CHAPTER VII

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*The Plotters*

Such had been the throbbing interest and excitement of that eventful day, that I had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink--I had not thought of it--and now my only craving was for water. Of that I took a long, cold draught, then went up to my lonely bed-chamber. But not to rest; there could be no rest for me now!

Pacing the room I thought bitterly of the state of things, and how different it might all have been but for my own surpassing carelessness; thought, too, of the old man who sat lonely and disconsolate below; of Tubal Ammon and his mischief-working master.

Thus to and fro I went, I know not for how long, while shame and self-reproach hung close and heavy at my heels: but at every turn the hopelessness and desperation of my mind increased, until at length I could endure my thoughts no longer. The confines of that little chamber seemed to grow smaller and more suffocating every moment, until they were as those of some pestiferous dungeon in which I was a maddened prisoner. I must do something--take action, no matter how preposterous and wild--or lose my senses.

Going over to the open window I stood there looking out across the bay. A cool sea breeze played most refreshingly upon my heated face; I drew it in with thankfulness.

The tumult in the town had sunk to silence, the night was dark and still as death. Far off I saw the bobbing lanterns of the three black ships whose coming had so altered everything.

It all seemed like a dream or ugly nightmare, and I was thinking so when suddenly I saw a tiny twinkling light upon the cliffs, it might be half a mile away. On this--I know not why, unless it was presentiment--my eyes became fixed in a fascinated stare. Who at such an hour ('twas now close on midnight) had business in so desolate and wild a spot? Barely had I asked the question, when another light, a trifle larger, blinked forth in answer, some distance from the first one. Even as I watched, they quickly drew together, got close enough to make them seem one light, and then were lost to me.

Here, then, was what I craved for--chance of action! Some mystery was afoot there on the cliffs. I would endeavour to make out the nature of it.

Recking nothing of the risks I ran, careless of everything save blessed movement, I stuck two loaded pistols in my belt, crept downstairs with a noiseless stealth, and left the house.

If ever youth went forth blindfolded on a reckless, wild adventure, I surely was that youth; if ever mind was nearly bursting with a hare-brained folly, such certainly was Michael Fane's as he passed out into the darkness of that fateful night. Yet, had I been assured that Death himself was waiting to embrace me in his icy clasp, 'tis certain I would still have gone. Fate urged me on, nor did I need much driving.

As I have said, the night was dark, the moon being hidden by a mighty bank of clouds: and naught was to be seen save here and there a twinkling light among the distant houses of the town, where doubtless some late sitters talked upon the happenings of that stirring day, or those engaged upon rebellion laid their plans. Thus I had nothing more than chance to guide me to the spot where the two tell-tale lights had drawn so close together and then vanished.

Going full cautiously, stopping every now and then to listen, I crept across the open space which lay between me and the cliffs. Bush and bracken broke the ground at intervals, and thus, with no clear path discernible in such a darkness, it behoved me to move warily, lest by stumbling I might warn instead of catch.

Thus going in and out among the shrubs and ferns, and ever moving like some beast of prey, I came at length upon the narrow path which runs along the cliff-top. There, beaten, and inclined to curse my foolishness, I stood straight up and listened.

A rabbit scuttered somewhere close at hand, the sea moaned plaintively upon the shore below me, but not another sound was to be heard; it seemed, indeed, as though the silence whispered of my folly!

Had, then, my eyes deceived me? Had a seething, maddened brain struck lights where no lights were! It seemed so; or, if not, the bearers of those lights had gone their way, for I was certain that I was not far from where they had thus strangely met and disappeared. Yes, truly, I was minded to call one Michael Fane a fool!

Stay, though, what was that? A hundred yards or so away, across the scrub, I caught the sudden twinkle of a lantern. With bated breath I watched it for a moment, then, dropping down upon the ground, moved towards it like a slinking tiger. Scarcely had I started ere the light vanished just as quickly as it came, but that did not stop me. On hands and knees, feeling for every bush, I crawled on through the darkness. The cracking of the tiniest twig seemed like a gunshot to my anxious, straining ears, my tight-held breathing like the roaring of a grampus.

So slow and stealthy were my movements that a score yards took near half as many minutes: and having covered double that without result except a good array of scratches, I had again begun to doubt my eyes and mutter at my folly, when, as I paused a moment to consider matters, a sound like that of humming voices reached me from ahead.

Kneeling, I listened breathlessly, and with an eagerness as though my very life depended on the act, and yet, for all I knew, it might have been but poachers setting out their snares; therefore 'twould seem indeed as though black fate and dread presentiment went hand in hand that night.

As near as I could tell, the voices came from a spot not far away, and straight ahead of me, but so low and muffled were they that 'twas no easy matter to judge rightly on this point.

