Chapter VI: A Wanderer From Araby (2)

The face of the figure that sat in the stern of the canoe was of a brownish-red color and, despite its wrinkled forehead and cheeks, there was something sphinx-like in its expression. The eyes seemed to be looking fixedly into a storied future that they might live to see embodied in the storied past. But the figure in the bow--ah how shall I describe what then appeared to me to be the head and body of a god?

Though I have heard enthusiastic women describe certain men as “beautiful,” I never believed until that moment that such an adjective could be used appropriately to describe a man’s appearance. But here was a man, scarcely older than I, whose head and shoulders would have put to shame those of the far-famed Apollo Belvidere. His slightly curling black hair had the gloss which shines on the plumage of birds, and though his skin was bronzed by exposure to the weather, it had the rich, transparent coloring of youth. Never had I thought it possible that a human brow, nose or chin could be so exquisitely formed and, at the same time, be so expressive of intellectual and physical vigor. But it was the expression of spiritual virility and omniscience that gave to the classic features a suggestion of divine perfection.

“Is it god or man?” I whispered, and at that moment I seemed to have my answer from the skies.

In the distance I heard a faint, rumbling sound, then, suddenly, a terrific crash of thunder directly above my head filled me with the most indescribable sensation of awe and fear. The mountains seemed to shiver with the sound and, glancing above me, I saw great towering clouds, like enormous, gray-wreathed icebergs drifting swiftly toward the north. Among these advancing monsters lightning was glowing sullenly, at first one point and then another, then there came a flash that almost blinded me, and as, with a low despairing cry, I hid my face in my hands, a second peal of thunder rocked the dreadful valley.

Turning again toward where, only a few moments before, I had seen the birchbark canoe, I saw it had disappeared. But through the screen of reeds I beheld a sight that was scarcely less terrifying than the lightning and the thunder.

The waters of Deadwood lake had assumed an inky blackness, and were covered with great strings of froth that looked as if they had dropped from the mouth of a gigantic rabid hound. From over the mountain tops came a dull, quivering, humming sound that I knew was the voice of the advancing storm.

Half choking with fear, I reversed my position in the canoe, then, seizing the paddle, I started back toward the lake from which, in an ill-omened hour, I, a helpless woman, had been tempted by curiosity.

As my paddle-strokes fell quickly and nervously to right and left, I prayed--to God, to Christ, to Allah, and to Mohammed, the Prophet of Allah. Then, with closed eyes and bowed head, I, paddling blindly, became once more a mere child of the harem, for I prayed to the two genii I had seen in the birchbark canoe.

As a child had I not learned that the appearances of genii often were accompanied by peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning? Did not one of the stories of the Thousand and One Nights tell how the Sultan of the Genii assumed the form of a handsome young man when he appeared to Zeyn Alasnam, the young Sultan of Bussorah? And were not those appearances invariably attended by such displays as I had seen just now, while, terror-stricken, I sat in my canoe among the reeds of Deadwood Lake?

Then, in a wild burst of self-reproach, I told myself that I was to blame for the very storm itself--that, by trespassing on these waters frequented by the genii, and stealing a view of two of them, I had invoked the wrath of Heaven.

No drop of rain yet had fallen, but the wind was growing stronger every moment. Around me the high reeds began to lower their heads as if they, too, were inspired by the fears which were overwhelming me. Like men struggling in the grip of engulfing quicksands, the reeds, tugging at their roots, seemed to be making desperate efforts to get to the shore, and, as they swayed and bent low, the little channel through which I had passed was completely hidden from my view.

Half sobbing with fright, and bitterly repenting the folly that had led me there, I succeeded in getting the bow of the canoe turned toward the shore on my right--a low, narrow strip of beach and shingle that lay at the foot of a lofty precipice. This strip I saw over the now low-lying reeds. It was only thirty feet away, but the craven reeds, huddling closer together as they sank lower and lower to the surface of the water, threatened to hold my canoe like a fish in a net.

At length, however, my desperate efforts were rewarded. I felt the bow of the canoe grate on the stones of the beach. Rising from my seat, I reeled forward and, laughing hysterically, I leaped ashore just as a dazzling flash of lightning illumined the valley, which was almost as dark as the last five minutes of twilight. I was raising my trembling hands to my eyes to shut out the glare when a nerve-racking clap of thunder drove me almost to the verge of madness.

Half blinded by the lightning and deafened by the thunder, I plunged into a cluster of young pines, hoping to find shelter there from the rain which I now knew to be imminent. The lightning was beginning to crackle and hiss in a manner which showed it was dangerously near, when, having suddenly found myself at the inner edge of the cluster of evergreens, I stood at the very base of the precipitous mountain wall. Then, as I looked, I saw something that steadied me, and, despite my agitation, filled me with wonder.

Set in the very face of the cliff was the wall of a log-house--about twenty feet wide and twelve feet high. In this wall were two glass-paned windows and a door.

Running quickly to the door, I knocked. As I waited for an answer, something smote one of my hands. I perceived it was a large drop of water, then other drops began to fall around me, and there came another gleaming lightning flash.

