The Man from Home Part 13

[Exit into the garden.]

[PIKE stands for a moment, contemplating the car in some despondency, still humming or whistling.]

[LADY CREECH, after a few moments, appears at a window in the upper story of the hotel. Unseen by PIKE, she pulls up the awning for a better view, and drops lace curtains inside of window so as to screen herself from observation. Sits watching.]

[Immediately upon HORACE'S exit MARIANO, fl.u.s.tered, enters hurriedly from the hotel, goes to the gates, and fumbles with the lock. At the same time VASILI enters from the garden, smoking.]

VASILI. You make progress, my friend?

PIKE. Your machine's like a good many people--got sand in its gear-box.

VASILI [to MARIANO]. Are you locking us in?

MARIANO [excitedly coming down and showing a big key which he has taken from the lock]. No, Herr von Grollerhagen, I lock some one _out_--that bandit who have not been capture. The carabiniere warn us to close all gates for an hour. They will have that wicked one soon. There are two companies. [In a lower tone to VASILI.] Monsieur Ribiere has much fears.

VASILI. Monsieur Ribiere is sometimes a fool.

MARIANO [in a hoa.r.s.e whisper]. Monsieur, this convict is a Russian.

[VASILI waves him away somewhat curtly.]

[Exit MARIANO, shaking his head, carrying the key with him.]

PIKE. Two companies of soldiers! A town marshal out my way would 'a' had him yesterday.

VASILI. My friend, you are teaching me to respect your country, not by what you brag, but by what you do.

PIKE. How's that.

VASILI [significantly]. I see how a son of that great democracy can apply himself to a dirty machine, while his eyes are full of visions of one of its beautiful daughters.

PIKE [slowly and sadly, peering into the machine]. Doc, there's sand in your gear-box.

VASILI [laughing]. So?

PIKE. You go down to the kitchen and make signs for some of the help to give you a nice clean bunch of rags.

VASILI [surprised into hauteur]. What is it you ask me to do?

PIKE. I need some more rags.

VASILI [amused]. My friend, I obey.

[Makes a mock-serious bow and starts.]

PIKE. I won't leave the machine--'twouldn't be safe.

VASILI [halting, laughs]. You fear this famous bandit would steal it?

PIKE. No; but there's parties around here might think it was a settlement.

VASILI. I do not understand.

PIKE [chuckling]. Doc, that's where we're in the same fix.

VASILI. Weidersehn, my friend.

[Exit into hotel.]

[PIKE kneels on the foot-board of machine above gear-box, begins to clean, using an old rag, singing "Sweet Genevieve." A distant shot is heard. PIKE looks up at this, ceasing to sing. Then he continues his work and music. LADY CREECH leans out from her window, staring off to the right with opera-gla.s.ses. There is a noise at the gates as some one hastily but cautiously tries to open them. PIKE looks up again, turns toward the gates, and, after a short pause, again begins to sing and work, but very softly.]

[IVANOFF appears on top of the wall at back, climbing up cautiously from lane below. He creeps from the wall to the top of pergola and cautiously along that through the foliage to above PIKE. He peers over the foliage at PIKE.]

[PIKE looks up slowly, and, as slowly, stops "Sweet Genevieve," his voice fading away on a half syllable as he encounters IVANOFF'S gaze.

They stare at each other, LADY CREECH observing unseen.]

[IVANOFF is a thin, very fragile-looking man of thirty-eight. His disordered hair is prematurely gray, his beard is a grizzled four days'

stubble. He is exceedingly haggard and worn, but has the face and look of a man of refinement and cultivation. He has lost his hat; his shoes and trousers are splashed with dried mud, and brambles cling to him here and there. He wears a soiled white shirt and collar, and a torn black tie, black waistcoat and trousers. He is covered with dust from head to foot; one sleeve of his shirt has been torn off at the elbow. He wears no coat.]

IVANOFF [in a voice tremulous with tragic appeal]. Et ce que vous etes un homme de bon coeur? Je ne suis pas coupable--

PIKE [very gravely]. There ain't any use in the world your talkin' to me like that!

IVANOFF [panting]. You are an Englishman?

PIKE [quietly, rising and stepping back]. That'll do for _that._ You come down from there!

IVANOFF [in a voice that lifts, almost cracks, with sudden hope]. An American?

PIKE. They haven't made me anything else yet.

IVANOFF [swinging himself down to the ground]. Thank G.o.d for that!

[He leans against the car, exhausted.]

PIKE. I do. What makes _you_ so glad about it?

IVANOFF. Because I have suffered in the cause your own forefathers gave their lives for. I am a Russian political fugitive, and I can go no farther. If you give me up I shall not be taken alive. I have no weapon, but I can find a way to cut my throat.

PIKE [with humorous incredulity]. Are _you_ the bandit they're lookin'

for?

IVANOFF. They call me that. Do I look like a bandit?

PIKE. How close are they?

IVANOFF [with despairing gesture]. There!