Thorne Guy
House of Torment
"Upon the top of it were set two cannons wrought of wood, and coloured so passing well, as, indeed, they seemed to be two fair field-pieces of ordnance. And by them were placed two men for gunners in cloth and crimson sarcanet, with baskets of earth for defence of their bodies withal."
At the far end of the lists there came a clanking and hammering of the farriers' and armourers' forges.
Grooms in mandilions – the loose, sleeveless jacket of their calling – were running about everywhere, leading the chargers trapped with velvet and gold in their harness. Gentlemen in short cloaks and Venetian hose bustled about among the knights, and here and there from the stables, and withdrawing sheds outside the lists, great armoured figures came, the sun shining upon their plates – russet-coloured, fluted, damascened with gold in a hundred points of fire.
Nothing could be more splendid, as the trumpeters advanced into the lists, and the fierce fanfaronade snarled up to the sky. The Garter King-at-arms in his tabard, mounted on a white horse with gold housings, rode out into the centre of the yard, and behind him, though on foot, were Blue-mantle and Rouge-dragon.
The afternoon air was full of martial noise, the clank of metal, the brazen notes of horns, the stir and murmur of a great company.
To Johnnie it seemed that he did not know the shadow from the substance. It all passed before him in a series of coloured pictures, unreal and far away. Had he been down there among the knights and lords, he felt that he would but have fought with shadows. It was as though a weird seizure had taken hold on him, a waking dream enmeshed him in its drowsy impalpable net, so that on a sudden, in the midst of men and day, while he walked and talked and stood as ever before, he yet seemed to move among a world of ghosts, to feel himself the shadow of a dream. Once when Sir Charles Paston Cooper, a very clever rider at the swinging ring, and also doughty in full shock of combat, had borne down his adversary, the Queen clapped her hands.
"Habet!" she cried, like any Roman empress, excited and glad, because young Sir Charles was a very strong adherent of the Crown, and known to be bitterly opposed to the pretensions of the Lady Elizabeth. "Habet!" the Queen cried again, with a shriek of delight.
She looked at her husband, whose head was a little bent, whose sallow face was lost in thought. She did not venture to disturb his reverie, but glanced behind him and above his chair to where John Commendone was standing.
"C'est bien fait, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur?" she said in French.
The young man's face, also, was frozen into immobility. It did not waken to the Queen's joyous exclamation. The eyes were turned inwards, he was hearing nothing of it all.
Her Grace's face flushed a little. She said no more, but wondered exceedingly.
The stately display-at-arms went on. The sun declined towards his western bower, and blue shadows crept slowly over the sand.
A little chill wind arose suddenly, and as it did so, Commendone awoke.
Everything flashed back to him. In the instant that it did so, and the dreaming of his mind was blown away, the curtain before his subconscious intelligence rolled up and showed him the real world. The first thing he saw was the head of King Philip just below him. The tall conical felt hat moved suddenly, leaning downwards towards a corner of the arena just below the Royal box.
Johnnie saw the King's profile, the lean, sallow jowl, the corner of the curved, tired, and haughty lip – the small eye suddenly lit up.
Following the King's glance, he saw below the figure of Sir John Shelton, dressed very quietly in ordinary riding costume, and by the side of the knight, Torromé, the valet of His Highness.
Both men nodded, and the King slightly inclined his head in reply.
Then His Highness leant back in his chair, and a little hissing noise, a sigh of relief or pleasure, came from his lips.
Immediately he turned to the Queen, placed one hand upon her jewelled glove, and began to speak with singular animation and brightness.
The Queen changed in a moment. The lassitude and disappointment went from her face in a flash. She turned to her husband, radiant and happy, and once more her face became beautiful.
It was the last time that John Commendone ever saw the face of Queen Mary. In after years he preferred always to think of her as he saw her then.
The tourney was over. Everybody had left the tilting yard and its vicinity, save only the farriers, the armour smiths, and grooms.
In front of the old palace hardly a soul was to be seen, except the sentinels and men of the guard, who paced up and down the terraces.
It was eight o'clock, and twilight was falling. All the windows were lit, every one was dressing for supper, and now and then little roulades of flutes, the twanging of viols being tuned, the mellow clarionette-like voice of the piccolo-milanese showed that the Royal band was preparing for the feast.
Johnnie was off duty; his time was his own now, and he could do as he would.
