The Golden Bough. Gibbs George
thank you again, Mademoiselle."
She touched his fingers lightly but he caught her own and held them a moment.
"Good-by," he said gently.
"God bless and preserve you, Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered.
He stepped out into the garden, the girl just behind him indicating the gate in the wall about fifty yards distant, the only exit from the enclosure. But as he emerged from the shadow of the house and turned up the path toward the gate a loud whistle sounded from the direction of the daïs, where the monkish figure that had been on guard rose suddenly, like a raven interrupted at a meal, flapping its wings and screaming discordantly. To his left in the wall of the house, doors flew open noisily and men emerged, Ivanitch, the shock-headed man, and another. They did not come toward Rowland but moved abreast of him as he went up the garden path, silent, watchful, keeping pace with him, like men in open order advancing in skirmish-line, Ivanitch nearest him, not more than three paces distant, Ivanitch the fantastic, Ivanitch the impossible. Rowland eyed him curiously. His face was moist with perspiration and the wisp of black hair was glued to his white forehead. His eyes no longer blazed for they were invisible under the dark thatch of his bent brows, but his figure and gait gave every token of the strange terror that had suddenly swept over him in the middle of their conversation last night.
Rowland grinned at him cheerfully. They dreaded him, these four men, dreaded and feared him, but Ivanitch dreaded and feared him most. The situation was comic. Rowland increased his pace; they increased theirs. He paused; they stopped. It was like a game, Rowland went on again. He was the "guide," it seemed, of this strange awkward squad. But as he neared the turn in the path which led to the gate, the shock-headed man went forward in the direction of the daïs while Ivanitch came a pace closer, bent forward, his long arms hanging, still watching him eagerly. The creature was menacing. The distance to the gate was now short, but the idea of turning his back to this madman, who might spring upon him from behind, was most unpleasant. So Rowland stopped and faced him, catching a glimpse of Tanya Korasov who had followed them and stood nearby, listening and watching, aware of the hazardous moment.
"It is a pleasant morning, Monsieur Ivanitch," said Rowland coolly.
"The gate-is yonder," croaked the Russian. "Go!"
"All in good time," said Rowland. "But I've something to say first."
The Russian's thin lips worked but he said nothing, though his fingers twitched against his legs.
"I thank you for your hospitality-such as it is. But you don't like me, Monsieur. Our sentiments are reciprocal. Your attitude even now is most unpleasant-not to say offensive. Were it not for Mademoiselle, I should have lost my temper long ago."
"Go-! Go-!" cried the Russian chokingly. He seemed trembling on the brink of some nervous paroxysm.
"When I'm ready. In the meanwhile, listen-"
"What have I to do with you?"
"You know best about that," said Rowland coolly, aware of a new desire to probe the mystery if he could.
The eyes of Ivanitch, paling as though they could not endure the sunlight, stared wildly as he raised his haggard face.
"You have known from-from the beginning?" muttered Ivanitch.
"Yes, yes," cried Rowland eagerly.
"It is not true, Kirylo Ivanitch," he heard the girl Tanya crying. "He knew nothing. He knows nothing now." And then, appealingly to Rowland, "Oh, go, Monsieur. Please go, at once."
But Ivanitch was oblivious.
"Destiny!" he muttered wildly. "The Visconti-!"
Rowland started back.
"Visconti!" he repeated. It was the family name of his own mother.
Ivanitch wagged his great head from side to side, his fists clasping and unclasping in the throes of some mad indecision. And then he came for Rowland, head down, his long arms groping. The American heard the girl's scream and the shouts of the other men as he sprang aside to elude the rush, but Ivanitch was quick and in a moment they were locked in struggle.
Rowland was tall, wiry and agile, but privation had sapped some of his strength and the grip of the Russian around his body bore him backward up the lawn, along the wall where they both tripped over a projecting root and fell to the ground, Ivanitch uppermost. The fall stunned Rowland, but he managed to get a hand on the Russian's throat and clutched with the strength of desperation. A madman! Once in a German trench he had fought with such another, but there were weapons there, and fortune had favored him. But his fingers seemed to meet in the throat of the fanatic and the grip around his own body relaxed as, with an effort, he threw the man away from him and rolled clear. As he sprang to his feet he was aware of the other men attacking him. There was a sound of shots and the familiar acrid smell of powder, but he felt no pain and as the shock-headed fellow came at him, a short arm blow under the chin sent him reeling against a tree where he crumpled and fell.
As he turned again to meet Ivanitch he had a vision of Tanya with arm upraised and heard her clear voice above the tumult.
"Picard! Issad! Stop! I command you!" And then, "Kirylo! Monsieur Rowlan'! It is madness."
Madness it was, but none of Phil Rowland's choosing. They had fought to a point just below the mound of earth on which he had first seen Tanya by the tree and it was at the foot of the steps that Ivanitch again rushed at him. Rowland's blow staggered him but he came on furiously, and as the arm of the Russian went high over his head, the American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon and threw up his arm, catching the force of the blow upon his elbow. But he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder and clutched the man's arm as he raised it to strike again. Up the slope of the mound they struggled, breathlessly intent, the one to murder, the other to save himself. Rowland fought coolly now, grimly, smiling as a soldier of the Legion must, aware that only as long as the threatening right arm of the Russian was pinioned was he safe from the treacherous knife. But it was right arm against left and too close to strike. Rowland avoided the stone bench toward which the Russian had forced him, and twisting suddenly freed his right arm and struck the Russian a fearful blow in the body. He felt the arm of Ivanitch relax and in a second had torn the weapon from his clasp and sent it flying into the bushes. Ivanitch came at him again-and again Rowland struck-each time with greater precision. Ivanitch rushed him against the tree, a branch of which was torn off in Rowland's hand.
He heard a cry behind him and a whimper as of an animal in pain from Ivanitch. "The Bough!" he cried. "The Bough!" But as he came on again, Rowland stepped aside and hit him as he passed. The Russian staggered sideways, his head striking the stone bench, rolled down the slope of the mound and lay still.
The American slowly straightened and glanced around him. A sudden silence had fallen. At the foot of the steps stood Tanya Korasov, a revolver in her hand and beside her the scarecrow in black, and the two others, inert, horrified. Rowland breathing hard from his exertions stared stupidly at the misshapen bundle of clothing at the foot of the slope and then down at the branch of the tree which he still held in his hand.
"The Bough!" the shock-headed man muttered in an awed whisper, "the Golden Bough!"
Rowland raised the branch of the tree, looked at it curiously and then dropped it to the ground.
"You saw? – " he gasped to the motionless group below. "You saw? He attacked me. It was self-defense. It was not my fault."
Tanya Korasov had rushed to the sprawling figure in the Prince Albert coat, lifted its head, and then recoiled in horror, her face hidden in her hands.
"You saw," Rowland repeated as he came toward them, "all of you-it was self-defense."
They drew back as he came down the steps but made no effort to molest him.
"The Golden Bough!" the shock-headed man said again. And another, "It is broken."
It was no time for such gibberish. Rowland turned them a scornful shoulder and went over to the girl beside the motionless black figure.
To the question in his eyes the girl's eyes replied.
"He is-dead," she whispered.
And