For a time I knelt there listening with all my might, first cocking this ear and then that, but all in vain--not one word reached me: the buzzing hum continued in a maddening fashion; indeed, it might have been a hive of droning bees for all that I could make of it.

Down on all-fours I went again, and, with the sound to guide me, crawled towards it.

Some twelve yards farther on I once more stopped to listen, and thus discovered that the talkers were on the far side of a ridge or hillock up which I had commenced to climb; and what was more, I made out that which stiffened me with dread, and set my heart off thumping like a hammer. For now I was near enough to separate the voices, low though they were, and one of them spoke in broadest Scotch--'twas Ferguson's; while the other there was no mistaking either--Tubal Ammon's!

Digging my fingers deep into the turf, for very fear lest overmastering astonishment should cause me to exclaim and so betray myself, I paused a moment, then, with cat-like stealth, crept up the bank.

'Twas a risky, daring business sure enough; the snapping of a twig, the rattle of a stone, and I had brought on me two desperate fellows, who would as soon take life as toss a penny. Still, as it seemed to me, 'twas worth a world of danger--nay, 'twas a stroke of glorious luck--to come thus on those two arch-plotters in their midnight tryst, catch them red-handed, as it were, and, perchance, confound them. And had I needed any goad to urge me forward (which I did not), there was the thought of him whom I had wronged, and who doubtless even then sat lonely and distracted in his study, brooding helplessly upon the dangers which beset him.

Thus I crept up, foot by foot--nay, inch by inch were nearer to the mark, my going was so slow--until at last I was near enough to make out wellnigh every word as it was spoken. Then, stretched full length upon the cool, soft turf, I lay there with a thumping heart and listened, drinking in all I heard as greedily as ever thirst-parched man drank water.

"'Tis so, then," Ferguson was saying; "you come here to drive a hard and grievous bargain, eh?"

"Aye, truly," answered Ammon; "no words could put it better: a bargain--a hard and grievous bargain if you will."

"And not to serve the godly cause?" whined Ferguson.

"Pish to your godly cause!" sneered Ammon. "I trow its value is the same to both of us--and that is money."

"What's that?" returned the chaplain fiercely.

"Cold truth, and nothing else," replied the other. "Look you, Doctor Robert Ferguson, methinks we know each other well--at least 'tis time we did. You, for a groat, would kill a man; by the same token, so would I. Let that suffice us both. We came not here to warble sweet religion through our noses, but to bargain. Let us therefore to the business of the night, without more vain pretence, or, by the Lord, I will away and leave you wanting what you hoped to gain."

"Enough!" groaned Ferguson. "A godless man is not to be persuaded of his evil-doing."

"Nor yet beguiled," snapped Ammon.

"Tut, tut, no more of that. You named a price. Let's see, now" (here I heard him scratch his tousled wig), "was it not fifty guineas?"

"The godlessness is on your side, methinks, friend Ferguson," sneered Ammon. "For verily you have a lie upon your lips. Full well you know the price was double that."

"What?" cracked Ferguson. "A hundr-r-ed guineas! Why, 'tis shee-r-r madness, man! Pr-r-e-poster-rous!" (His "r's" rolled like a drum.)

"Nathless, 'tis my price," returned the other coldly.

"But, man, good man! I have not such a wicked price upon me!"

"Another lie! for verily I see your pockets bulging with it. Have a care, friend Ferguson, or it may well go higher still."

"Nay, nay, that were impossible. Come, friend, let us bargain fairly. Say eighty guineas, and 'tis yours this instant."

"A hundred guineas!" answered Ammon sharply, "and that also instantly, or verily I take the thing away with me for ever. Look you, friend Ferguson, for over half an hour we have sat parleying here, and still you clutch your filthy gold and strive to trick me of my due. Have I not risked my very life to get this paltry thing, and was not the price agreed upon between us? Aye, verily; and unless 'tis paid down now, before these lips of mine have counted ten, that which you crave is gone from you for ever. Methinks I might make more of it elsewhere. One--two----"

"Stay! the box is with you, is it?" asked the chaplain, as a man who clutches at a straw.

"Fool!" snapped Tubal Ammon. "Have I not told thee so at least a dozen times already. Three--four--five----"

"Then prove it! Let me see it. Thou hast not done that yet."

"True, by my life, for once. Then here it is. Six----"

"Ah, my wee, black, bonny bairn! How dear thou wast to me! Wilt let me hold it, friend?"

"Yes, when the gold is counted out. Not till. Seven--eight. Nine!"

"Hast the key to it?"

"Nay, how should I? But 'tis easily forced open."

"Then I must prove the contents ere I pay so vast a sum. That is but fair; for, look you, friend, the box might very well be empty."