He longed more than anything to go to Chepe to be with the Cressemers again, to see Elizabeth; but, always punctilious upon points of etiquette, and especially remembering the sad case and dolour of his love, he felt it would be better not to go. Nevertheless, he took a sheet of paper from his case into the Common Room, and wrote a short letter of greeting to the Alderman. With this he also sent a posy of white roses, which he bribed a serving-man to get from the Privy Garden, desiring that the flowers should be given to Mistress Elizabeth Taylor.
This done, he sought and found his servant.
"To-night, John Hull," he said, "I shall not need thee, and thou mayest go into the City and do as thou wilt. I am going to rest early, for I am very tired. Come you back before midnight – you can get the servant's pass from the lieutenant of the guard if you mention my name – and wake me and bring me some milk. But while thou art away, take this letter and these flowers to the house of Master Robert Cressemer. Do not deliver them at once when thou goest, but at ten or a little later, and desire them to be taken at once to His Worship."
This he said, knowing something of the habits of the great house in Chepeside, and thinking that his posy would be taken to Elizabeth when she was retiring to her sleep.
"Perchance she may think of me all night," said cunning Johnnie to himself.
Hull took the letter and the flowers, and departed. Johnnie went to his chamber, disembarrassing himself of his stiff starched ruff, took off his sword, and put on the cassock-coat, which was the undress for the young gentlemen of the Court when they met in the Common Room for a meal.
He designed to take some food, and then to go straight to bed and sleep until his servant should wake him with the milk he had ordered, and especially with the message of how he had done in Chepe.
He had just arrayed himself and was wearily stretching out his arms, wondering whether after all he should go downstairs to sup or no, when the door of his bedroom was pushed open and Ambrose Cholmondely entered.
Johnnie was glad to see his friend.
"Holà!" he said, "I was in need of some one with whom to talk. You come in a good moment, mon ami."
Cholmondely sat down upon the bed.
"Well," he said, "didst come off well at the tourney?"
Johnnie shook his head. "I didn't ride," he said, "I was in attendance upon His Grace, rather to my disgust, for I had hoped for some exercise. But you? Where were you, Ambrose?"
"I? Well, Johnnie, I was excused attendance this afternoon. I made interest with Mr. Champneys, and so I got off."
"Venus, her service, I doubt me," Johnnie answered.
Ambrose Cholmondely nodded.
"Yes," he said, "i' faith, a very bootless quest it was. A girl at an inn that I lit upon some time agone – you would not know it – 'tis a big hostel of King Henry's time without Aldgate, the 'Woolsack.'"
Johnnie started. "I went there once," he said.
"I should well have thought," Cholmondely replied, "it would have been out of your purview. Never mind. My business came not to a satisfactory end. The girl was very coy. But I tell you what I did see, and that hath given me much reason for thought. Along the road towards Essex, where I was walking, hoping to meet my inamorata, came a damsel walking, by her dress and bearing of gentle birth, and with a serving-maid by her side. I was not upon the high road, but sat under a sycamore tree in a field hard by, but I saw all that passed very well. A carriage came slowly down the road towards this lady. Out of it jumped that bully-rook John Shelton, and close behind him the Spanish valet Torromé, that is the King's private servant. They caught hold of the girl, Shelton clapped a hand upon her mouth, and they had her in the carriage in a moment and her maid with her – which immediately turned round and went back at a quick pace through Aldgate. I would have interfered, but I could not get to the high road in time; 'twas so quickly done. Johnnie, there will be great trouble in London, if Shelton and these Spaniards he is so friendly with are to do such things in England. It may go on well enough for a time, but suddenly the bees will be roused from their hive, and there will be such a to-do and turmoil, such a candle will be lit as will not easily be put out."
Johnnie shrugged his shoulders. In his mood of absolute disgust with his surroundings, the recital interested him very little. He connected it at once with the appearance of Shelton and the valet at the end of the tourney, but it was not his business.
"The hog to his stye," he said bitterly. "I am going to take some supper, and then to bed, for I am very weary."
Arm in arm with Ambrose Cholmondely, he descended the stairs, went into the Common Room, and made a simple meal.
The place was riotous with high spirits, the talk was fast and free, but he joined in none of it, and in a very few minutes had returned to his room, closed the door, and thrown himself upon the bed.
Almost immediately he sank into a deep sleep.
