The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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[Illustration: Drawn by John Cassel.
"Where am I?" she gasped. "What--what
have you done with me?"]

The Way of an Eagle

By E.M. DELL

1911

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER

I.--THE TRUST

II.--A SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER

III.--THE VICTIM OF TREACHERY

IV.--DESOLATION

V.--THE DEVIL IN THE WILDERNESS

VI.--WHEN STRONG MEN FAIL

VII.--THE COMING OF AN ARMY

PART II

VIII.--COMRADES

IX.--THE SCHOOL OF SORROW

X.--THE EAGLE SWOOPS

XI.--THE FIRST FLIGHT

XII.--THE MESSAGE

XIII.--THE VOICE OF A FRIEND

XIV.--THE POISON OF ADDERS

XV.--THE SUMMONS

XVI.--THE ORDEAL

PART III

XVII.--An Old Friend

XVIII.--The Explanation

XIX.--A Hero Worshipper

XX.--News from the East

XXI.--A Harbour of Refuge

XXII.--An Old Story

XXIII.--The Sleep Called Death

XXIV.--The Creed of a Fighter

XXV.--A Scented Letter

XXVI.--The Eternal Flame

XXVII.--The Eagle Caged

XXVIII.--The Lion's Skin

XXIX.--Old Friends Meet

XXX.--An Offer of Friendship

XXXI.--The Eagle Hovers

PART IV

XXXII.--The Face in the Storm

XXXIII.--The Lifting of the Mask

XXXIV.--At the Gate of Death

XXXV.--The Armistice

XXXVI.--The Eagle Strikes

XXXVII. THE PENALTY FOR SENTIMENT

XXXVIII. THE WATCHER OF THE CLIFF

XXXIX. BY SINGLE COMBAT

XL. THE WOMAN'S CHOICE

XLI. THE EAGLE'S PREY

XLII. THE HARDEST FIGHT OF ALL

XLIII. REQUIESCAT

XLIV. LOVE'S PRISONER

PART V

XLV. THE VISION

XLVI. THE HEART OF A MAN

XLVII. IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP

XLVIII. THE HEALING OF THE BREACH

XLIX. THE LOWERING OF THE FLAG

L. EREBUS

LI. THE BIRD OF PARADISE

LII. A WOMAN'S OFFERING

LIII. THE LAST SKIRMISH

LIV. SURRENDER

LV. OMNIA VINCIT AMOR

LVI. THE EAGLE SOARS

"There be three things which are too wonderful
for me, yea, four which I know not:

The way of an eagle in the air;
the way of a serpent upon a rock;
the way of a ship in the midst of the sea;
and the way of a man with a maid."

Proverbs xxx, 18-19.

THE WAY OF AN EAGLE

PART I

CHAPTER I

THE TRUST

The long clatter of an irregular volley of musketry rattled warningly
from the naked mountain ridges; over a great grey shoulder of rock
the sun sank in a splendid opal glow; from very near at hand came the
clatter of tin cups and the sound of a subdued British laugh. And in
the room of the Brigadier-General a man lifted his head from his hands
and stared upwards with unseeing, fixed eyes.

There was an impotent, crushed look about him as of one nearing the
end of his strength. The lips under the heavy grey moustache moved a
little as though they formed soundless words. He drew his breath once
or twice sharply through his teeth. Finally, with a curious groping
movement he reached out and struck a small hand-gong on the table in
front of him.

The door slid open instantly and an Indian soldier stood in the
opening. The Brigadier stared full at him for several seconds as if he
saw nothing, his lips still moving secretly, silently. Then suddenly,
with a stiff gesture, he spoke.

"Ask the major sahib and the two captain sahibs to come to me here."

The Indian saluted and vanished like a swift-moving shadow.

The Brigadier sank back into his chair, his head drooped forward, his
hands clenched. There was tragedy, hopeless and absolute, in every
line of him.

There came the careless clatter of spurred heels and loosely-slung
swords in the passage outside of the half-closed door, the sound of a
stumble, a short ejaculation, and again a smothered laugh.

"Confound you Grange! Why can't you keep your feet to yourself, you
ungainly Triton, and give us poor minnows a chance?"

The Brigadier sat upright with a jerk. It was growing rapidly dark.

"Come in, all of you," he said. "I have something to say. As well to
shut the door, Ratcliffe, though it is not a council of war."

"There being nothing left to discuss, sir," returned the voice that
had laughed. "It is just a simple case of sitting tight now till
Bassett comes round the corner."

