Stolen Souls Part 30

And the happy pair, hand-in-hand, pa.s.sed onward through the private pavilions--bewildering in their magnificence of marble and gold, and green with many leaves--to the Great Hall of the Divan, where, standing under the royal baldachin of yellow silk brocade, the Sultan of Abea rejoiced them with his favours, proclaiming Hat.i.ta, son of Ibrahim, as the future husband of Kheira, and appointing him Governor of the City in the Sky.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE BLOOD-RED BAND.

A series of exciting adventures that befell me four years ago were remarkable and puzzling. Until quite recently, I have regarded the mystery as impenetrable. Indeed, in this _fin-de-siecle_ decade it is somewhat difficult to comprehend that such events could have occurred, or that the actors could have existed in real life.

I was in Piedmont, at the little village of Bardonnechia, a quaint, rural place comprising a few picturesque chalets, an inn, and a church with a bulgy spire, which nestles in the fertile valley at the foot of the towering, snow-capped Mont Cenis. I was staying at the inn, and I wished to go to Lanslebourg, on the opposite side of the mountain, intending to travel thence by diligence to Gren.o.ble, where I had arranged to meet some friends. But I needed a guide. The by-paths in the Cottian Alps are rough and intricate, and he would be a daring spirit who would venture to cross the Cenis alone away from the beaten track.

There was not a single mule to be hired, and the only guide I could find refused to carry my valise, so I was in danger of missing my appointment. I could, of course, have gone by train through the tunnel to Modane, but that route would have taken me many miles out of my way, therefore I had decided upon the shorter road.

At evening, while I stood at dusk at the door of the inn, looking anxiously to see whether any guide or porter had returned from the mountains the innkeeper told me he had found a man.

"Does he come from the valley?" I asked.

"No, signore; from the mountains."

"Impossible? I should have seen him. I have been watching the path for an hour."

"This man does not follow the same path as the others."

"Why?"

But my host vouchsafed no further explanation; he only called with a loud voice, "Giovanni!"

The guide appeared. He was tall, muscular, and rather strange-looking, about thirty years old, the wrinkles of his face giving an expression of hard and energetic will. He had a large, straight nose, wide mouth, thick, bushy black hair, and a beard of several days' growth, while in his cap he wore a sprig of freshly-plucked edelweiss.

I invited him into my room, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"You wish to go to Lanslebourg, over the Cenis?" he said.

"Yes."

"Very well; give me ten lire."

The price was very moderate, but the fellow struck me as a swaggerer.

Instinctively I did not like him.

"Where is your licence? Are you a regular guide?" I asked.

"I have no licence, but I have a certificate of honourable discharge. I was in the Fourth Regiment of Artillery."

"And your name?"

"Do you want to know all this for ten lire?" and he began to laugh sarcastically. "Very well; I will tell you my name gratis. I am called Giovanni Oldrini. Has the cross-examination concluded?"

Seeing that his smile displeased me, he immediately changed his expression, and added emphatically--

"Ask the landlord about me; he will tell you. _Buona sera_."

And he turned and left me abruptly.

At four o'clock next morning we set out. He tied my valise on his back, took his alpenstock, and set off nimbly, whistling a popular _chansonette_. His gait was peculiar. His step made no sound; he seemed to glide along.

Having crossed the rushing torrent by the ancient wooden bridge, we came to the foot of the mountain. Leaving the rough road that leads from Susa over the lower heights to Modane, we took a steep by-path that ran in serpentine wanderings over rocks and through woods of fir and pine.

In climbing we pa.s.sed a beautiful lavender garden. The side of the mountain was quite blue with the flowers, and the fresh air of dawn was scented by their fragrance. There were also barberries and gooseberries, and flowers which were among the first we know in our own land, such as dog-roses, white campions, and harebells. Then for some distance we skirted a wood, and as we went higher, the larches gave place to pines, and yet higher still only stunted herbage grew from the crevices of the bare brown rocks.

He climbed like a squirrel. Hardly had he started when he began to talk to me, but either from sleepiness or from the feeling of uneasiness which his company gave me, I did not answer him.

At first, in the steepest places, Giovanni turned and offered me his hand, but, being fresh, I refused his aid, proud to encounter the rough mountain. When we help ourselves with hands and knees, and every step must be studied, the mind does not notice the fatigue. Presently, however, the fellow began to walk by himself, abandoning me to my fate.

There was no real danger, but I felt somewhat indignant at seeing him so high on the rocks.

Gradually he was increasing the distance between us, and I cried to him to stop, but my voice did not reach him. If it had not been for my valise, I would have returned immediately.

I saw he had a piece of paper in his hand and a pencil. Scribbling a few words, he folded the paper and placed it behind a large stone. My suspicions were increased when I saw him abstract something bright and shining from behind the stone and place it in his pocket. It was a revolver!

People do not generally go armed in the Cottian Alps, and I somehow felt convinced that the weapon was to be used for no lawful purpose. Perhaps the letter he had written was a message to his confederates, reporting the fact that he had secured a victim! How I regretted that I had not placed my revolver in my pocket instead of putting it in the valise he was carrying.

He was standing with his hands in his pockets, whistling a gay air and awaiting me. I was toiling up the steep path, and felt almost dead beat. The whole mountain was a ma.s.s of gigantic rocks, half buried in the sand, soft and moist from recently melted snow and the draining of the ice.

"I was looking for a franc-piece I dropped. It rolled behind that stone, and I cannot find it," he said. Then he looked into my eyes, and asked, with an insolent air, "Don't you believe me?"

"No."

I did not believe him, and began to be greatly disquieted. He perceived it, and immediately became jovial and talkative. He knew me, he said-- he had asked the innkeeper about me. He knew that I was a journalist; it must be a fine trade for making money by the sackful. He knew city life, for he had lived in Turin, and he always read the _Secolo_--it was his favourite paper. He also knew that I had written novels--another gold mine. Writers of romance, he supposed, were always seeking adventure, and poking their noses in out-of-the-way corners, and inquiring into other people's business. Good! I was with him, and might meet with a strange experience presently.

But I paid no attention to him.

"You gentlemen come to the Alps for the fun of knowing what fatigue is,"

he said. "Ah! if you only knew what it was--how much a piece of bread costs!"

He was eloquent and excitable, and spoke like a man believing himself to be followed by constant persecution.

We had almost reached the summit, when suddenly we came upon a rough pillar built of pieces of rock piled together.

"See!" he said; "there is the frontier mark."

Then we continued walking a dozen paces or so, and were in France.

Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously, said--

"Come, follow me quickly!"

"Where?" I asked. "This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?"

"Do not argue, but come with me," he said impatiently. "If you do not, it will be the worse for you!" he muttered between his teeth.

Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be the face of a perpendicular rock. We pa.s.sed along a narrow pa.s.sage behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill whistle.