He was dreaming of Elizabeth, and in his dream was interwoven the sound of great bells, when the fantastic painted pictures of sleep were suddenly shaken violently and dissolved. They flashed away, and his voice rose in calling after them to stay, when he suddenly awoke.
The bells were still going on, deep golden notes from the central cupola over the Queen's Gallery, beating out the hour of eleven. But as they changed from dream into reality – much louder and imminent – he felt himself shaken violently. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, a hoarse voice mingled with the bell-music in his ears. He awoke.
His little room was lit by a lanthorn standing upon the mantel with the door open.
John Hull, a huge broad shadow, was bending over him. He sat up in bed.
"Dame!" he cried, "and what is this?"
"Master! Master! She has been taken away! My little mistress! Most foully taken away, and none know where she may be!"
Johnnie sprang from his bed, upright and trembling.
"I took the letter and the flowers as you bade me. But all was sorrow and turmoil at the house. Mistress Elizabeth went out in the afternoon with Alice her maid. She was to take the air. They have not returned. Nothing is known. His Worship hath fifty men searching for her, and hath had for hours. But it avails nothing."
Johnnie suddenly became quite quiet. Hull saw his face change. The smooth, gracious contours were gone. An inner face, sharp, resolute, haggard and terribly alive, sprang out and pushed the other away.
"His Worship writ thee a letter, sir. Here 'tis."
Johnnie held out his hand. The letter was brief, the writing hurried and indistinct with alarm.
"Dear Lad, – They have taken our Lizzie, whom I know not. But I fear the worst things. I cannot find her with all my resource. An' if I cannot, one must dread exceeding. I dare say no more. But come to me on the instant, if canst. Thou – being at Court – I take it, may be able to do more than I, at the moment and in the article of our misfortune. The weight I bring to bear is heavy, but taketh time. Command me in every way as seemeth good to you. Order, and if needs be threaten in my name. All you do or say is as if I said it, and they that deny it will feel my hand heavy on them.
"But come, dear lad. Our Lady help and shield the little lamb.
"Your friend,"ROBERT CRESSEMER,"Alderman."
Johnnie thrust the letter into his bosom.
"John Hull, art ready to follow me to the death, as it may be and very like will?"
"Certes, master."
"Anything for her? Are you my man to do all and everything I tell thee till the end?"
John Hull answered nothing. He ran out of the room and returned in an instant with his master's boots and sword. He saw that the holster pistols were primed. He took one of Johnnie's daggers and thrust it into the sheath of his knife without asking.
The two men armed themselves to the teeth without another word.
"I'll be round to the stables," Hull said at length. "Two horses, master? I will rouse one groom only and say 'tis State business."
"You know then where we must go?"
"I know not the place. But I guess it. We hear much – we Court servants!" He spat upon the floor. "And I saw him looking at her as the Doctor rode to Hadley."
"Wilt risk it? – death, torture, which is worse, John Hull?"
"Duck Lane, master?"
"Duck Lane."
"I thought so. I'm for the horses."
A clatter of descending footsteps, a man standing in a little darkling room, his hand upon his sword hilt. His teeth set, his brain working in ice.
Receding footsteps… "Faithfullest servant that ever man had!"
And so to the bitter work!
CHAPTER VII
HEY HO! AND A RUMBELOW!
They had ridden over London Bridge.
The night was dark, and a wind was beginning to rise. Again, here and there about the bridge, soldiers were lounging, but Commendone and his servant passed over successfully. He was recognised from the last time, three nights ago. As they walked their horses through the scattered houses immediately at the southern end of the bridge, Johnnie spoke to Hull.
"I have plans," he said quietly; "my mind is full of them. But I can give you no hint until we are there and doing. Be quick at the uptake, follow me in all I do, but if necessary act thyself, and remember that we are desperate men upon an adventure as desperate. Let nothing stand in the way, as I shall not."
For answer he heard a low mutter, almost a growl, and they rode on in silence.
Both were cool and calm, strung up to the very highest point, every single faculty of mind and body on the alert and poised to strike.
One, the Spanish blood within him turning to that cold icy fury which would stick at nothing in this world to achieve his ends, the while his trained intelligence and high mental powers sat, as it were, upon his frozen anger and rode it as a horse; the other, a volcano of hidden snarling fury, seeing red at each step of his way through the dark, but subordinate and disciplined by the master mind.
