The Web of the Golden Spider

“You felt it? Has the image–” he asked a bit anxiously.

“No–oh, I can’t make you understand, but I’m sure something moved in the bushes.”

“Stay close to me then,” he laughed quietly.

He turned back to Manning who was turning the image over and over in his hands with indifferent interest. To him it was nothing more than a curio–a metal doll. But when he caught the glint of a moonbeam on the jeweled eyes, he bent over it with keener concern. He raised it in his hands and stared steadily back into the cold eyes. This stare soon became fixed and Manning began to grow slightly rigid. Wilson snatched the object from his hands. For a moment the man remained immovable; then he rubbed his hand over his brow, muttering incoherently to himself. This nervous symptom disappeared and Manning apparently instantly forgot the idol again. He called for his daughter. She came closer to his side and he rested his head against her shoulder.

“Dear father,” she murmured affectionately.

“I–I can’t think,” he said.

“Don’t try, Daddy. Wait until we get out of here and you are all well again.”

“If I could reach my ship,” he muttered.

“What ship, Daddy?”

“Why, my own–the ‘Jo Manning.’”

That took her back to the time she was a very little girl. She remembered now that he had named the ship after her,–the last ship which he had sailed out of Newburyport. Poor old daddy! What a different man he was this moment from him who had held her in his arms and kissed her with tears rolling down his bronzed cheeks. It wrenched her heart to watch him sitting there so listlessly–so weakly–so little himself. The fear was growing in her heart that he never would be the same again. Almost–almost it was better to remember him as he was then than to know him as he sat there now. Had it not been for the comfort, for the joy of another order, for the safety she felt in this younger man by her side, her heart would have broken at the sight. If only she could have found him during those few days he was in Boston–when the crystals had first shown him to her–when he must have passed within a few feet of her, it might not then have been so difficult to rouse him. But at that time he would not have known his own.

A bedlam of raucous, clamorous shrieks settling into a crude sort of war cry brought all four of them to their feet. Wilson thrust the girl back of him towards the cave-like formation behind them. This effectually protected them in the rear and partly from two sides. Stubbs swept the bags of jewels into his arms and carried them to one corner of this natural excavation. Then he took his position by the side of Wilson and Manning, who was unarmed. The three waited the approach of the unseen demons. Not a light, not the glint of a weapon could be seen. But before their eyes, in and out among the trees making up the dense growth, shadows flitted back and forth in a sort of ghost dance. In addition to the hoarse shouting, the air was rent from time to time by the sound of a blast as from a large horn.

The effect of this upon Manning, who had been thrust behind them by Wilson, was peculiar. At each blast he threw back his head and sniffed at the air as a war horse does at sound of the bugle. His eyes brightened, his lean frame quivered with emotion, his hands closed into tight knots. The girl, observing this, crept closer to him in alarm. She seized his arm and called to him, but he made no response.

“Father! Father!” she shouted above the din.

He started forward a pace, but she drew him back. Seeing her he came to himself again for a moment. She scarcely knew him; the old look of intensity which strained almost every feature out of the normal had transformed him. He stood now as it were between two personalities. He partially realized this, for he stepped forward behind Wilson and shouted:

“They come! They come! I–I think I can stop them–for a little. If–if I do, don’t delay–don’t wait for me.”

Wilson thought he rambled.

“Do you hear? Quick–tell me?”

“Yes,” shouted Wilson.

The din seemed to be approaching in an ever-narrowing circle. It came from all sides–a noise so deafening, so full of unusual sounds that it was in itself terrifying. Again came the blast, followed by another and another. Manning caught sight of the image upon the ground. It acted like magic. He snatched it up. But the girl, regardless of danger, ran to his side.

“Don’t,” she cried in a panic. “What is the matter, father?”

He looked down at her with eyes which scarcely reflected any recognition.

“Don’t go, father. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know your daughter? See, I am Jo–Jo! Do you understand?”

Even in the midst of this other danger–the noise and imminent peril, the two men heard and turned away their heads at the sight with throats straining with emotion. Manning looked back with hardly a gleam of his true self showing in his eyes. And yet there was something left which made him pause–which in one flash brought him back for a second. He stooped and kissed her. Then he raised himself and facing the two men pointed towards the woods behind them.

“Go,” he commanded.

Another blast and he clutched the idol to his breast. He raised his eyes to the East and the three stood dumbfounded–from his throat there issued a cry so wild, so weird, that it checked their breathing. Instantly following there was silence from the shadows. One, two, three, four seconds passed–still that silence which was nerve-racking in its intensity. Then a cry rang out from among the trees so piercing that the girl put her arm up over her eyes as though to ward off a blow. A hundred forms appeared from the trees. Stubbs and Wilson raised their rifles. But with a sweeping motion back with his hand, the Priest bade the two men pause. He disappeared into the shadows where he was greeted with a sort of pæan of joy. Then silence. Then a few sharp-spoken words. Then silence again.

Wilson, scarcely believing this was not some evil dream, gripped Stubbs’ arm.

“Come,” he gasped. “Let’s get out. This–this is hell.”

He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.

“Get a grip on yourself, Jo–just for a little. We must go–at once.”

“But Daddy–Daddy–”

Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.

“It is better–as it is.”

Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.

Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,–on–on–on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.

For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope for one bit of good luck more–that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl’s father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.

But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.

The girl, to be sure, sobbed at first a good deal in the dark but the two men knew nothing of this. Soon, after the first acute pain of the personal loss, she was able to reason a little with herself. It seemed to her then, remembering how much a child he was when with her and how strong and powerful he looked as he stepped into the woods, that perhaps, after all, he would be happier with his many children than with her. Then always there was the opportunity of coming back to him,–coming under better auspices and with better opportunities for really bringing him to his own. It was this last thought that finally brought her real consolation.

“Perhaps,” she said to Wilson, hesitating a trifle in fear that he might not approve of the suggestion, “perhaps some day we can come back here to him, David.”

“I had thought of it, dear. He saved our lives; if he had remained, not one of us would have got out of here. That in itself is enough to make us everlastingly beholden to him. But–” he paused, “I think, dear heart, that it is kinder to let him remain even among heathen people a strong man with power, than to bring him back, a child, to die.”

“He chose for himself, David.”

“Yes–and was able to realize and be glad that he had been given another chance to do for his daughter.”

The girl thought a moment. Then her face brightened.

“That–that alone makes the trip worth while.”

“That–and this,” he answered, drawing her to his side.

“Yes,” she whispered, “and in a way he gave me you–he gave me you.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

A Dash for Port

The Queen of Carlina, after a restless night, rose one fair morning early in October and dressed herself long before the appearance of her maids. There had been much to disturb her sleep, rumor upon rumor and arrest after arrest during the last few days, and last night a long conference with her advisers. Before she retired she had turned wearily to Otaballo, who remained a few minutes after the others departed.

“My General,” she said, “I’m tired of it all. Let them do as they will.”