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THE VIKING'S SKULL
BY JOHN R. CABLING.
Author of 'The Shadow of the Czar ' etc.
[COPTBIGHT.]
PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER IV.— TRAGEDY!
Mrs Breakspear sat by the open case
ment enjoying the deep beauty of the
evening. Tie air was still and clear,
and over the bay hang one star spark
ling in a sapphire sky:
Idris, seated with her, had eyes for
nothing but the yacht Nemesis, which
lay etill out in the offing, rising and
falling with the motion of the tide, end
showing a tiny light at the atern.
'Look, mother!' he cried suddenly.
'xney are putting out a ooat.'
By the faint starlight they could see
in the boat seven men, one of whom
?teered while the rest rowed. Their
garb was that of ordinary French sea
men, but Mrs Breakspear noticed with
surprise that each was armed with cutlass
and pistol.
'Why are they not coming to the
harbor P' asked Idris, a question which
found an echo in his mother's mind.
The boat glided smoothly on, and
finally vanished behind the cliffs to the
east of the town.
. 'I wonder whether old Baptiste is
watching them?' said Idris. 'He said
that the men in the yacht were smug
glers, and that they would come ashore
this evening. And sure enough they've
come.'
'If the men in that boat are smug
glers, don't you think, Idie, that they
would wait till it is much darker ?'
Idris was forced to admit the reason
ableness of this remark.
'Why are they all wearing swordsf
Perhaps they are Vikings after all?' he
went on, loth to believe that sucb heroes
had vanished from the earth.
His mother shook her head in mild pro
test, not knowing that there was a good
deal. of latter-day Vikingism in the en
terprise that was taking these seven men
ashore.
Now as Mrs Breakspear sat in the
silence and solemnity of the deepening
twilight she became subject to a feeling
the like of which she had never before
experienced. A vague awe, a presenti
ment of coming ill, stole over ber; and,
yielding to its influence, she resolved, be
fore it should be too late, to carry out
a purpose she had long had in mind.
'Idie,' she said, closing the casement,
and moving to the fireplace, 'come and
Bit here. I have something to tell you.'
Wondering much at her grave manner,
the little fellow obeyed.
.'Idie,' she began, 'you hav« been
taught to believe that your father died
when you were an infant. I have told
you this, thinking it good that you
should know nothing of his sad history.
But, sooner or later, yon ar» sure to
hear it from others; told, too, in a way
that I would not have you believe.
Therefore it is better that you should
hear the story from me; and remember
to take these words of mine for your
guidance in all future years; and if men
speak ill of your father, do not believe
them; for who should know him better
than I, his wife?'
She paused for a moment; and Idris,
new to this sort of language, made no
reply.
'Idie, your father is not dead.
Idris's eyes became big with' wonder.
'Why doesn't he live with us?' he
asked.
'Because,' replied his mother, jinking
her voice to a whisper, 'because he is in
prison.'
As prison is a place usually associat
ed with crime, Idris naturally received
a shock, which his mother was not slow
to perceive.
'Tdie, you know something of history,
and therefore you know that many a good
man has found himself in prison before
%o-day '
'O.'yes; there was Sir Walter Ea
leigK aQd that Earl of Surrey who wa»
a poet; and— and— I can't think of any
more at present, but I can find them in
the book?'
'Well, your father, like many others in
history, is suffering unjustly.'
'What do they say he did?'
'They tay3' replied his mother, once
more sinking her voice to a whisper,
'they say he committed murder. But he
did not; he did not. I have his wore
that he is innocent. I will set his word
against all the rest of the world.'
'fflow long is he to remain in prison?
'He will never come out,' replied Mrs
Breakspear ; and, unable to control her
emotion, ehe burst into a fit of sobbing.
Idris, touched by the sight of his mo
ther's grief, began to cry also. Now
for the first time he understood why his
mother so often wept in secret. How
could men be so cruel as to take his
father away from her and to shut him up
in prison for a crime he had not com
mitted?
''Why don't they put him under the
guillotine?' he asked, when his fit of
crying was over.
A natural question, but one that earn
ed his mother to shiver.
'Do not use that awful word.?' she
said. 'Be was condemned to death, but
the sentence was afterwards changed.'
Certain past events were now seen by
Idris in a new light.
'Mother, I know in what prison father
is. It is the one on the moorland over
there,' he exclaimed, indicating the di
rection with his hand.
'You are right, Idie; and now you
know why I live at Quilaix. It is that
I may be near your father. I am har-
pier here — if indeed I may use the word
nappy in speaking of myself — than _ in
any other place. I have a beautiful
house at Nantes, but I cannot live there
in ease and luxury while your father is
deprived of everything that makes life
bright.