They came to the entrance to Duck Lane, walked their horses quietly down it – once more it was in silence – until under the lamp above the big red door of the House of Shame, they saw two horses tethered to a ring in the wall, and a man in a cloak walking up and down in front of the house.
He looked up sharply as they came into the circle of lamp-light, and Johnnie saw, with a fierce throb of exultation, that it was Torromé, the King's valet.
"It is you, Señor," the man said in a low voice of relief.
Johnnie nodded curtly as he dismounted.
"Yes," he said, in a voice equally low, putting something furtive and sly into the tones, for he was a consummate actor. "Yes, it is I, Torromé. I must see His Grace at once on matters of high importance."
"His Grace said nothing," the man began.
"I know, I know," Johnnie answered. "It was not thought that I should have to come, but as events turn out" – he struck with his hand upon the door as he spoke – "I am to see His Highness at once."
"I trust Her Grace – " the man whispered in a frightened voice.
"Not a word," Commendone replied. "Take our horses and keep watch over them also. My man cometh in with me. Word will be sent out to you anon what to do."
The man bowed, and gathered up the bridle of the two new horses on his arm; while as he did so, the big red door swung open a little, and a thin face, covered with a mask of black velvet, peered out at the newcomers.
"It is all right," the valet said, in French. "This gentleman is of the suite of His Highness."
The peering, masked face scrutinised Johnnie for a second, then nodded, and the red lips below twisted into a sinister smile.
"Enter, sir," came in a soft, cooing voice. "I remember you three nights back…"
Johnnie entered, closely followed by Hull, and the door was closed behind him. They stood once more in the quiet carpeted passage, with its sense of mystery, its heavily perfumed air, and once again the tall nondescript figure flitted noiselessly in front of them, and scratched upon a panel of the big door at the end of the passage. There was the tinkle of a bell within. The door was opened. Johnnie pushed aside the curtains and entered the room, hung with crimson arras, powdered with the design of gold bats, lit with its hanging silver lamps, and reeking with the odour of the scented gums which were burning there.
Madame La Motte rose from her chair behind the little table as they entered. The big, painted face was quite still and motionless, like a mask, but the eyes glanced with quick, cunning brightness at Commendone and his companion – the only things alive in that huge countenance. She recognised Johnnie in a moment, and then her eyebrows went up into her forehead and the lower part of her face moved down a little, as if the whole were actuated by the sudden pull of a lever.
"Mon gars," she said, in French, "and what brings you here to-night? And who is this?.."
Her eyes had fallen upon the broad figure of the serving-man in his leather coat, his short sword hanging from his belt, his hand upon his dagger.
She might well look in alarm, this ancient, evil woman, for the keen brown face of the servant was gashed and lined with a terrible and quiet fury, the lips curled away from the teeth, the fore part of the body was bent forward a little as if to spring.
Johnnie took two steps up to the woman.
"Madam," he said, in a voice so low that it was hardly more than a whisper, but every syllable of which was perfectly distinct and clear, "a lady has been stolen from her friends, and brought to this hell. Where is she?"
The woman knew in a moment why they had come. She gave a sudden swift glance towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room, which told Commendone all he wanted to know.
"It is true, then?" he said. "Thou cat of hell, bound mistress of the fiend, she is here?"
The huge body of the woman began to tremble like a jelly, slowly at first in little shivers, and then more rapidly until face and shapeless form shook and swayed from side to side in a convulsion of fear, while all the jewels upon her winked and flashed.
As the young man bent forward and looked into her face, she found a voice, a horrid, strangled voice. "I know nothing," she coughed.
There was a low snarl, like a wakened panther, as Commendone, shuddering as he did so, gripped one bare, powdered shoulder.
"Silence!" he said.
With one convulsive effort, the woman shot out a fat hand, and rang the little silver bell upon the table.
Almost immediately the door swung open; there was a swish of curtains, and the tall, fantastic figure of the creature who had let them into the house stood there.
"Allez – la maison en face – viens toi vite, – Jules, Louis."
Commendone clapped his hand over the woman's mouth, just as the eel-like creature at the door, realising the situation in a moment, was gliding through the curtains to summon the bullies of the house.
But John Hull was too quick for him. He caught him by the arm, wrenched him back into the room, sent him spinning into the centre of it, and took two steps towards him, his right fist half raised to deal him a great blow.