The Brigadier glanced up at the speaker and caught the last glow of
the fading sunset reflected on his face. It was a clean-shaven face
that should have possessed a fair skin, but by reason of unfavourable
circumstances it was burnt to a deep yellow-brown. The features were
pinched and wrinkled--they might have belonged to a very old man; but
the eyes that smiled down into the Brigadier's were shrewd, bright,
monkey-like. They expressed a cheeriness almost grotesque. The two men
whom he had followed into the room stood silent among the shadows. The
gloom was such as could be felt.

Suddenly, in short, painful tones the Brigadier began to speak.

"Sit down," he said. "I have sent for you to ask one among you to
undertake for me a certain service which must be accomplished, but
which I--" he paused and again audibly caught his breath between his
teeth--"which I--am unable to execute for myself."

An instant's silence followed the halting speech. Then the young
officer who stood against the door stepped briskly forward.

"What's the job, sir? I'll wager my evening skilly I carry it
through."

One of the men in the shadows moved, and spoke in a repressive tone.
"Shut up, Nick! This is no mess-room joke."

Nick made a sharp, half-contemptuous gesture. "A joke only ceases
to be a joke when there is no one left to laugh, sir," he said. "We
haven't come to that at present."

He stood in front of the Brigadier for a moment--an insignificant
figure but for the perpetual suggestion of simmering activity that
pervaded him; then stepped behind the commanding officer's chair, and
there took up his stand without further words.

The Brigadier paid no attention to him. His mind was fixed upon one
subject only. Moreover, no one ever took Nick Ratcliffe seriously. It
seemed a moral impossibility.

"It is quite plain to me," he said heavily at length, "that the time
has come to face the situation. I do not speak for the discouragement
of you brave fellows. I know that I can rely upon each one of you to
do your duty to the utmost. But we are bound to look at things as they
are, and so prepare for the inevitable. I for one am firmly convinced
that General Bassett cannot possibly reach us in time."

He paused, but no one spoke. The man behind him was leaning forward,
listening intently.

He went on with an effort. "We are a mere handful. We have dwindled
to four white men among a host of dark. Relief is not even within a
remote distance of us, and we are already bordering upon starvation.
We may hold out for three days more. And then"--his breath came
suddenly short, but he forced himself to continue--"I have to think of
my child. She will be in your hands. I know you will all defend her to
the last ounce of your strength; but which of you"--a terrible gasping
checked his utterance for many labouring seconds; he put his hand over
his eyes--"which of you," he whispered at last, his words barely
audible, "will have the strength to--shoot her before your own last
moment comes?"

The question quivered through the quiet room as if wrung from the
twitching lips by sheer torture. It went out in silence--a dreadful,
lasting silence in which the souls of men, stripped naked of human
convention, stood confronting the first primaeval instinct of human
chivalry.

It continued through many terrible seconds--that silence, and through
it no one moved, no one seemed to breathe. It was as if a spell
had been cast upon the handful of Englishmen gathered there in the
deepening darkness.

The Brigadier sat bowed and motionless at the table, his head sunk in
his hands.

Suddenly there was a quiet movement behind him, and the spell was
broken. Ratcliffe stepped deliberately forward and spoke.

"General," he said quietly, "if you will put your daughter in my care,
I swear to you, so help me God, that no harm of any sort shall touch
her."

There was no hint of emotion in his voice, albeit the words were
strong; but it had a curious effect upon those who heard it. The
Brigadier raised his head sharply, and peered at him; and the other
two officers started as men suddenly stumbling at an unexpected
obstacle in a familiar road.

One of them, Major Marshall, spoke, briefly and irritably, with a
touch of contempt. His nerves were on edge in that atmosphere of
despair.

"You, Nick!" he said. "You are about the least reliable man in
the garrison. You can't be trusted to take even reasonable care of
yourself. Heaven only knows how it is you weren't killed long ago. It
was thanks to no discretion on your part. You don't know the meaning
of the word."

Nick did not answer, did not so much as seem to hear. He was standing
before the Brigadier. His eyes gleamed in his alert face--two weird
pin-points of light.

"She will be safe with me," he said, in a tone that held not the
smallest shade of uncertainty.

But the Brigadier did not speak. He still searched young Ratcliffe's
face as a man who views through field-glasses a region distant and
unexplored.

After a moment the officer who had remained silent throughout came
forward a step and spoke. He was a magnificent man with the physique
of a Hercules. He had remained on his feet, impassive but observant,
from the moment of his entrance. His voice had that soft quality
peculiar to some big men.

"I am ready to sell my life for Miss Roscoe's safety, sir," he said.

