“These are his clothes, no doubt, drying by the fire?”
“Yes, he was very wet.”
“Then he is sleeping, perhaps. We must not make a noise.”
“Yes, he was very tired. He went to bed early, directly after supper. That makes me think.... Do the messieurs want anything to eat?”
“No, we have supped. We are tired, however. We would sleep. What rooms have you?”
“There are three upstairs, but the young gentleman has the middle one. I can give you gentlemen the others.”
“Good. You will take one, Castelli; I the other. The two men can sleep here by the fire. Now, patron, if you have some good brandy, a drop might not be amiss.”
Hugh had heard enough. He crept back hastily, locking his door. He must escape from this house, and quickly. He began to dress in the clothes Pascal had given him. With a groan he remembered that he had left his revolver in the pocket of his coat. Too bad, that!
Fully dressed, he went to the door and listened again. Doctor Bergius and Castelli were being shown upstairs to their rooms, one on each side of his own. He heard them enter, then Pascal descend the stairs again. All was quiet.
He opened the window very softly and peered out. It was a drop to the ground of about twenty-five feet. He dared not risk the fall. Then his heart leaped. At the side of the window was a rain pipe running from the roof to the ground. It would be easy to slide down that. He did not know their plans, but they would wait, no doubt, until Pascal had gone to bed before attempting anything.
A long silence.
Now there were stealthy steps in the corridor and whispering. With his ear to the door he listened. His hearing was unnaturally acute, and he distinctly heard Castelli:
“Gamba, where is Golaz?”
“Waiting by the door, Master.”
“Right. Our man is trapped. He can’t escape this time. You and Golaz watch to see he doesn’t descend by the window. If the inn-keeper interferes, settle him. And mind, we must take the Englishman alive. No reckless shooting. After we’ve got what we want out of him, you can do as you please. Now go.”
Again a long silence.
Hugh thought, “They suppose I am asleep. Soon they will try my door.”
He waited. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour passed. Everything was still. One might have thought that all the house slept.... Some one was gently trying the handle of his door, turning it softly first one way and then the other. He heard a harsh whisper: “Locked.”
Again he heard the grating voice of the doctor. “I thought so. Well, there’s nothing for it but violence. Put your pistol to the lock and burst it.”
Crash! In the silence of the house the explosion seemed terrific. There was a splintering of wood and the lock was torn from its fixings. But the bolt still held, and though Castelli shook and hammered on the door it would not open. Again he heard the voice of Doctor Bergius.
“Brace yourself against the wall of the corridor. Come, we’ll both put our strength into it.”
Hugh heard the door strain, crack. It was stout and still held. But it could not last long. In another minute it would give way. He ran to the window and leaned out. Then he drew in sharply, for from the darkness two bullets shattered the pane. Golaz and Gamba were on watch down there. No escape that way.
He wheeled around, desperate. The door under the combined weight of Castelli and the doctor was beginning to bulge, to crack. In another minute they would be in the room. He was trapped, unarmed, helpless. He was lost.
Then suddenly the pressure on his door ceased. They had paused to listen to what was going on below. The inn-keeper had jumped out of bed and run into the kitchen.
Hugh heard him cry: “What’s wrong! Nom de Dieu! What’s the matter? Ho! there, you two fellows!... Why, they’re gone. Ah! the door’s open....”
Daring another shot Hugh leaned from the window. Golaz had taken up a position behind the door and as the inn-keeper came out, threw his arms around him. In that bear hug of a grip, Pascal was as helpless as a child. He gave one great, hoarse cry, then Gamba had him by the throat.
The three were locked in a silent, deadly struggle. All at once Hugh heard again the ominous crack of the breaking door. Now was his time, now or never. He would slip down the pipe and then ... leave the rest to luck. As he climbed out on the sill of the window he heard a cry of alarm. Golaz and Gamba had seen him. They still gripped the inn-keeper. When he slipped to the foot of the pipe he, too, would be seized and held. No, that way was madness. What to do then?
There was another way ... up! The eaves of the house were only a few feet above his window. That was it, the roof.
So instead of slipping down the iron pipe, he wriggled upward. He clutched the gutter that collected the rain. It held and with a fierce jerk he pulled himself level. A second later he was sprawling on the slope of the roof.