The crashing, rolling thunder made it seem impossible that any one who might have been in the shelter of the log wall should hear my continued knocking, so, without further hesitation, I laid a hand on the knob of the door. The knob turned, and, with a cry in which terror and relief were blended, I ran inside.

The light that entered the dust-covered panes was so feeble that it was only when the lightning was playing that I was able to see the whole interior of the apartment I had entered so unceremoniously. This I perceived to be nothing more nor less than a small natural cave to which the hand of man had given a front of logs. Broad at its mouth, the cave tapered back like the end of a canoe, the roof and side walls coming to a point a few feet above the bare ground in the rear. At this point a curious bunk had been roughly hewn out of the massive gray granite and on this bunk lay a soiled mattress and a dilapidated oil-skin coat. Near one of the windows stood a table, the under part of which was rounded and still holding some of the bark of the tree from which it had been taken. Near the table stood two old chairs and a campstool. Against one of the walls leaned an easel which supported a canvas on which an artist had begun to paint a view of Deadwood Lake from almost the very point from which I first had seen it.

The cave was about twenty-five feet in length, and its rough aspect, as revealed by lightning flashes, was not altogether of a nature to reassure me. Still, it afforded shelter from the torrential rainpour that was now thundering down in the valley.

Convinced that I was alone in the cave, I wiped away some of the dust that darkened one of the window panes. As I looked out I saw what appeared to be a vast wall of water under the weight of which the very earth seemed to tremble.

And now the crashes of thunder became less violent, the lightning flashes less keen, and, despite the enormous volume of falling water, the atmosphere assumed a brighter hue.

At length the rainfall began to abate. I could distinguish the outlines of the pines through which I had fled to this place of refuge. I scraped from other panes some of the grime with which they were encrusted, and once more surveyed the apartment.

It now became apparent that this cave once had afforded shelter to a painter. Besides the easel and the campstool, I saw several maulsticks, palettes, paint tubes and torn canvases lying around the place.

As I have said, the canvas on the easel revealed a view of Deadwood Valley. The picture was scarcely more than one-fifth done, but the instruction that I had received in drawing and painting was sufficient to enable me to recognize the work of a master. Satisfied of this, and thinking to find another example of his work, I turned to a piece of canvas that lay on the ground. Like everything else in the place, it was covered with grime, but, as I turned it over, a little cry of astonishment escaped me. The partly obliterated face which was painted upon it was that of the white man, or genie, I had seen in the birchbark canoe!

I had scarcely more than recognized the features, however, when an object moving on the floor about two paces from where I stood caused me to shrink back in affright. It was a dusty brown thing, and looked at first like a piece of stout rope. But no rope moves of its own volition, and one end of this strange object slowly rose, then, with a sudden jerk, the thing assumed the form of a coil. A triangular head moved back, and two beadlike eyes regarded me fixedly, while a broad, dark thread darted in and out of a closed, hideous mouth.

I was confronted by a serpent--a serpent which, by the description I had heard of it, I knew to be a copperhead!

For several moments horror held me spellbound, then a feeling of creepiness stole up my back and settled among the roots of my hair. Breathing heavily, I retreated slowly, rapidly gathering courage as I saw that the reptile made no move to follow me.

Glancing quickly around me, my gaze fell on an iron frying-pan that stood on a wooden stool. Taking hold of the long handle of this, I moved slowly forward toward the dark coil which, except for the nervously darting tongue, still was motionless. When I was three or four paces away from this, I hurled the pan at it and darted backward.

The pan fell upon the coil, and a moment later the reptile, with its tail beating the air, lay writhing on the floor. All fear left me now, and, seizing the stool from which I had taken the pan, I ran forward and hammered the triangular head until it lay flattened at my feet. Then, panting as a result of my exertions, I looked around me apprehensively. Might there not be other serpents lurking here?

And now a rich, mellow light began to filter into the gloomy rock chamber, through the dusty window panes. Hurrying to the door, I flung it open. The terrible storm, as if by enchantment, had changed into a gleaming sunshower, and the air was charged with the fragrant odors of the moistened wilderness. Then, once more, my superstitious fancies took possession of me. The death of the serpent had changed all, and once more I stood at one of the portals of Eden.

The shower, too, soon passed, and as, leaving the gloomy cave behind me, I stepped out into the warm sunshine a great feeling of thankfulness entered my heart. Looking at the watch that was fastened to my waist, I saw that it was half past twelve.

But, as I glanced toward the reeds from which I had so narrowly escaped, a new fear fell upon me. Their mattered masses were now almost covered by the swollen flood which the mountain streams were momentarily reenforcing. Somewhere in that vast tangle of muddy green sticks and leaves was my canoe. How was I to make my way afoot over the soggy ground and flooded banks to Mrs. Seaver’s log-house?

I saw that for a woman to make such a journey without boat or guide was impossible. But, after all, my position was not altogether so unfortunate as it seemed at first. There was little doubt in my mind that, as soon as the lake grew more calm, Mrs. Seaver would send her manservants to seek me. Her log-house commanded a full view of the lake, and it was quite unlikely that the movement of my canoe toward the north shore had been unobserved. The men would look for me here.