Nick Ratcliffe jerked his shoulders expressively, but said nothing. He
was waiting for the General to speak. As the latter rose slowly, with
evident effort, from his chair, he thrust out a hand, as if almost
instinctively offering help to one in sore need.

General Roscoe grasped it and spoke at last. He had regained his
self-command. "Let me understand you, Ratcliffe," he said. "You
suggest that I should place my daughter in your charge. But I must
know first how far you are prepared to go to ensure her safety."

He was answered instantly, with an unflinching promptitude he had
scarcely expected.

"I am prepared to go to the uttermost limit, sir," said Nicholas
Ratcliffe, his fingers closing like springs upon the hand that gripped
his, "if there is a limit. That is to say, I am ready to go through
hell for her. I am a straight shot, a cool shot, a dead shot. Will you
trust me?"

His voice throbbed with sudden feeling. General Roscoe was watching
him closely. "Can I trust you, Nick?" he said.

There was an instant's silence, and the two men in the background
were aware that something passed between them--a look or a rapid
sign--which they did not witness. Then reckless and debonair came
Nick's voice.

"I don't know, sir. But if I am untrustworthy, may I die to-night!"

General Roscoe laid his free hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Is it so, Nick?" he said, and uttered a heavy sigh. "Well--so be it
then. I trust you."

"That settles it, sir," said Nick cheerily. "The job is mine."

He turned round with a certain arrogance of bearing, and walked to the
door. But there he stopped, looking back through the darkness at the
dim figures he had left.

"Perhaps you will tell Miss Roscoe that you have appointed me
deputy-governor," he said. "And tell her not to be frightened, sir.
Say I'm not such a bogey as I look, and that she will be perfectly
safe with me." His tone was half-serious, half-jocular. He wrenched
open the door not waiting for a reply.

"I must go back to the guns," he said, and the next moment was gone,
striding carelessly down the passage, and whistling a music-hall
ballad as he went.

CHAPTER II

A SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER

In the centre of the little frontier fort there was a room which one
and all of its defenders regarded as sacred. It was an insignificant
chamber, narrow as a prison cell and almost as bare; but it was the
safest place in the fort. In it General Roscoe's daughter--the only
white woman in the garrison--had dwelt safely since the beginning of
that dreadful siege.

Strictly forbidden by her father to stir from her refuge without
his express permission, she had dragged out the long days in close
captivity, living in the midst of nerve-shattering tumult but taking
no part therein. She was little more than a child, and accustomed
to render implicit obedience to the father she idolised, or she had
scarcely been persuaded to submit to this rigorous seclusion. It would
perhaps have been better for her physically and even mentally to
have gone out and seen the horrors which were being daily enacted all
around her. She had at first pleaded for at least a limited freedom,
urging that she might take her part in caring for the wounded. But her
father had refused this request with such decision that she had never
repeated it. And so she had seen nothing while hearing much, lying
through many sleepless nights with nerves strung to a pitch of torture
far more terrible than any bodily exhaustion, and vivid imagination
ever at work upon pictures more ghastly than even the ghastly reality
which she was not allowed to see.

The strain was such as no human frame could have endured for long.
Her strength was beginning to break down under it. The long sleepless
nights were more than she could bear. And there came a time when
Muriel Roscoe, driven to extremity, sought relief in a remedy from
which in her normal senses she would have turned in disgust.

It helped her, but it left its mark upon her--a mark which her father
must have noted, had he not been almost wholly occupied with the
burden that weighed him down. Morning and evening he visited her, yet
failed to read that in her haunted eyes which could not have escaped a
clearer vision.

Entering her room two hours after his interview with his officers
regarding her, he looked at her searchingly indeed, but without
understanding. She lay among cushions on a _charpoy_ of bamboo in
the light of a shaded lamp. Young and slight and angular, with a
pale little face of utter weariness, with great dark eyes that gazed
heavily out of the black shadows that ringed them round, such was
Muriel Roscoe. Her black hair was simply plaited and gathered up at
the neck. It lay in cloudy masses about her temples--wonderful hair,
quite lustreless, so abundant that it seemed almost too much for the
little head that bore it. She did not rise at her father's entrance.
She scarcely raised her eyes.

"So glad you've come, Daddy," she said, in a soft, low voice. "I've
been wanting you. It's nearly bedtime, isn't it?"

He went to her, treading lightly. His thoughts had been all of her for
the past few hours and in consequence he looked at her more critically
than usual. For the first time he was struck by her pallor, her look
of deathly weariness. On the table near her lay a plate of boiled rice
piled high in a snowy pyramid. He saw that it had not been touched.

