Beyond the Black River Read Free Page B

no one will ever find her, except you. De Albor tortured Ahmed until he told that I had sent for a friend of the girl’s, to aid us. Then De Albor sent his men up the road with what was left of Ahmed, as a warning to you if you came. It was this morning that they seized us; I hid Constance last night. Not even Ahmed knew where. De Albor tortured me to make me tell —” the dying man’s hands clenched and a fierce passionate light blazed in his eyes. McGrath knew that not all the torments of all the hells could ever have wrung that secret from Ballville’s iron lips.
    “It was the least you could do,” he said, his voice harsh with conflicting emotions. “I’ve lived in Hell for three years because of you — and Constance has. You deserve to die. If you weren’t dying already I’d kill you myself.”
    “Damn you, do you think I want your forgiveness?” gasped the dying man. “I’m glad you suffered. If Constance didn’t need your help, I’d like to see you dying as I’m dying — and I’ll be waiting for you in Hell. But enough of this. De Albor left me awhile to go up the road and assure himself that Ahmed was dead. This beast got to swilling my brandy and decided to torture me some himself.
    “Now listen — Constance is hidden in Lost Cave. No man on earth knows of its existence except you and me — not even the Negroes. Long ago I put an iron door in the entrance, and I killed the man who did the work; so the secret is safe. There’s no key. You’ve got to open it by working certain knobs.”
    It was more and more difficult for the man to enunciate intelligibly. Sweat dripped from his face, and the cords of his arms quivered.
    “Run your fingers over the edge of the door until you find three knobs that form a triangle. You can’t see them; you’ll have to feel. Press each one in counter-clockwise motion, three times, around and around. Then pull on the bar. The door will open. Take Constance and fight your way out. If you see they’re going to get you, shoot her! Don’t let her fall into the hands of that black beast —”
    The voice rose to a shriek, foam spattered from the livid writhing lips, and Richard Ballville heaved himself almost upright, then toppled limply back. The iron will that had animated the broken body had snapped at last, as a taut wire snaps.
    McGrath looked down at the still form, his brain a maelstrom of seething emotions, then wheeled, glaring, every nerve atingle, his pistol springing into his hand.
    3. The Black Priest
    A man stood in the doorway that opened upon the great outer hall — a tall man in a strange alien garb. He wore a turban and a silk coat belted with a gay-hued girdle. Turkish slippers were on his feet. His skin was not much darker than McGrath’s, his features distinctly oriental in spite of the heavy glasses he wore.
    “Who the devil are you?” demanded McGrath, covering him.
    “Ali ibn Suleyman, effendi,” answered the other in faultless Arabic. “I came to this place of devils at the urging of my brother, Ahmed ibn Suleyman, whose soul may the Prophet ease. In New Orleans the letter came to me. I hastened here. And lo, stealing through the woods, I saw black men dragging my brother’s corpse to the river. I came on, seeking his master.”
    McGrath mutely indicated the dead man. The Arab bowed his head in stately reverence.
    “My brother loved him,” he said. “I would have vengeance for my brother and my brother’s master. Effendi, let me go with you.”
    “All right.” McGrath was afire with impatience. He knew the fanatical clan-loyalty of the Arabs, knew that Ahmed’s one decent trait had been a fierce devotion for the scoundrel he served. “Follow me.”
    With a last glance at the master of the Manor and the black body sprawling like a human sacrifice before him, McGrath left the chamber of torture. Just so, he reflected, one of Ballville’s warrior-king ancestors might have lain in some dim past age, with a slaughtered slave at