Finding consolation in these reflections, I now decided to walk as far as possible in the direction of the lake in the lower valley, hoping that I might succeed in getting to some point from which I might be able to signal to those who came to seek me.

But, alas, I soon found that at a short distance below the cave the swollen waters had risen to the very base of the precipice. I returned, therefore, to the shelter afforded by the pines, for, despite the fall of the temperature that had accompanied the terrible storm, the sun now was blazing fiercely.

Hour after hour I waited in the shadow of the pines, but no human voice came to my ears. Then I began to fancy that, owing to the matted condition of the reeds, the passage of a boat up the stream that connected the two lakes would be impracticable.

At length twilight fell, and, while I watched and prayed, its shadows deepened into night, and the sky was flecked with the stars; then, over one of the dark mountains, the full moon flooded the valley with its light.

A new thought came to me. Several times during the afternoon I found myself repeating, or singing to the air of that old Moslem lullaby, the words of the verses I had found pinned to my window curtain in the morning. In one of these verses the writer had written:

“And while from out the shade
Of Earth are stealing
Thy thoughts that dreamward go,
I, keeping, vigil, know
Love’s bells are pealing.”

Were these words no more than the mere expression of a poet’s fancy, or did they reveal a truth? If the writer had kept vigil near the windows of my room in which I lay unthreatened by danger, was it not possible that he might be near me now in this hour of my distress? Whether he might be man or genie, I would put his fidelity to the proof.

Then, rising from my seat among the pines, I walked down to the margin of the swollen stream, and, after murmuring a prayer that, lurking somewhere in this mighty, moonlighted wilderness, my unknown lover would hear my voice and come to me, I sang his words to the sweet music of the old Turkish lullaby.

Never before had I been afforded an opportunity to test the full power of my voice, and, as I heard it rising among the lofty crags, I half forgot the object of my effort. A spirit of exaltation seemed to seize my very soul and lift it up so far above the mountain heights that I felt as if I was singing where only angel-voices had been heard before.

At length I came to the close of the last verse:

“Now that this vigil’s done,
And thou art beaming,
Fond Hope doth close his eyes,
But, as in sleep he lies,
Of thee he’s dreaming.”

As the last note left my lips, I stood and listened. Then I started.

Was it an echo that had repeated “dreaming,” or was it a human voice which, far, far among the dark shadows of the great wilderness, had called “Pauline”?

While, trembling with anxious expectancy, I continued listening, hoping that I might hear the sound again, my gaze wandered nervously to my left whence had come a sound like the snapping of a dry stick. Then my heart seemed to leap to my throat, and, gasping with fear and astonishment, I beheld him whose presence I had evoked--the white man I had seen in the canoe--the genie to whom, when under the influence of childish superstitions, some of my incoherent prayers had been addressed.

Half in the shadow of one of the pines, the strange, beautiful face of the young man was turned to mine, but on that face there was an expression of wonder that I could not understand.

Twice or thrice I tried to speak, but the words would not leave my lips. Why did this stranger remain standing thus, regarding me with such a steady, searching and unfathomable gaze? Did he not see the plight to which the storm had brought me? Why did he wait for me to speak?

At length the stranger advanced slowly toward me. His lips moved, but before the words they framed were spoken, the old Indian darted suddenly from a shadow and seized him by the arm. The white man turned impatiently.

“Your hand is on me, Glenagassett,” he said.

Though he spoke quietly, there was an unmistakable note of imperious rebuke in the clear, musical voice, and the hand of the Indian fell.

“Is this a woman?” the young man asked, turning to the Indian, who, standing beside him, was bending on me a gaze that seemed to flash anger and defiance.

“Yes,” replied the Indian, gravely.

The white man turned again to me.

“What brought you here?” he asked, almost roughly.

“I came this morning in my canoe, but, in the storm, it was lost somewhere in that mass of reeds.”

“Why do you not get it out?” he demanded, shortly. “Go--get it now.”

I looked at him in wonder. Was I talking with a madman?

As I hesitated, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said. “You women are too weak to do such things. Glenagassett, bring out the canoe.”

The Indian hesitated, then, with stooping shoulders, he turned and moved quickly to the waterside.

The white man, reaching out one of his hands, firmly grasped my arm and turned me so that the moonlight shone upon my face.

“And so you are one of those creatures which men kiss and love, and for which they sell their foolish souls,” he said. “I have read about you, but I never saw you. You talk with the voice of man, but your brain is that of the devil. I have never been told, however, that women sing like the angels. And so I see Nathan has again deceived me.”

Suddenly realizing that I was in the clutches of a victim of insanity, I began trembling violently.

“You will sing again?” he asked.

“Not now,” I faltered.

“But I bid you,” he said, sharply.

“I cannot sing,” I answered.

“Even now I watched and heard you,” he retorted angrily. “In this valley I am lord. I am Rayon Demain. You will sing.”

I saw that I must humor him, and, nodding humbly, I drew back. He watched me curiously as, raising my head, I sang, as earnestly as I had sung the other air, Arthur Sullivan’s beautiful “Lost Chord.”

Not once while I was singing did I look upon the man who had so excited my fears. When the song was done, however, I turned to him.