"Why, child," he said, a sudden new anxiety at his heart "you have had
nothing to eat. You're not ill?"

She roused herself a little, and a very faint colour crept into her
white cheeks. "No, dear, only tired--too tired to be hungry," she told
him. "That rice is for you."

He sat down beside her with a sound that was almost a groan. "You must
eat something, child," he said. "Being penned up here takes away your
appetite. But all the same you must eat."

She sat up slowly, and pushed back the heavy hair from her forehead
with a sigh.

"Very well, Daddy," she said submissively. "But you must have some
too, dear. I couldn't possible eat it all."

Something in his attitude or expression seemed to strike her at this
point, and she made a determined effort to shake off her lethargy. A
spoon and fork lay by the plate. She handed him the former and kept
the latter for herself.

"We'll have a picnic, Daddy." she said, with a wistful little smile.
"I told _ayah_ always to bring two plates, but she has forgotten. We
don't mind, though, do we?"

It was childishly spoken, but the pathos of it went straight to the
man's heart. He tasted the rice under her watching eyes and pronounced
it very good; then waited for her to follow his example which she did
with a slight shudder.

"Delicious, Daddy, isn't it?" she said. And even he did not guess what
courage underlay the words.

They kept up the farce till the pyramid was somewhat reduced; then by
mutual consent they suffered their ardour to flag. There was a faint
colour in the girl's thin face as she leaned back again. Her eyes were
brighter, the lids drooped less.

"I had a dream last night, Daddy," she said, "such a curious dream,
and so vivid. I thought I was out on the mountains with some one. I
don't know who it was, but it was some one very nice. It seemed to be
very near the sunrise, for it was quite bright up above, though it was
almost dark where we stood. And, do you know--don't laugh, Daddy,
I know it was only a silly dream--when I looked up, I saw that
everywhere the mountains were full of horses and chariots of fire. I
felt so safe, Daddy, and so happy. I could have cried when I woke up."

She paused. It was rather difficult for her to make conversation for
the silent man who sat beside her so gloomy and preoccupied. Save that
she loved her father as she loved no one else on earth, she might have
felt awed in his presence.

As it was, receiving no response, she turned to look, and the next
instant was on her knees beside him, her thin young arms clinging to
his neck.

"Daddy, darling, darling!" she whispered, and hid her face against him
in sudden, nameless terror.

He clasped her to him, holding her close, that she might not again see
his face and the look it wore. She began to tremble, and he tried to
soothe her with his hand, but for many seconds he could find no words.

"What is it, Daddy?" she whispered at last, unable to endure the
silence longer. "Won't you tell me? I can be very brave. You said so
yourself."

"Yes," he said. "You will be a brave girl, I know." His voice quivered
and he paused to steady it. "Muriel," he said then, "I don't know if
you have ever thought of the end of all this. There will be an end,
you know. I have had to face it to-night."

She looked up at him quickly, but he was ready for her. He had
banished from his face the awful despair that he carried in his soul.

"When Sir Reginald Bassett comes--" she began uncertainly.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "You will try not to be afraid," he
said. "I am going to treat you, as I have treated my officers, with
absolute candour. We shall not hold out more than three days more. Sir
Reginald Bassett will not be here in time."

He stopped. Muriel uttered not a word. Her face was still upturned,
and her eyes had suddenly grown intensely bright, but he read no
shrinking in them.

With an effort he forced himself to go on. "I may not be able to
protect you when the end comes. I may not even be with you. But--there
is one man upon whom you can safely rely whatever happens, who will
give himself up to securing your safety alone. He has sworn to me that
you shall not be taken, and I know that he will keep his word. You
will be safe with him, Muriel. You may trust him as long as you live.
He will not fail you. Perhaps you can guess his name?"

He asked the question with a touch of curiosity in the midst of
his tragedy. That upturned, listening face had in it so little of a
woman's understanding, so much of the deep wonder of a child.

Her answer was prompt and confident, and albeit her very lips were
white, there was a faint hint of satisfaction in her voice as she made
it.

"Captain Grange, of course, Daddy."

He started and looked at her narrowly. "No, no!" he said. "Not Grange!
What should make you think of him?"

He saw a look of swift disappointment, almost of consternation, darken
her eyes. For the first time her lips quivered uncertainly.

"Who then, Daddy? Not--not Mr. Ratcliffe?"

He bent his head. "Yes, Nick Ratcliffe. I have placed you in his
charge. He will take care of you."

