CHAPTER XXXVI

Dimsdale brings his accusing words to a close in a silence that is almost painful in its intensity. All eyes are upon him. He remains calm and unperturbed as ever, and there is no flush of triumph in his face but rather on the contrary a slight pallor, befitting one who has accomplished a duty, to his own cost.

A gurgling throaty sound diverts the gaze of all from the secretary to the fallen victim of this duel.

Sheridan is trying to speak, and is clutching at his throat as if something is there that blocks the passage of his words. His livid face has changed to an angry blotchy purple, not pleasant to look upon.

The game is up and he knows it. Then the furious torrent of his abuse finds utterance.

"Curse, ye, ye murdherin' lawyer," he shouts at Dimsdale, "may the divil take ye!--I'll keep it up no longer--why should I? Sure, 'tis my glory and pride to call myself England's enemy! I defy ye! I'll fight ye fair, and I'll tell ye all!"--he glares around the court with such fierce blazing eyes that more than one man involuntarily lowers his gaze before them--"No need for that sneaking hound to drag the truth from me by inches--I'll not demean myself, talking to such trash! 'Twill be my proudest boast that I did what I could, an' may there be many to follow after me! I did not sail from America, then. 'Twas from a little spot on the coast of Scotland that I put out, the very same day the _Marathon_ left harbour, knowing well the way she would pass, an' prayin' in me heart I might be the desthruction of her--as I would be of ivery ship in the cursed English Navy if 'twas in my power to be! I hoped that I might fool thim on board of her and bring them to their death!"

A gasp of horror at this devilish avowal escapes the admiral's lips. But for this, not a sound nor a word is raised in interruption as Sheridan goes on:

"An' we did fool ye, fine! I could have laughed aloud at the lot of ye, poor simpletons that ye were, ready to listen to the first foolish tale that was poured into your long ears! 'Tis the English all over--and ye think yourselves the cleverest nation on earth. Pah, I deshpise the lot of ye."

"Then it was you that--Call in the guard, we must have him under arrest," exclaims the President.

"Under arrest is it? Dye think I hadn't made provision for the chance of that same? Bad luck to me that I failed to blow up the ship! Though as things turned out----"

"_He failed! Listen to him--do you hear what he says? He failed to blow up the ship!_"--It is Stapleton who cries aloud like an inspired prophet to whom has been revealed a life-giving message; and the glory of this enlightenment transfigures his face with a wonderful radiance.

He staggers across the room even as he speaks, and stands at Norah's side. He would show her, it seems, that his love is not dead, and would have her to understand how utterly glad he is that his hateful duty has been accomplished without bringing the dreaded results upon her head.

But she sees nothing of her lover's pleading looks and gestures. She has hidden her face, and is cowering down before the stinging fury of Patrick's invective. Well she knew that her cousin would not spare her.

"As for you, you traitress," he snarles at her, "black shame to you for preventing me! To hell with you for a perjured girl that has brought disgrace upon her country and dishonoured her mother's grave! Ah, then, don't think ye'll escape for your treachery--you and your fine lover for whose sake ye've sold yourself. I say, to hell with ye--to hell with ye all! _The Saints above be praised, I've still got the bomb!_"

Before anyone can realise what the man is doing, much less make any attempt to prevent him, he plunges his hand beneath his coat and draws from its hiding place there something which he holds closely to his eyes and fumbles with hastily.

What this object may be is not clearly discernible; it is hidden by Sheridan's hands except for a momentary gleam of white metal.

But Norah knows and so does Netta. Both the girls spring to their feet and raise their voices simultaneously in a warning cry.

Too late! Patrick has succeeded in securing the moments necessary for adjusting the bomb for instantaneous explosion, and with a mocking laugh of triumph he flings it to the ground in the midst of the court.

There is a shriek from Netta--the first start of a movement on the part of everyone to make a rush for the doors; as if there could be time to save themselves--and the crashing noise of the metal bomb falling on the wooden floor.

And no other sound follows. The bomb has failed to explode!

Already most of those present are crowding at the doorways. Sheridan stands with folded arms, smiling contemptuously; he knows that it is only an affair of an instant, and that before anyone can force a way from the room the whole building will be wrecked to atoms.