"'Tis not so," answered Ammon. "Listen!" He shook it, and I heard the fatal papers rustle.

"But other papers might have been put in," persisted Ferguson. "Therefore, I say, it must be proven. Burst it open, friend; but have a care in doing so, for verily I love it as a child."

The love of Tubal Ammon for it did not seem to count for much, for, with what sounded like a savage crack, he forced the lock and dragged the papers forth.

"Ah, let me see them! Give them to me," said the chaplain eagerly.

"Nay, not so quick, friend Ferguson," quoth Ammon. "Not till the price is paid, that is. Mayst see them if you will, but nothing more. Look you, here they are!"

I heard him smooth the parchments out; then caught the flicker of a lantern as he held it up for Ferguson to see them.

"What? there are three of them!" exclaimed the chaplain. "Well, that boots not. The one I want is there--the one you hold in front. Now, place them here betwixt us, underneath the box, while I count out thy most extortionate reward."

He gave a cracking laugh, of which the other took no heed; then came the clink of slowly-counted gold, the counting of a usurer who weighed each piece and loathed to part therefrom. "Thou art a hard, tight-fisted fellow, Tubal Ammon," snarled Ferguson when all was ready. "Here, then, is thy hard-wrung price, and may the Lord requite thee for the taking of it from a man so poor as me!"

Here Tubal Ammon laughed (or barked, were a truer name for it) and said:

"'Tis well; now we are quits, methinks, for each hath what he sorely wanted. As for your poverty, most worthy chaplain, I would right gladly barter it for mine. Yea, friend, I always thought you rich, yet was not sure of it; and now that it is clearly proven--now I learn that thou art poor! Enough; we never know the truth. _Docendo discimus_. Pardon such faulty Latin. But, what say you, shall we now let go a psalm upon the night? Truly, our voices are a trifle cracked, but yet methinks 'twould make a fine duetto. Hark you! Like this--join in!"

He raised a rasping, high-pitched voice, and sang a note or two.

"Stop, fool!" hissed Ferguson. "Wouldst bring danger on us? We know not who may be in earshot of such owlish screeching! Art clean daft?"

"Nay, only wondrous happy," answered Ammon.

"Yes, and why?" growled Ferguson. "Because, like Shylock, thou hast claimed thy pound of flesh?"

"Yea, verily, and got it; which is much more to the point."

"Yes, got it," quoth the chaplain bitterly. "Wrung it from me like the clutching Jew you are. Let that suffice, and add not gibe to injury."

"Ah, no! was ever miser yet who could bear parting with his gold, no matter how it had been earned?" sighed Ammon mockingly.

"The devil take thee!"

"Nay, I am his already--thanks to thee, most godly chaplain."

"Provoke me not too far," hissed Ferguson. "I am not to be trifled with. You know me well, friend Ammon."

"Yes, verily, I know you far too well."

"Then keep your rasping tongue still. There was more inside the box than I had bargained for; and I would scan these papers carefully in peace."

"And by the same token, sir," mocked Ammon, "I would fain count my money, lest, haply, thou hast overpaid me. Thus are we quits again."

Here, then, I had the real Tubal Ammon, so different from the sly, tale-telling wretch whom I had met beside the road; and here also was the real Ferguson. But of him I had already known so much that his present character seemed quite in keeping with my knowledge of him.

And now the crackling of parchment and chink of gold was all that reached my ears.

I lay there listening for a while, and then an overmastering desire came over me to look upon these workers of iniquity. Next moment I was moving like a serpent up the bank, holding my breath and fearful lest the very thumping of my heart might give the scoundrels warning and undo me.

At last I gained the ridge, and, having paused a moment, took a cautious peep beneath a little bush. And there I saw a sight indeed. 'Twas worth the risk. The rays of a lantern, set within a cleft, fell on the wicked, red-blotched face of Ferguson, as he sat there, with knees drawn up wellnigh to his chin, poring over his ill-gotten gain; it fell, too, on the evil, cunning face of Tubal Ammon, as, crouching low, he counted up his money with a greedy care. And, midway between them lay the rifled box. Never have I seen a sight more diabolical, and 'tis, perhaps, small wonder that the thought came rushing to my mind: Two Satans, with the light of Hades on them!

From my hiding-place behind the bracken I stared at them like one bewitched, till Ammon, having dropped the last gold-piece into a leathern pouch, glanced up at his companion. Then, fearing lest he might arise, I ducked my head and drew back down the bank a foot or two.

"Right to a single piece," quoth Tubal, jingling the pouch.

"I knew that well enough," growled Ferguson. "Have you a piece of cord wherewith to fasten up the box?"

"Yes, by my life, here is the very thing," replied the other. "Truly my usefulness exceeds all reckoning."