From below came a howl of baffled rage. Golaz and Gamba were cursing both him and themselves. At the same instant Castelli and the doctor burst into the room. Soon came the voice of Doctor Bergius from the window.
“Where is he? Have you seen him?”
“Yes, the roof. He’s on the roof.”
“Oh, you fools, you cursed fools! Why did you let him get away again? What have you got there?”
“The inn-keeper. He tried to interfere.”
“Seems to me he’s lying suspiciously still. Hold on, I’m coming down.”
There was a pause; then again the voice of the doctor. “Gamba, you little devil, the man’s dead!”
“Yes, Master,” said Gamba humbly, “I’m afraid I squeezed a little too hard.”
“Bah! well, too late now. Take the body and throw it into the stream at the back. People will think he was drowned. Where’s the Englishman?”
“One can’t see him. The angle of the house hides him. But he’s up there all right.”
“Very well. You two men dispose of that body; Castelli, you run back a bit and see if you can see him.”
Hugh realized that, where he lay flat on the snow-covered roof, he was an easy mark. A belated moon gleaming through the cloud-fleece, would direct their aim. On the other side of the house was darkness and the protection of the stream. He must gain that. Keeping his feet in the gutter he worked along the roof till he came to the end of it, then gripping the slate edge, desperately he pulled himself up until he was astride of the ridge.
A shot whistled past him. That would never do. Castelli could pick him off as he crouched low on the ridge. He allowed his body to slip a little way down the side next to the stream. Thus hidden from them, half embedded in the snow, he clutched desperately at the angle of the ridge and waited. What would they do next?
Everything was very quiet, a quiet full of menace. Beyond a doubt they were carrying out some fresh scheme. The suspense was too great to be borne; he must know at all costs what they were doing. With a great effort he drew himself up and peered over.
He saw a sight that filled him with terror and despair ... the head and shoulders of Gamba, appearing over the edge of the roof. Stealthy and catlike the little man was climbing with no apparent effort. Now he was sliding like a monkey along the gutter, now he was drawing himself up to the peak, now he was astride the ridge. Hugh stared into his black vindictive eyes, saw his lips parted in that grin of incredible evil, the revolver held ready in his hand.
“Don’t shoot, Gamba,” he heard the doctor say from below. “Get him alive. Make him come down.”
Gamba bent over and seized Hugh by the arm; behind the pointed pistol, his eyes glittered malignantly.
“Come,” he hissed.
With a sudden wrench Hugh freed himself from the hand that gripped him, and as he did so, he felt himself sliding. He clutched desperately at the angle of the roof, but in vain. The snow on which he lay was slipping, slipping. Gamba clawed at him frantically. Too late! the whole snow mass crashed down like a miniature avalanche. Helpless, turning over in the descent, Hugh went with it, down, down over the edge of the roof into the black depths below....
He felt himself rushing through space. His one agonizing thought was: “When I stop falling what will I strike? Is this the end?” Then....
He plunged into deep water. Instinctively he broke the force of his descent with his arms and legs; but even then he struck the rocky bottom forcibly. He rose quickly to the surface.
He realized that he was in the fish pool, swirling round and round. He put out his hand and clutched at an object. Ugh! It was the dead body of the inn-keeper. Horror and fear maddened him. With half a dozen swift strokes, he had gained the opposite bank. He clutched hold of some bushes and pulled himself out.
The men had rushed around to the back of the house, and were firing into the black pool. It was so dark that they did not see him as he staggered up the rocky bank. He heard Doctor Bergius shouting in violent anger:
“Gamba, I’ll flay you for this. By God, I’ll kill you. He’s escaped us again.”
Yes, he was safe—at least for awhile. He stumbled through the darkness of the forest, half crazed, walking like a blind man, fear and despair urging him on.
It seemed to him he must have walked for hours, over rocks, through bush, knee deep in streams, always climbing. His hands and feet were torn and bleeding. At length he could go no further....
Some one was shaking him, telling him to get up. Reluctantly he roused. Above him were a pair of grim, scornful eyes and a face stern as Fate.
Over the hills the dawn was breaking.