Mrs. Shaw, brave woman, has not joined in the general stampede. She is seizing the two girls and endeavouring to pull them down to the ground as the safest place where little safety of any sort is to be found.

But Norah tears herself away.

Ah, what is the rash girl about to do?

Stapleton sees, and leaps after her to prevent her; but he is not in time, she is too quick for him.

She dashes across the floor of the room to where the bomb lies in the midst. It is but a second since it has left Sheridan's hands. He too, starts forward to stop her, but she evades him.

She has picked up the bomb and is holding it tightly in her hand. No time to alter the adjustment now--there is only one thing to be done, and she does it.

She takes a few quick running strides towards one of the windows, and hurling the bomb with all her strength sends it crashing through the glass.

It scarcely touches the ground outside before it explodes with a deafening roar. The whole building rocks, and the windows of the room are blown inwards, the clatter of broken glass and splintered framework adding to the noise and confusion.

Stapleton has reached Norah's side a moment after the bomb leaves her hand, and is bending over her to shelter her with his body as the building sways with the concussion.

A moment, and the danger is seen to be over. The force of the explosion has spent itself in the open air, and save for a few falling stones and loosened plaster, broken windows and unhinged doors, the house is unscathed, and so are all within it.

Still holding Norah in his arms, Stapleton whispers incoherent words of love and admiration for her deed. He scarcely knows what he is saying; but he knows that he will never let her go away from him again.

And, indeed, she pays but little heed to her lover's words. Gently disengaging herself from his arms she turns from him and moves towards the admiral, who is one of the few who have not attempted to escape from the room; both he and Dimsdale have kept their places calmly through it all.

Norah is standing before the admiral and looking up appealingly into his kindly face. She comes to him as a suppliant; but as a suppliant who claims rather than begs for mercy.

"It was quite true," she says in a low voice, but so clearly that everyone can hear what she is saying, "there was a bomb--but you have seen what has become of it! That bomb was never used for the wicked purpose it was intended for; whatever it was that sank the _Marathon_, it was no deed of ours."

"Bad cordite, right enough; no doubt about that now!" interrupts Dimsdale, speaking quite cheerfully as if it were something he is greatly pleased about.

"And I saved you, I saved the lives of all of you," continues Norah's pleading voice. "That makes some difference, doesn't it? Will that atone for what I have done?"

The admiral hardly knows how to answer her in words, though his moistening eyes show what he thinks of the brave girl who has risked her own life to make amends for the past.

It will not be a difficult matter to deal leniently with these girls who have been misled and have now striven their hardest to make amends. Indeed, there is not much that can be said to their charge even in intention.

With Patrick Sheridan, however, the ease stands very differently. Not only has he deliberately made the attempt to destroy one of His Majesty's ships, an attempt thwarted by those who were to have been his accomplices, but now there is this other murderous outrage of attempted wholesale slaughter. But where is Sheridan? He is not to be seen. Has he succeeded in escaping in the general confusion?

What is that little group of officers over there in the corner of the room as if with the purpose of hiding something from view?

From the group emerges the fleet surgeon, Stapleton's fleet surgeon, and coming up to the admiral whispers to him to get the ladies out of the room as quickly as he can.

No charge will ever be laid against Patrick Sheridan. The justice of Fate has found him out, fulfilling that ancient doom pronounced upon the doers of evil; "_they have digged a pit for others and are fallen into the midst of it themselves._"

Just a tiny fragment of the steel bomb has winged its way in a flight so direct that surely the hand of Destiny must have guided it, and it lies buried in the brain of the man who devised both the infernal instrument itself and its still more infernal purpose.

Norah divines the meaning of the fleet surgeon's whisper; she has guessed what it is that lies concealed by that hedge of men.

"No need, sir, to hide it from me," she says, undaunted even by this dread blow, "I know what it is! Whatever else Patrick was, he was no coward; he was willing to die with the rest of us for what he thought right. Let me go to him. He was a brave man."

"And you are brave, too," says the admiral, "it is you who have saved all our lives!"

"At the risk of your own, Norah, my beloved," adds Stapleton.

"What did that matter?" exclaims the girl, locking her hand into that of her lover. "That was a very little thing! What value is my life?"

"It is everything in the world to me," Stapleton answers her.

_Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London and Reading_