The chaplain murmured something which I did not catch, then, as it seemed to me, he folded up the papers, placed them in the box, and having tied the cord around it, said:

"And now to further business, friend."

"With all my heart; name it, I pray you," answered Tubal Ammon.

"These Fanes, then; you have seen them both?"

"Yes, more than once. Moreover, the coxcomb of a son I have twice come near killing."

"Ah, and what kind of man is he?"

"A great big lusty fellow, over six feet high. I owe him much, and will repay it. Yea, verily, his days are numbered."

"See thou to that. 'Tis no concern of mine. I have no quarrel with the son. But the old man, the father, Ammon" (here he lowered his voice into an ugly whisper), "he who robbed me--str-r-uck me down--I would have vengeance on that man. Yea, I would have him swept from off the earth. Canst do it?"

"Yes, easily."

"How, then? By pistol, bullet, or by knife?"

"Neither. I have a softer way than those, though no less sure."

"What's that?"

"Why, look you," answered Ammon, after fumbling in his coat, "see here--this tiny bow and arrows; things for boys to play with, say you? And yet a prick from one of them would kill the strongest man within an hour. Naught could save him, for they are dipped in deadliest poison."

"No, no! away with them! away with them!" cried Ferguson. "I could not think of it. 'Twere cruel, heathenish, nay, worse, 'twere rankly wicked!"

"Then, verily, our sense of wickedness is far from tallying, friend," sneered Ammon. "Killing is killing, as it seems to me, and the way of doing it makes little difference."

"Yes, but poison, friend, poison, I say, were cruel, heathenish; any way but that!"

"Well, we will leave the way, then. You want this man, this Gilbert Fane--well, let us say, removing. Is that so?"

"Yes; for not only do I hate him, but I also fear him somewhat."

"And you would have me do it for you?"

"Yes."

"Then I will do it--at a price."

"Price!" snapped Ferguson. "Oh, thou grasping, greedy fellow. Doth not the hundred guineas cover this small extra service also?"

"Nay, by life it doth not," answered Ammon slowly. "One bargain doth not drive a second."

"Well, well," groaned Ferguson. "What is your price, then? Name it."

"Ten guineas."

"What!" almost shrieked the chaplain. "Ten guineas just to kill a man?"

"Yes, and a low price too. I run great risk in doing it."

"Oh, thou extortioner! thou greedy leech! But, come, 'tis surely but a jest. Say five and I am with thee."

"Ten guineas."

"Eight."

"Ten."

"No, no! I will not pay a sum so wicked."

"Then Gilbert Fane lives on for all I care, and with him, as you just now showed, your fear and hatred of the man."

"O Lord!" sighed Ferguson, "when will this cruel bleeding of me cease? Right well hast thou been named, thou godless, grasping Jew; for was not Tubal one of Shylock's friends? But, say, if I agree with thee, when wilt thou wipe this fellow off the earth? The Duke rides forth from Lyme within a day or two, and I would be assured that Gilbert Fane is dead before I leave. What, then?"

"He shall be dead before this time to-morrow," answered Tubal Ammon firmly.

"But what proof shall I have that it is so?"

"Good proof, sure proof, a proof there can be no gainsaying."

"Name it, then."

"The key that fits that box," replied the other slowly. "It hangs by a ribbon round his neck. I saw it as I watched him through the window. That will I bring as proof."

"Enough, then; 'tis a bargain. Bring me that key and I will pay thy cruel, wicked price. And now let me away before I am clean ruined."

Here both men rose; but now it was my turn. Throughout their foul plotting my blood had risen pell-mell, till now, with the dastardly completion of their bargain, 'twas surging through me like a burning flood, which drowned all power of reasoning, and seemed to make me someone that I knew not. 'Twas wildly, madly planned, I know--nay, 'twas not planned at all. I had done better to have crept up to the ridge and tried to shoot them thence without their knowing it. I had done ten times better still, to have used the knowledge I had gained to save my father and gone off silently, leaving those thrice-accursed fellows in their ignorance. I see that clearly now. But then the power to reason, plan, nay, even think, had clean forsaken me; while as for caution, danger, fear--I knew them not. One fierce, ungovernable wish was mine--namely, to kill these would-be murderers of my father and regain the box.

Drawing a pistol from my belt I rose suddenly and sprang upon the ridge. Ferguson had just picked up the lantern, but now he flung it far away, and uttering one loud, whelping cry of terror, fled off--with both hands raised above his head--into the night. I took a flying shot at him, but all in vain, for he had vanished ere I pulled the trigger.

'Twas far different with Tubal Ammon; snatching up his money-bags he leapt back with a ringing oath, and there I could just make him out, a dim, black, post-like blotch amid the darkness. In haste I whipped the other pistol from my belt.

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