The creature mewed like a cat, ducked suddenly and ran at the yeoman, gripping him round the waist with long, thin arms.
There was no sound as they struggled – this long, eel-like thing, in its mask and crimson robe twining round his sturdy opponent like some parasite writhing with evil life.
John Hull rocked, striving to bend forward and get a grip of his antagonist. But it was useless. He could do nothing, and he was being slowly forced backwards towards the door.
There was horror upon the man's brown face, horror of this silent, clinging thing which fought with fury, and in a fashion that none other had fought with him in all his life.
Then, as he realised what was happening, he stood up for a moment, staggering backwards as he did so, pulled out the dagger from his belt and struck three great blows downwards into the thin scarlet back, burying the steel up to the hilt at each fierce stroke.
There was a sudden "Oh," quite quiet and a little surprised, the sort of sound a man might make when he sees a friend come unexpectedly into his room…
That was all. It was over in some thirty seconds, there was a convulsive wriggle on the floor, and the man, if indeed it was a man, lay on its back stiff in death. The mask of black velvet had been torn off in the struggle, and they saw a tiny white face, painted and hairless, set on the end of a muscular and stringy neck – a monster lying there in soulless death.
"Have you killed it?" Commendone asked, suddenly.
"Yes, master." Hull's head was averted from what lay upon the carpet, even while he was pushing it towards the heap of cushions at the side of the room. Leaning over the body, he took a cushion from the heap – a gaudy thing of green and orange – and wiped his boot.
"Listen!" Johnnie said, still with his hand covering the woman's face.
They listened intently. Not a sound was to be heard.
"As I take it," Commendone answered, "there are no men in the house except only those two we have come to seek. The alarm hath not been given, and that eunuque is dead. We must settle Madame here." He laughed a grim, menacing laugh as he spoke.
Immediately the figure in his hands began to writhe and tremble, the feet beat a dull tattoo upon the carpet, the eyes protruded from their layers of paint, a snorting, snuffling noise came from beneath Commendone's hand. He caught it away instantly, shuddering with disgust.
"Kill me not! kill me not!" the old woman gasped. "They are upstairs, the King and his friend. The girl is there. I know nothing of her, she was brought to me in the dark by the King's servants. Kill me not; I will stay silent." Her voice failed. She fell suddenly back in her chair, and looked at them with indescribable horror in her eyes.
"I'll see to her, master," Hull said in a quiet voice, his face still distorted with mastiff-like fury.
He caught up his blood-stained dagger from the floor, stepped to the stiffened corpse, curved by tetanus into a bow, and ripped up a long piece of the gown which covered it. Quickly and silently he tied the old woman's ankles together, her hands behind her back – the podgy wrists would not meet, nor near it – and again he went to the corpse for further bonds.
"And now to stop her mouth," he said, "or she will be calling."
Commendone took out his handkerchief. "Here," he said. In an instant Hull had rolled it into a ball, pressed it between the painted lips, and tied it in its place with the last strip of velvet.
All this had taken but hardly a minute. Then he stood up and looked at his master. "The time comes," he said.
Johnnie nodded, and walked slowly, with quiet footsteps, towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room.
He felt warily for the handle, found it, turned it gently, and saw a narrow stairway stretching upwards, and lit by a lamp somewhere above. The stair was uncarpeted, but it was of old and massive oak, and, drawing his sword, he crept cautiously up, Hull following him like a cat.
They found themselves in a corridor with doors on each side, each door painted with a big white number. It was lit, warm, and very still.
Johnnie put his fingers to his lips, and both men listened intently.
The silence was absolute. They might have been in an empty house. No single indication of human movement came to them as they stood there.
For nearly a minute they remained motionless. Their eyes were fixed and horror-struck, their ears strained to an intensity of listening.
Then, at last, they heard a sound, quite unexpectedly and very near.
It came from the door immediately upon their right, which was painted with the number "3," and was simply the click of a sword in its scabbard. Johnnie took two noiseless steps to the door, settled his sword in his hand, flung it open, and leapt in.
He was in a large low room panelled round its sides, the panels painted white, the beadings picked out in crimson. A carpet covered the floor, a low fire burnt upon a wide open hearth. There were two or three padded sofa lounges here and there, and in front of the fire-place in riding clothes, though without his hat or gloves, stood Sir John Shelton.