'^Now listen, Idie, for I am _ going to
require of you a solemn promise. Since
your father did not commit the murder it
is certain that someone else did. I want
you to find that man.'
'I, mother?'
'Of course I do not mean now. In
after years. When you ore a man.'
'But supposing tin murderer be
disd?'
'You must find Mm, living or dead;
if living, you must bring him to justice;
if dead, you must show to the- world that
your father was guiltless of the deed.
He himself, confined as he is within the
prison walls, can do nothing to establish
his innocence; and as for me. I have
the feeling that I shall not lire long.
Gri&f is shortening my days. To you,
then. I lear* the task; to it you .must
devot* your whol« Via. You will be|
spared th« necessity of -haTing t» earn
your own living, since yon ar« well pro
vided for. But though health, strength,
and fortune be yours, you will findiheM
advantages embittered by the constant
thought, IMen think me th» son of a
murdererl1 Will you let the world do
you this injustice P Will you not try
to clear your father's memory? Will you
not ever bear in mind your m«-tner'e
dearest wisnF'
Moved by her earnestness. _ Idris gave
the required promise, consoling himself
over the present difficulty of the prob
lem by the thought that it would perhaps
seem easier in the days to come.
'You have not forgotten the story we
read the other day,' continued his mo
tier, 'of the great Hannibal ; how. when
he was a bay his father, leading him to
the altar, made him (swear to be the life
long enemy of B*me? You, too. must
make a similar oath. Bring me the
Bible.'
Idris brought it, and at ibis mother's
command laid his hand upon a page of
the open book and repeated after her
the following words:
'I swear on reaching manhood to do
my best to establish my father's inno
cence. May God help me to keep this
oath 1'
'Say it again, Idie.'
Idris accordingly repeated the vow,
feeling somewhat proud in thus imitating
the Carthaginian hero.
His mother brushed back the curls
from his forehead and looked earnestly
into his eyes.
'Little Idris! little Idris I' she mur
mured. 'Am I acting foolishly? I am
forgetting ibnat you are only Eeven years
of age — scarcely old enough to understand
the meaning of what you have just utter
ed. No matter; when you (are older,
if you are a true son, as I feel sure you
will tie; you will not require the memory
of fhii oath to teach you your duty.
And now I will tell yon the story of ths
muraar, and why your father came to
be suspected of— (Hal what is that?' she
gasped, breaking off abrupty, 'Listen I
O, Idie, who is it?'
They had believed themselves to he
alone in the house. Mrs Brealapear be
fore retiring to 'this sitting-room had
made fast the outer doors its well as the
lower windows. In such circumstances,
therefore, it was alarming to hear foot
step ascending the staircase— ^footsteps
which Mrs Breakspear instinctively felt
to be those of a man, and not of a
woman ; footsteps, not of Old Pol but of
a stranger! How had he gained access
to the house, and what was his object?
The unknown -visitor had mounted to
the head of the staircase and was now
advancing along the passage leading to
the room in which 'Mrs Breakspear sat.
Unable to speak from surprise and fear,
mother and son gazed at the door with
dilated eyes as if expecting to see some
awful vision.
The door was pushed open, and Mrs
Breakspear could scarcely suppress a
scream at sight of the man who entered,
for his face was hidden behind a black
silk vizard, such as might be worn at
bal masque, and through the holes of the
vizard two eyes could be leen sparkling,
(O it seemed to Mrs Breakspear, with a
sinister expression. A low-crowned soft
hat covered his head; and a cloak,
reaching to his heels, completely conceal
ed- his person.
He came fo-rmrd' a tew paces, glanc
ing round the room as he did so, and
seeming to derive satisfaction from the
fact that it contained no persons more
formidable than a woman and a child.
'You are alarmed, madame, but
without reason,' he began. 'It is not
my purpose to do you nurt — ' be paus
ed for a moment, and then added, 'un-
less your obstinacy should call for it.'
The man's voice was altogether strange
to Mrs Breakspear. He spoke in
French, but with an accent that some
how impressed her with the belief that
be was an Englishman; one, too, accus
tomed to move in good society.
'The first fact I would impress upon
your mind is this,' continued the stran
ger, 'that you are alone, unprotected,
in my power absolutely. If you raise your
voice there is no one either in the house
or in the street to hear you. The town
is practically deserted. All are gone to
the Pardon, a fact I have taken into my
calculations.' If you will reflect upon
this, it may facilitate my errand.'
These words, and the tone in which
they were spoken, did not tend to allay
Mrs Breakspear's fears. With difficulty!
she gathered voice to speak,
'Who ore yon?'
A smile appeared beneath the fringe of
the silken vizard.