"Young Nick Ratcliffe!" she said slowly. "Why, Daddy, he can't even
take care of himself yet. Every one says so. Besides,"--a curiously
womanly touch crept into her speech--"I don't like him. Only the other
day I heard him laugh at something that was terrible--something it
makes me sick to think of. Indeed, Daddy, I would far rather have
Captain Grange to take care of me. Don't you think he would if you
asked him? He is so much bigger and stronger, and--and kinder."

"Ah! I know," her father said. "He seems so to you. But it is nerve
that your protector will need, child; and Ratcliffe possesses more
nerve than all the rest of the garrison put together. No, it must be
Ratcliffe, Muriel. And remember to give him all your trust, all your
confidence. For whatever he does will be with my authority--with
my--full--approval."

His voice failed suddenly and he rose, turning sharply away from the
light. She clung to his arm silently, in a passion of tenderness,
though she was far from understanding the suffering those last words
revealed. She had never seen him thus moved before.

After a few seconds he turned back to her, and bending kissed her
piteous face. She clung closely to him with an agonised longing to
keep him with her; but he put her gently from him at last.

"Lie down again, dear," he said, "and get what rest you can. Try not
to be frightened at the noise. There is sure to be an assault, but the
fort will hold to-night."

He stood a moment, looking down at her. Then again he stooped and
kissed her. "Good-bye, my darling," he said huskily, "till we meet
again!"

And so hurriedly, as if not trusting himself to remain longer, he left
her.

CHAPTER III

THE VICTIM OF TREACHERY

There came again the running rattle of rifle-firing from the valley
below the fort, and Muriel Roscoe, lying on her couch, pressed both
hands to her eyes and shivered. It seemed impossible that the end
could be so near. She felt as if she had existed for years in this
living nightmare of many horrors, had lain down and had slept with
that dreadful sound in her ears from the very beginning of things. The
life she had led before these ghastly happenings had become so vague a
memory that it almost seemed to belong to a previous existence, to an
earlier and a happier era. As in a dream she now recalled the vision
of her English school-life. It lay not a year behind her, but she felt
herself to have changed so fundamentally since those sunny, peaceful
days that she seemed to be a different person altogether. The Muriel
Roscoe of those days had been a merry, light-hearted personality. She
had revelled in games and all outdoor amusements. Moreover, she had
been quick to learn, and her lessons had never caused her any trouble.
A daring sprite she had been, with a most fertile imagination and a
longing for adventure that had never been fully satisfied, possessing
withal so tender and loving a heart that the very bees in the garden
had been among her cherished friends. She remembered all the sunny
ideals of that golden time and marvelled at herself, forgetting
utterly the eager, even passionate, craving that had then been hers
for the wider life, the broader knowledge, that lay beyond her reach,
forgetting the feverish impatience with which she had longed for
the day of her emancipation when she might join her father in the
wonderful glowing East which she so often pictured in her dreams. Of
her mother she had no memory. She had died at her birth. Her father
was all the world to her; and when at last he had travelled home on a
brief leave and taken her from her quiet English life to the strange,
swift existence of the land of his exile, her soul had overflowed with
happiness.

Nevertheless, she had not been carried away by the gaieties of this
new world. The fascinations of dance and gymkhana had not caught her.
The joy of being with her father was too sacred and too precious to be
foregone for these lesser pleasures, and she very speedily decided to
sacrifice all social entertainments to which he could not accompany
her. She rode with him, camped with him, and became his inseparable
companion. Undeveloped in many ways, shy in the presence of strangers,
she soon forgot her earlier ambition to see the world and all that it
contained. Her father's society was to her all-sufficing, and it was
no sacrifice to her to withdraw herself from the gay crowd and dwell
apart with him.

He had no wish to monopolise her, but it was a relief to him that the
constant whirl of pleasure about her attracted her so little. He liked
to have her with him, and it soon became a matter of course that she
should accompany him on all his expeditions. She revelled in his tours
of inspection. They were so many picnics to her, and she enjoyed them
with the zest of a child.

And so it came to pass that she was with him among the hills of the
frontier when, like a pent flood suddenly escaping, the storm of
rebellion broke and seethed about them, threatening them with total
annihilation.

No serious trouble had been anticipated. A certain tract of country
had been reported unquiet, and General Roscoe had been ordered to
proceed thither on a tour of inspection and also, to a very mild
degree, of intimidation. Marching through the district from fort to
fort, he had encountered no shadow of opposition. All had gone well.
And then, his work over, and all he set out to do satisfactorily
accomplished, his face towards India and his back to the mountains,
the unexpected had come upon him like a thunderbolt.

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