He was standing as if he had been turned to stone, and the look of wonder on his face was deeper. For several moments he was silent, then, passing a hand across his eyes, he murmured:

“If all devils are like you, it is small wonder that men confuse them with the angels and give their souls into their keeping.”

A sound from the waterside caused me to glance quickly in that direction. Something was moving in the reeds, and, as I looked, I fancied I saw an enormous bird swimming to the shore. One end rose, like a great head and neck, and then I saw that the Indian, having waded out among the reeds, had found my canoe and was bringing it to the bank.

My heart leaped within me, for I felt that the hour of my deliverance was at hand.

“You will send me home--to the log-house in the valley below?” I asked eagerly, turning to the man who called himself Rayon Demain.

He, looking at me earnestly, was about to reply when the tall figure of a man, with flowing white hair and beard, strode quickly from the shade of the evergreens.

“Rayon!” exclaimed the newcomer, sharply.

The young man turned quickly to the speaker.

“You have lied to me again,” he said, angrily. “The valley in which you have kept me is so narrow and high walled that Truth, like the sun, finds me only at noonday. I will go to where it rises and it sets, and will see and know all that lies between. In the books that you have given to me are songs that poets have sung to love, but I have known no love and, therefore, know not how to sing. And yet--to-night--I’ve heard----”

He stopped, and once more I saw him pass a hand over his eyes in that same bewildered manner I had observed before. Then, with his gaze resting on the ground, he went on, half-abstractedly:

“To-night I heard a voice that seemed, at first, to come to me from Heaven, but, as I listened, I knew that it was rising from the earth, and, following the sound, I came here thinking to find an angel singing. But the song was a song of love, and Glenagassett told me that the singer, so far from being an angel, was only one of those creatures which, as you have taught me, are two-thirds devil and one-third man, without a single attribute of divinity. And now I know that the harp of life which you have suffered me to play all these years is nothing more than a mere child’s toy, after all--that from it many chords are missing, and that the chord it most sadly lacks is that lost one of which this strange creature sang to-night--the chord of earthly love.”

“Come!” commanded the graybeard in a hoarse, broken voice. “You have much to learn, and of this knowledge that which has to do with devil-snares is not the least. Come, like Adam in the garden, you have been subjected to the greatest temptation that can befall mankind--fruit of the forbidden tree that is offered to you by one of the daughters of that Eve whose angel beauty and diabolical mind brought shame and sorrow to thousands of generations of men.”

Trembling with shame and horror as the graybeard, pointing one of his long fingers at me, branded me as one of the most despicable of God’s creatures, I shrank from the strange, searching gaze that young Rayon fixed on me while his mentor spoke.

My falling gaze decided all. In it the young man seemed to read a confession of my unworthiness. When I raised my eyes again, Rayon and the graybeard were gone, but in the place where they had been standing I saw the Indian, Glenagassett, who held my canoe paddle toward me.

“Go,” the red man said, and, as he spoke, he pointed imperiously toward where the bow of my canoe was drawn up on the shore.

With trembling fingers, I grasped the paddle the Indian was holding out to me. The redskin, turning from me abruptly, strode quickly toward the cluster of evergreens and disappeared from my view.

From the great wilderness around me there came no sound. Deserted by him to whom my song had been addressed, I stood alone in the shadow of the great, dark precipice.

The story of the fall of man constitutes part of the Mohammedan story of the creation of the world, and I have often thought that in the Koran it is more beautifully told than in the Bible, but this was the first time in my life that I had been brought to know that living men believed that women of their own period were cursed with the frailities of the Eve from whom they are descended. Then it seemed to me that the moonlight lost its splendor, and each star became a stern, accusing eye, while the nightwinds, sighing softly in the pines, seemed to be pitying me because, in my ignorance, I had not known that when men come alone to this great wilderness they find earthly Edens, but when woman enters them their glories begin to fade. Then the forest trees are hewn into boards for summer hotels and bungalows, and the sounds of raucous dance-music and the inane songs of music halls still forever the great hymns which Nature is ever singing in her summer solitudes. The lake yields its lilies to women’s idle whims, and the lily plants, sooner or later, die like bereaved mothers. The gay-plumed singers of the forest no more voice the carols of the Spring, for the daughters of Eve, not content with their own charms, must enhance them with hats on which the feathered choristers are crucified like Him whose death agonies inspire with sorrow those wearers of stolen plumage when they assemble in Christian churches on Easter morning.

And so, beautiful as I might be, I was only a woman, after all--a prettily-tinted reptile that was an enemy to the flowers and birds--or a flame at which things that loved light and life would find destruction!

With a little sigh I had just started to walk down to my canoe when, once more, a sound coming from the evergreens attracted my attention.

It was the sound of a tenor voice that was softly singing the verses I had found in my window, and the air was that to which I had put them--the air of the old Turkish lullaby.

I started, and, fearing to meet again this strange, young man whom the graybeard had induced to leave me, I took a couple of steps in the direction of my canoe.

“Paula!”

The word was so softly spoken that I half believed I had been deluded by my fancy.

“Paula!”

I turned again to the evergreens, but no human figure met my view.

“Well?” I asked, abruptly.

