Chapter XXVIII: Prisoners

In the meantime, Yolande had suffered every terror that the human mind could conceive. She had wandered round and round in the blackness, stumbling against débris, falling into stagnant pools of water, until exhaustion overcame her, and for a period she lost her senses completely.

She was awakened by a strange noise--a curious bellowing voice that reverberated through the cavern. It was calling something--“Minna,” she thought, and, as her brain became clearer, she realised with a start of horror that her late captor had returned from his murderous quest and was searching for her. The voice came nearer and nearer, and then a soft glow split the darkness. She blinked at the relative brilliance, and saw that she was near the side of a big excavation, from which passages branched off in several directions. The light was shining from an opening immediately opposite her.

With a murmur of horror she slipped behind a mass of rock, and in fear and trembling waited for the emergence of the seeker. Through a cleft in the rock she saw him at last. He was holding up a lighted match, the flickering flame of which threw a great awful shadow across the propped wall behind him.

“Minna! Minna!”

It was a pitiful cry of despair, but it produced no sympathetic feeling in her breast. Terrible as that place was, it was preferable to the company of the insane demon who was now seeking her. She held her breath in dreadful suspense as he came towards her. But ere he reached the rock the match burnt down to his fingers and darkness intervened. She heard the scratch of another match, and moved softly round one side of the rock as he approached the other. His breath made a rattling noise in his throat, and at one moment he was within three yards of her. Then to her great relief he went off at a tangent, still calling the name.

Fainter and fainter grew the calls, until at last only a murmur was borne back to her. Believing that he would return by the same passage, she crept farther round the shielding rock, not daring to move away lest she should be caught in some less favourable place.

“Minna! Where are you, Minna?”

She shuddered, and waited for a long time before the approaching light began to throw vague shadows on the walls. Again she saw him--holding his robe close against his face, as he always did. He did no more than give a glance about him, before entering another gallery.

Oh, night of horrors! How long it lasted she could not guess. As time passed, his awful cries grew more and more despairing--like the wails of a lost soul in Hades. Then, when she felt that her last ounce of strength was being used up, she saw him make his way back through the tunnel by which he had come, and the intense darkness reigned again.

Followed another period of oblivion, in which Nature did something towards balancing the tottering mind. But the old terrors were reborn upon opening her eyes--to see absolutely nothing. There were two alternatives for her. One was to go on in the hope of finding an outlet, and the other was to risk going back to the vault, trusting that he might not be there. She chose the former.

Hungry and faint, she stumbled along a gallery, but it rapidly descended, and soon she found deep water that she dared not enter. Back again to the big chamber, with a hopeless feeling at her heart. The next attempt was even more alarming, for there was a fall of earth behind her, due to rotting beams and props. She found herself against a blank wall, and had to burrow back through loose earth to escape being buried alive.

Reaching the big chamber, she sat down to recover her breath, and to consider the next step. Her mind revolted at the idea of returning, even if she could find the correct gallery; but now the second alternative was death--madness and death in the inky blackness. And but last night--was it last night?--she had been in Wallace’s arms, believing in the goodness of God!

* * * * * * *

At that moment Wallace and Conrad were making through the vault towards the secret door. They reached the end wall at the termination of the third arcade, and Wallace gave a quick glance at the bins referred to by the chronicler, and his eyes glinted as the neat hinges came to view.

“By Jove--he was right, Connie!”

But Conrad had collapsed on a box, and was holding his head between his hands.

“I feel a bit--cheap,” he said. “It will pass off.”

“You oughtn’t to have come. Jove, you’re as pale as death! It’s no use, Connie--you have overdone it. You’ve got to come back with me.”

“No. I’ll stick it.”

It was evident that he was in no state to continue, and Wallace gripped him firmly by the arm.

“Come on. The atmosphere is deadly down here. I’ll see you to your room, and run down again.”

Conrad had little resistance left, and permitted himself to be led back to the château. He felt better as soon as they emerged into daylight.

“I don’t like your going, Ralph,” he said. “It’s not a one-man job. Take Watkins.”

“He has gone with Fouchard.”

“Then the gardener or Pierre.”

“I should have to wet-nurse them. Don’t worry, old man, I shall win through this all right. Give me that pistol.”

He was off again in a couple of minutes, running at breakneck speed down the steps and through the vault. He soon reached the end wall, and hesitated for a second or two before putting his weight on the wooden structure. It opened immediately--and without a sound. Before him stretched a long straight passage approached by a dozen steep steps. The electric illumination surprised him, until he recalled that Watkins was always complaining about “leakage.” Here was the cause!

He crept along the passage warily, expecting that a creature used to inhabiting such a place would possess the keenest hearing. Reaching the door, he examined the pistol to make sure it was loaded and in working order. Then, seizing the handle of the door, he turned it slowly and suddenly pushed.

The inner room was empty save for the enormous collection of old army gear. There were boxes piled in the corner with the German Government mark stencilled on them, ancient tins of meat, rope, bayonets, and a box of razors! But what took his attention were two enamel plates with fragments of food upon them, lying close to the spread-out blankets. His glance went to the door at the end of the chamber, and, gripping the pistol tightly, he stole towards it.