There was a dead silence for several seconds, only broken by the click of the outer door, as Hull pushed it into its place, and shot the bolt.
Shelton grew very white, but said nothing.
With his sword ready to assume the guard, Johnnie walked to the centre of the room.
The bully's face grew whiter still. Little drops of moisture glistened on his forehead, and on his blonde moustache.
Then he spoke.
"Ah! Mr. Commendone!" he said, with a horrid little laugh. "News from Court, I suppose? Is it urgent? His Grace is engaged within, but I will acquaint him. His Grace is engaged – " There came a titter of discovery and fear from his lips. His words died away into silence.
Johnnie advanced towards him, his sword pointed at his heart.
"What does this mean, Mr. Commendone?"
"Death."
The man's sword was out in a moment. The touch of it seemed to bring the life back to him, and with never a word, he sprang at Commendone. He was a brave man enough, a clever fencer too, but he knew now that his hour had come. He read it in the fixed face before him, that face of frozen fury. He knew it directly the blades touched. Indeed he was no match for Commendone, with his long training, and clean, abstemious life. But even had he been an infinitely superior swordsman, he knew that he would have had no chance in that moment. There was something behind the young man's arm which no Sir John Shelton could resist.
The blades rattled together and struck sparks in the lamp-light. Click! Clatter! Click! – "Ah!" the long-drawn breath, a breath surging up from the very entrails – Click! Clatter! Click!
The fierce cold fury of that fight was far beyond anything in war, or the ordinary duello. It was à outrance, there was only one end to it, and that came very swiftly.
Commendone was not fighting for safety. He cared not, and knew nothing, of what the other might have in reserve. He did not even wait to test his adversary's tricks of fence, as was only cautious and usual. Nothing could have withstood him, and in less than two minutes from the time the men had engaged, the end came. Commendone made a half-lunge, which was parried by the dagger in Sir John's left hand, and then, quick as lightning, his sword was through Shelton's throat, through and through.
The Captain fell like a log, hiccoughed, and lay still.
"Two," said John Hull.
Johnnie withdrew his sword, holding it downwards, watching it drip; then he turned to his servant. "Sir John was here on guard," he said; "this is the ante-room to where She is. But I see no door, save only the one by which we entered."
"Hist!" Hull replied, almost before his master had finished speaking.
He pointed to the opposite wall, and both men saw a long, narrow bar of orange light, a momentarily widening slit, opening in a panel.
The panel swung back entirely, forming a sort of hatch or window, and through it, yellow, livid, and terror-struck, looked the face of the King.
Without a word John Hull rushed towards that part of the wall. When he was within a yard of it he gathered himself up and leapt against it, like a battering-ram. There was a crash, as the concealed door was torn away from its hinges. Hull lay measuring his length upon the floor, and Johnnie leaped over the prostrate form into the room beyond.
This is what he saw:
In one corner of the room, close to a large couch covered with rich silks, Elizabeth Taylor stood against the wall. They had dressed her in a long white robe of the Grecian sort, with a purple border round the hem of the skirt, the short sleeves and the low neck. Her face was a white wedge of terror, her arms were upraised, the palms of her hands turned outwards, as if to ward off some horror unspeakable.
King Philip, at the other corner of the room, standing by the débris of the broken door, was perfectly motionless, save only for his head, which was pushed forward and moved from side to side with a slow reptilian movement.
He was dressed entirely in black, his clothes in disarray, and the thin hair upon his head was matted in fantastic elf-locks with sweat.
He saw the set face of Commendone, his drawn and bloody sword. He saw the thick leathern-coated figure of the yeoman rise from the floor. Both were confronting him, and he knew in a flash that he was trapped.
Johnnie looked at his master for a moment, and then turned swiftly. "Elizabeth," he said, "Elizabeth!"
At his voice the girl's hands fell from her face. She looked at him for a second in wild amazement, and then she cried out, in a high, quavering voice of welcome, "Johnnie! Johnnie! you've come!"
He put his arms about her, soothing, stroking her hair, speaking in a low, caressing voice, as a man might speak to a child. And all the time his heart, which had been frozen into deadly purpose, was leaping, bounding, and drumming within him so furiously, so strongly, that it seemed as if his body could hardly contain it. This mortal frame must surely be dissolved and swept away by such a tumult of feeling.