“Go to the canoe and take the forward seat, leaving the paddle behind you,” said the voice. “If you do not look behind you, you will be home in an hour. If, however, you turn to see your boatman, evil will result to you and him. Will you promise?”

I hesitated.

“Yes,” I said.

That I was in an enchanted valley I did not now pretend to doubt. The magnificence of this stupendous wilderness, the flashing of that terrible lightning, the awe-inspiring thunderpeals, the rush of those mighty winds, the sullen rumble of the falling flood, my encounter with the serpent and my extraordinary adventure with the three men united to put to flight all the materialistic impressions that European civilization had made upon my mind during the few weeks I had been under its influence. Once more I was a child of the Orient, as the heroines of the Thousand and One Nights had been. I, Princess Pauline Maranotti, was being confronted by a situation that was no more wonderful than those which confronted other princesses--Badoura, the Princess of China, who became the wife of Camaralzaman; Perie-Zadeh, Princess of Persia, whose brothers were transformed into black stones; and Nouronnihar, Princess of India, whose beauty had caused her three royal cousins to have extraordinary adventures.

Thus resigning myself to the superstitions of the people among whom nearly all my life had been spent, I believed that it was the voice of a genie that had come to me from among the evergreens, and that it was the genie that was to be my boatman on my journey home. But so great was the confidence with which the kindly voice had inspired me that I no longer feared to do its bidding, and, as I walked down to the waiting canoe, I resolved to guard against any incautious movement that would cause me to see the forbidden face.

I entered the canoe resolutely, and, in obedience to the instructions I had received, I sat down on the forward seat.

I had not long to wait. The crunching of the gravel and the snapping of dead reed-sticks soon apprised me of the mysterious boatman’s approach. A few moments later the canoe began to move forward, then it tilted violently from side to side as the boatman entered it.

As the little craft moved on I saw that a way had been cleared for it to the channel of the stream. A more materialistic mind would have suspected that this had been done by the Indian who had brought it to the shore, but, versed in Eastern lore, I knew that the magic of my genie boatman was accomplishing all that.

Having arrived at last at the channel, the bow of the canoe was quickly swung around and, with a speed which, in other circumstances, I would have thought incredible, the little craft, gliding over the swollen current, moved in the direction of the lower lake.

My trip up this stream had occupied nearly twenty-five minutes, for I had been paddling leisurely against a sluggish current, but now less than ten minutes sufficed to bring me to its mouth and the bright, moonlit waters of the lake below.

Thus far the only sounds that gave evidence of the presence of my boatman were the strong, even strokes of his double-bladed paddle.

A faint “hello” now sounded from the north-eastern shore of the lake. I was about to glance over my shoulder when my boatman said abruptly:

“Have a care! Remember the warning!”

A cold chill passed over me, as I replied, contritely:

“Someone is calling. Perhaps Mrs. Seaver’s servants are seeking me.”

“They have sought you all the afternoon, but the lake has been very rough, and one of their boats was capsized.”

In my anxiety I half turned again.

“But those in it got ashore?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“Will you let those who are seeking me know that I am safe?” I asked.

The unseen boatman hesitated.

“No,” he answered, quietly, “It is too soon to tell them now.”

For several moments we were silent.

“Why did you go to Deadwood Lake?” my boatman asked.

My cheeks began to burn, but something in me told me it was best to tell the truth.

“I thought I might see the man who was described as so ‘strangely handsome’,” I replied. “If I had known that there were genii there, I would not have gone, of course.”

“If who were there?” asked the boatman.

“Genii.”

There was a pause.

“Ah, you believe in the genii, then?” he said, in a lower voice.

“Having seen them, can I believe anything else?” I murmured.

“You are from the East--the Orient?”

“From Constantinople,” I answered, wonderingly. “Do you not know?”

“I know a little, but you must tell me more.”

From across the widening waters came the voices of men who called my name. To these my boatman gave no heed.

“Tell me why you left Constantinople--why you are here,” he persisted.

Then, as briefly as I could, I told him all.

I told him why I had fled from Meschid to Prince Maranotti and how I was brought to America and represented as being Trevison’s daughter. I told him how I had received the verses in the morning and how I had suspected that the young white man in the neighboring valley was their author.

When I was done, another silence fell. Then the boatman spoke.

“You will find other verses--verses and letters at your window,” he said, quietly. “You may trust the writer, but do not trust others, for I fear that great danger soon will threaten you. You did wrong to go to the upper lake to-day, but it is fortunate that you sang, for the first song of yours brought me to your side. But you must go there no more.”

“You do not speak now as you did when I first met you,” I said, reprovingly. “You spoke then as if you had been taught to hate all women.”

There was a long pause before he answered me.

“Unlike the others whom you saw, I am not a genie,” he replied. “I am a man who is held under enchantment. When this is broken I may take my place with other men. Until then----”

“Until then?” I murmured.

“Until then I must continue to suffer.”

“And how may this enchantment be broken?” I asked.

“By marriage.”

“By marriage!” I exclaimed, wonderingly. “With whom?”

“With you,” he murmured, softly.

I started, and once more I was about to turn my head when the strange companion cautioned me.

“You must not see me,” he said.