All his nerves became braced as he suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps--a kind of shuffle. He moved away to the wall--in the direction in which the door would swing. A blast of damp air entered the room as the door swung open, and through it stepped the strange creature he had prayed to meet face to face for so long. The shoulders were enormous and hunched, and the tattered, frowsy, brown robe was gripped round about the chin by a huge talon-like hand.

“Halt!”

The big form stood perfectly still, and from the orifice formed by the cowl two ferocious eyes glared out.

“Put up your hands! Put them up or I shall shoot!”

Slowly the enormous arms went up, but Wallace was not at all prepared for what followed. In a flash a powerful hand had snatched the exposed electric light cable, and the light immediately failed.

“Ha ha! Ha ha ha!”

The demoniacal laughter filled the place. Wallace’s hair seemed to rise perpendicularly. He fired, once, hoping that the flash would reveal the exact position of the lunatic, but the brown robe was much the same colour as the walls, and his shot went wide.

“The little lamb comes to the slaughter! We shall still hold the château, m’sieur. We shall still hold it! Ha ha ha!”

Wallace could not follow a word of the guttural German, but he was fully cognisant of what was intended. Again he fired, and the small flash revealed--something. It was the proximity of the huge form, and the flash of steel. Out went his left arm to save his throat, and by wonderful luck his fingers fell upon a thick hairy wrist. Simultaneously the pistol was knocked from his hand by a smashing blow from his powerful opponent. It was a life and death struggle now. He brought his right arm to bear upon the hand that held the razor, and with a great effort managed to bend the hairy wrist until he heard the razor clatter to the ground. The next instant his throat was gripped tightly.

This was more easily remedied. He swung his left arm, and drove it straight into the creature’s stomach. There came a howl of pain, and immediately the hands left his windpipe. Delay was fatal now, for he did not possess the cat-like eyes of this maniac. He followed up with smashing blows--most of which took effect. Then he tripped and fell, but managed to bring his adversary down with him.

Young and strong and in perfect condition as he was, he became doubtful of the outcome of this appalling conflict. His blows became feebler, and seemed to have little or no effect upon the growling maniac. He hit out again where he thought the head should be, and the blow fell upon a shoulder. But it served its purpose, for the big head jerked back and came into violent contact with the sharp corner of a metal box. There was a sound like a sigh--and no further resistance.

Gasping, he rose to his feet, and flashed the torch upon the prone form. What he saw horrified him. The cowl was back and the robe open. The whole face came to view. But only above the mouth was it a face. The lower part was so shattered it had ceased to be human.

“Poor devil!” he muttered involuntarily.

He put the cowl over the head, and closed the robe, shuddering as he did so. With a coil of stout rope he bound the arms and legs firmly, and then waited for the creature to recover consciousness, with the object of compelling him to give him some information about Yolande.

But, although he waited for a quarter of an hour, the eyes remained closed and there was no movement of any kind. He decided to leave him where he was and pursue his quest. He was soon in the narrow earth gallery, with the torch dimly lighting the way, and it was not long before he saw something that caused his heart to beat a higher note. They were footprints--small footprints mingled with enormous ones. He ran now--splashing mud all over his clothing.

“Yolande!”

He thought he heard a faint response, but realised it might well be the echo of his own voice.

“Yolande!”

This time there was no doubt about it. The response was faint and in a high-pitched voice, and it came from immediately ahead. The torch was burning dimly, and he feared it might burn out ere he reached her.

“Yolande! Yolande!”

Then he saw a sight that was like heaven opening from the depths of hell. A figure came to view at the end of the passage. It was muddy and tattered, and the hair was down and wet. But it was Yolande notwithstanding--and her arms went out as she saw him.

“Ralph!” she said brokenly.

He seized her in his arms and kissed the pallid lips--the eyes and wet hair of her.

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

“I knew you would come. I knew it!”

“You are all right?”

“Yes--yes. But I’m hungry--so hungry. Where is he? You--you haven’t killed him?”

“No. He nearly killed me. I’ve got him safely tied up back there.”

“And you came--alone?”

“I had to. Fouchard was away when we discovered the secret passage. I’ve lived in hell for nearly twelve hours. But it’s going to be all right now. My dear, you don’t know----”

She smiled wanly at his inarticulateness. Weak and exhausted as she was, she _did_ know, and she clung to him as if she feared that at any moment he might vanish into thin air and leave her again to the hideous nightmares.

“You--you overpowered him?” she asked incredulously.

“By luck. Of course he is a lunatic.”

“Yes, mad--quite mad. He calls me Minna--mistaking me for someone else. I owe my life to that--and to you.”

“Let us get back.”

“I hate to see him again. I can’t help remembering that he murdered my dear father. What--what are you going to do with him?”

“Hand him over to Fouchard. It is Conrad who deserves all the praise. But for him----”

She pressed his hand, and they went slowly forward towards the lair of the Monster.