'This mask is sufficient proof that I
wish to conceal my identity,'
'What do yon wantf'
'A more sensible question than your
first, iinea it brings us to the point at
once. I require, nay, I demand of you,
the Norse altar-ring new in yeur keep
ing.'
'What reason nave you for supposing
that it is here?' said Mrs Breakspear,
growing bolder.
'Do not equivocate.' The eyes in the
mask flashed with polished steel. 'I
know it to be in your possession. Do
you deny it?' Mrs Breakspear was
silent. 'You do not deny it? Good!
The ring being here, I demand it.'
'Why do you want itP'
'I decline to be cateohised. Give
me the ring.'
'Yon are evidently a, gentleman by
education, if not by birth.' The stran
ger gave a start at this. 'And yet you
seek to act the part of a common thief, a
part yon would not dare act,' she cried
with spirit, 'were I a man. and not a.
defenceless woman.'
Tbe man shrugged his shoulders im
patiently.
'I did not come to listen . to moral
raporings, bat to receive the ring.' -
'And what if I refuse to eomply with
your demand?'
'You are alone, let me repeat, and
absolutely at my mercy.'
A dagger flashed from beneath his
cloak. TVrth a cry Mrs Breakspear
clasped Idris in her arms to shield him
from a possible attack. Yet even amid
?her fear it did not escape her notice that
tbe hand which held the weapon was
small, white, and decorated with a dia
mond ring. .- '
'Listen to Jhe voice of prudence/' con
tinued the stranger. 'It is within my
power to despatch you both, and to
search these apartments for the ring
which you admit is somewhere here. I
am quite prepared to go to 'that extreme
rather than return without it. You
will, therefore, see the wisdom of sur
rendering tbe ring; yon thus save yonr
life and that of your brat; I save time
and trouble — an arrangement mutually
advantageous.'
Something in his cold, deadly tons
convinced Mrs Breakspear that he was
quite capable of carrying out bis 'threat.
'Yon will find the ring in an ebony
case in the top drawer of that cabinet.
Take it ; and if it, should bring upon you
?the curse which it has brought upon me
and mine, yon will live to rue this day.'
The man. smiled, put up his weapon,
walked towards the oak press, and in a
moment more the casket was in his
hands.
'Yes. this is it,' he murmured in a
tone of satisfaction, as he drew the ring
from the case, and scrutinised the Tunic
inscription.
'May one ask,' he continued, conceal
ing the relic upon his person, 'bow you
came to deny all knowledge of it at the
trial of your husband?'
'I spoke truly,' she answered, 'being
unaware at the time that myliuEband
had secretly entrusted it to the care of
his friend, Captain ?Rochefort.' ?
'After stealing it from the body of his
victim,' added the stranger.
'His victim t There you *n,' cried
Mrs Breakepear with flashing eyes, loath
ing to answer the stranger, yet eager to
vindicate ber husband. 'When my
husband left the Armoriqoe Club on that
fatal evening he overtook M. Duchesne
on his way home, and upon tbe latter1*
expressing regret for his violence «f the
preceding night a reconciliation took
place. As a pledge of amity M. Duchesne,
ramjembering the interest my husband had
shown in the ring, made him a present
of it; in return my husband insisted that
(Duchesne should accept the antique poin
ara purcaasea ay P'' tnsx morning. iuus.
they parted ; the one with the ring, the
other with the dagger. The assassin,
whoever he was, that attacked Dnehesne
must, during the struggle, have become
possessed of the dagger, and with it he
inflicted the fatal wound. Next mom
ing, my husband, foreseeing that he
might be accused of the murder, and
aware that lis possession of the ring
would1 seem a suspicious circumstance,
banded it to Captain Boehefort, enjoin
ing him, very unwisely os I now perceive,
to keep silent in the matter.'
'And so,' commented th» stranger,
'Captain Boehefort oonspired to defeat
the ends of justice.'
'The word justice falls with an ill
grace from the lips of a coward and a
thief,' retorted Mrs Breakspear, her
spirit rising, as it always rose, when her
husband's innocence was put to doubt.
'Say, rather, that in concealing the ring
Captain Rocheforb was seeking to pre
vent the law from drawing an erroneous
conclusion.'
'He failed, however,' sneertfl the
stranger, 'for the law pronounced your
husband guilty-=-greatly to my interests.
A pity they didn't guillotine him ! Still,
he is in prison; there let Mm rotl and^—
Ah!' he muttered in a hoarse voice,
breaking off abruptly, 'in the name of
hell, what's that?'
[He could not have been a very brave
man, Idris thought, for he seemed un
able to keep Ms hand which rested on
the table from shaking.
All three were silent, listening for a
renewal of the sound. It soon came— «
dull boom slowly rolling through the air
like distant thunder.
(To be Continued next Saturday.)
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