Again the cries of the men who had been seeking me came to me from across the water. The voices were more distinct now, and the fact that my friends were drawing nearer assured me that they had seen me.

“With you,” my boatman repeated, softly. “Do you pity me?”

“Yes--yes,” I answered. “How could I fail to pity you?”

I was trembling violently, and even the fresh night airs were stifling me.

I now observed that, though the canoe was headed for the shore, the bow was turned toward a point that was several hundred yards distant from the log-house.

“You are not taking me home,” I murmured.

“Those who follow us will do that,” my boatman said. “They must not see me, nor must you tell your friends that those you saw to-day were genii. You may tell them, however, that an Indian, finding you beside Deadwood Lake, just after the storm, brought you here. You will do this?”

“Yes,” I faltered.

There was a long pause. He was using the paddle more vigorously now, and the shouts that came to our ears from the pursuing boat were louder and more earnest.

The canoe was rapidly approaching the shore, and in front of the log-house I saw the dancing of lanterns. I knew my anxious hostess was preparing to set out to meet the returning boat and was wondering why the canoe in which I sat was not approaching the regular landing place.

“You will not give me your answer now?” my boatman asked.

With a little shrug of the shoulder, I said faintly:

“There is only one to give. If what you say is true--if it is only I who can make you free, I must become your wife.”

The strokes of the paddles ceased abruptly, and a great silence fell around us.

“You will meet me three nights hence, at midnight, at the place at which we are about to land?” he asked in a low, eager, trembling voice.

“I am to marry you then?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he answered. “But it will ruin both of us if, while the ceremony is being performed, or afterward on that night, you raise your eyes to my face. You will be there?”

“Yes, I will be there,” I said.

A voice from the boat that followed cried:

“Miss Trevison.”

“You may answer,” said my boatman, “but do not turn your head.”

“I am here!” I cried.

A few vigorous strokes of the paddle brought my canoe to the shore.

“Remain seated,” said the boatman. “Do not look after me as I go. Three nights hence, at midnight, I will be here, and, except ourselves and the priest I will bring with me, no other person must know.”

The side of the canoe was against the bank of a little cove. The boat rocked from side to side as the boatman left it.

“Good-night, Paula,” he said.

“Good-night, Rayon Demain,” I murmured, with a sigh.

And, as I heard the twigs snapping as he strode quickly into the forest, I suddenly reflected that his name consisted of two French words which, together, signified “a beam of to-morrow.”

“Miss Trevison!”

Looking in the direction from whence this cry had come, I beheld a boat, propelled by two pairs of oars, moving quickly toward me. The rowers were the two menservants from the log-house.

“I am here,” I called back to them.

In a few moments the bow of the boat was against the bank.

“Who was that man that brought you here?” one of the men asked, shortly.

“An Indian,” I replied.

“You have been to Deadwood Lake?”

“Yes,” I answered, coldly. “I was just entering it when the storm overtook me.”

The moonlight enabled me to see a strange look settle on the face of the man who had questioned me.

“I told you, Jim, no good would come of it,” the other muttered, surlily.

“All right, George; it’s no business of ours--now we’ve found her,” Jim said, quietly, then addressing me, he added: “Better get in here with us, Miss. We can tow the canoe better if it is light.”

I got into the boat, and ten minutes later Mrs. Seaver had me in her arms on the beach in front of the log-house.

The story I told was simple. I explained that when the storm broke I had landed on the southern shore of Deadwood Lake, and, after nightfall, believing that the servants would come to seek me, I had been singing in order that my voice would guide them to me. Then an Indian had appeared, and I accepted his offer to take me to the log-house.

“Why did you go there?” asked my hostess, looking at me curiously.

“Because the north end of our lake was the only part of it I had not visited,” I replied. “I saw the stream that entered it, and, through it, I paddled up to Deadwood Lake.”

“You must not go again,” Mrs. Seaver said, thoughtfully. “You will promise me you will not go?”

“Why, yes, I’ll promise you that,” I answered, laughingly.

A warm dinner was soon set before me, but I had little appetite for it. In my mind were ringing those fateful words which had been softly uttered by the unseen boatman: “Three nights hence, at midnight, I will meet you here.”

An hour later, when the lamp in my room was extinguished, the moonlight, streaming through the open window, found me with closed lids, but my dreams were of the strange, god-like man whose name signified “a beam of to-morrow.”

When I woke the sun was shining on the valley and a robin was singing under my window. My heart was beating rapidly as, half-rising, I leaned on my elbow and glanced toward the window curtain on which I had found the verses pinned the morning before.

A few moments later my feet were on the floor, and, with trembling steps, I approached the curtain on which I saw another envelope. The first had been marked: “For Paula.” On this was inscribed the name:--“Pauline.”

Drawing out a sheet of notepaper, I read:--

THY GONDOLIER

Glide thou o’er moonlit waters where
The lilies wake to see thee pass,
And swing their censers to the air
As acolytes at Beauty’s mass;
Or move thee on the tide of dreams
In stately barge; or, if in fear,
Thou art on storm-swept lakes or streams,
Let me be e’er thy gondolier.

While Spring doth shine from out thine eyes,
While brightly beams thy Summer’s sun
And loving friends around thee rise,
I’ll deem my lifelong task begun.
Then, when exposed to Autumn’s breath,
Other loves and faiths grow sere--
Ay, when chill Winter comes, with Death,
They’ll find me still thy gondolier.

Twenty-four hours ago the author of the verses I then received was unknown to me, but now the mystery had been solved. The hand that had written the verses yesterday was the same that had penned those of to-day. It was the hand of the mysterious boatman who had guided my canoe over the lake less than ten hours ago--the man whose wife I would be before the week was ended.

But the next morning and the next I looked in vain for the expected envelope. My heart grew heavy with fear as I wondered what had prevented the writer’s coming. Had there been a tightening of the bonds that bound him to that dreadful valley? Would he be unable to keep the appointment he had made with me?

At length the fateful night arrived. I went to my room at nine o’clock, for this was the time my hostess and her servants were in the habit of retiring. For more than an hour I tried to read, but, naturally enough, I was unable to concentrate my thoughts on a book on the eve of such an important event in my life. Time and again I asked myself what would be the result of this unreasonable act I was about to do, but not once did my courage fail me.

It was half past eleven o’clock when, after extinguishing the light that had been dimly burning, I lowered myself from my window to the ground.

Then for several moments I hesitated. The night was darker than I had expected to find it. Large clouds, moving from the northwest, totally obscured the moon from time to time, and the night breezes were freshening.

Not knowing what fate awaited me, or whether I would be able to return to the log-house, I thrust into one of my pockets a purse containing all the money I had brought with me to the mountains.

After stealing away from the house as quietly as possible, I found the path that led along the shore of the lake to the place at which I had agreed to meet my boatman. How much time it took to cover the distance I do not know, but on arriving at my destination I was not kept long in suspense for, from the shadow of a group of low trees, there came a voice.

“Pauline,” it said softly.

The voice was one that I could not have mistaken anywhere.

“I am here,” I answered, firmly.

“Do you remember?” asked the voice, and I detected a note of warning in its tone.

“Yes,” I said.

I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but I did not raise my eyes.

“This is Dr. Belford,” the voice went on. “He is a clergyman, and will marry us.”

The ceremony was much shorter than I had expected it to be, and the words were quietly spoken. A strange thrill passed through me as the bridegroom took my hand, and I was trembling when he slipped the ring on my finger. Then, at last, I heard the fateful words:

“I do now pronounce you man and wife.”

And so I had my fairy prince at last!

A great silence fell around me, then I heard the voice of the man who was now my husband.

“Return to the cottage now, Pauline,” he said, gently. “To-morrow you will hear from me. It is forbidden that I should touch your lips with mine to-night, or that I should look into your eyes. But to-morrow--to-morrow----”

I heard him turn away.

“Good-night, my dear,” he said.

“Good-night, Rayon,” I answered, humbly.

And so on our bridal night we parted, and in a few moments I was returning to the log-house by the path along which I had come from it. I had proceeded only a few paces, however, when from the direction of the log-house there came the sound of a pistol shot.

I halted and my heart grew still. Then I heard three other shots in quick succession. These were followed by the hoarse voices of men.

For several moments terror held me spellbound. Then, standing motionless in the path, I heard the sound of someone running toward me from the forest. Cowering with fear, I shrank behind a dwarf evergreen. The dark shadow moved swiftly past, about thirty feet away from me. This was quickly followed by another. They were men, but I was unable to see the faces of either.

A succession of women’s shrieks and the cries of men now rose from the log-house. Then, looking in that direction, I saw something that brought a cry of horror to my lips.

The structure was in flames!

Still I hesitated, but the pitiful cries of a woman--cries that I knew were Mrs. Seaver’s--caused me to fling to the winds all fears for my personal safety. Running and stumbling, I made my way along the path, and, as I ran, the dull, angry glow of the burning house grew brighter. I heard another pistol shot, but the only fear I felt was for the hostess who had so kindly cared for me.

At length, reaching the clearing round the house, I saw Mrs. Seaver running toward me. I called her name, but at that moment a tall man overtook her, and, seizing her in a rough grasp, started with her toward the burning house. Up the steps he ran, then, with a curse so loud that it reached my ears, the man hurled the woman through the door.

As I hurried forward, I recognized the perpetrator of the terrible act, and, in a shrieking voice, I cried:

“Rayon--Rayon--are you mad?”

The tall man turned and thrust away a second tall figure that was about to throw itself upon him. Then, as swiftly as a deer, Rayon ran to me.

Never shall I forget the awful expression that I saw upon his face as, standing before me, he looked into my eyes.

“Come--devil or angel--you belong to me now,” he said, laughing roughly. “To-night I have declared myself free.”

As he grasped one of my arms it seemed to me that his fingers were burning their way to its bone.

“Stop--stop--coward--help me!” I cried at the top of my voice.

The lips of the magnificent fiend again parted in a smile.

“Come,” he began, but he said no more.

A powerful fist, passing before my eyes, had felled him to my feet. Freed from his grasp, I turned to the man who had rescued me.

Then I saw that he to whom I owed my release was the man whose grotesque face--a very caricature of the human visage--had looked down upon me in New York while I was preparing to board a train for the Adirondacks--the man whose almost indescribable ugliness had caused me to refer to him as “the Gargoyle.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked in an abrupt, thick voice.

“No--no, but Mrs. Seaver! She----”

The Gargoyle, laying one hand on my shoulder, pointed to the milk-house, and said:

“She is safe. Go to her.”

Rayon, who for a few moments had appeared to be insensible, now began to rise.

“Go!” the Gargoyle repeated, sharply.

I needed no further urging, and several seconds later I was at Mrs. Seaver’s side. She was moaning pitifully as I approached her, but, as soon as she saw me, she uttered a cry of relief and clasped me in her arms.

“Who has done all this?” I asked.

“The demons from the valley,” she sobbed. “It was the Indian who set fire to the house. The other--the white man----”

James, one of the menservants, came running up.

“We can’t save the house ma’am,” he said quickly, “but I guess all else is safe enough now. The redskin is dead, and--oh, God!”

A look of horror overspread the speaker’s face and his rifle fell from his hand. Nor did I marvel that his courage had left him. Standing near us, with the lurid glare of the fire lighting his terrible features, was the Gargoyle.

“’Tis the devil himself!” James muttered between his chattering teeth.

With a little cry of terror, Mrs. Seaver hid her face in her hands.

For several moments the strange being before me looked meditatively at our little group. Then, turning quickly, he strode off into the forest.

“Oh, James--James, you must get us away from here to-night--now!” cried Mrs. Seaver desperately. “Where is George?”

James, turning his face toward the lake, shrugged his shoulders slightly, but said nothing.

“Dead?” I asked in a trembling voice.

James faced me slowly.

“Yes, Miss,” he said, quietly. “The white devil killed him--with an axe.”

“And Mary?” Mrs. Seaver faltered.

“She tried to shoot him, but he was too quick for her,” said James. “She, too, went down.” Then, turning to me, he added, abruptly: “He was seeking you, Miss. I was afraid----”

I could hear no more. The ground seemed to give away beneath my feet, and, tottering forward, I stumbled and fell.

When I recovered consciousness, James and Mrs. Seaver were helping me into a covered wagon. As I looked around me, I saw the barn was in flames, the light of which had transformed the lake I loved into a great orange-colored thing that filled me with dismay.

“Where are we going?” I asked faintly, as I sank on a roll of blankets.

“We are going to leave these terrible mountains,” Mrs. Seaver replied, in a strange, hard voice. “Until this hour I loved them, but I hate them now and I hope that I may never see them more. James will drive us to the nearest railway station, then he will report to the proper officials all that has happened. He will return with men to help him bury poor George and Mary. Everything we had here, except the horses and the wagon, has been destroyed, so let us go.”

A week later, sitting in my apartment in New York, I read in a newspaper an account of how deputy sheriffs, seeking the outlaw, Rayon Demain, had come upon a remarkable cavern in Deadwood Valley. It was apparent that this cavern was, for the most part, the work of man. Windows, which afforded light and ventilation to the various chambers, were high up in an almost inaccessible mountainside, and were so cunningly constructed and concealed that it was not until after the secret entrance to the cavern had been discovered that their presence in the big rock wall was suspected.

The cavern contained several galleries, and there were about nine rooms in all. In these rooms were found hundreds of valuable books, several different kinds of musical instruments, paraphernalia for the exhibition of moving pictures and a well-equipped gymnasium.

But by far the most remarkable of the discoveries made was a large collection of magnificent paintings, most of which were of an allegorical nature. These had been identified as the work of Nathan Bonfield, who, many years before, had given promise of becoming one of the greatest painters of his period, but of whom, in recent years, little was known. It was found, too, that Bonfield was a frequent visitor to Deadwood Valley, and there was some reason to suspect that Rayon Demain, now charged with the murder of two of Mrs. Seaver’s servants, was some relative of the eccentric painter’s.

It had been learned also that for many years an Indian, named Glenagassett, had been Demain’s almost constant attendant, and that it was this Indian who had lighted the fire that destroyed Mrs. Seaver’s buildings. What had been the motive that inspired this deed, no man knew. The Indian had been killed and Demain had mysteriously disappeared. Of Bonfield’s present whereabouts nothing was known.

But before these matter-of-fact reports were published in the newspapers, I had been disillusioned. From the moment that the brutal Rayon had been sent to earth by a blow from a human hand, I knew how absurd had been those superstitions which, excited by that Adirondack storm, had endowed him with more than human attributes. My god-like man had degenerated into something that was little better than one of the lower animals. The outlaw, whose wife I had become, was either a monster or a madman.

As may be readily understood, the secret of my night canoe trip and my midnight marriage never left my lips. I was resolved that not even Prince Maranotti should learn of my almost inconceivable act of folly, if I could prevent that knowledge from reaching him.

Fearful lest I should again fall into the clutches of Demain, I became anxious to return to Europe. The fear of Meschid Pasha and his friend Glyncamp no longer haunted me. Upon me Meschid had no claim, and so long as I kept away from Turkish territory it was scarcely likely that either of these enemies would make any attempt to rob me of my newfound liberty. It was as the daughter of the late Prince Maranotti I would now take my place in the world.