The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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Nick raised himself slowly. Something in the situation seemed to have
deprived him of his usual readiness. But he would not take the bread,
would not even look at it.

"I'm better now," he said. "We'll go back."

Muriel stood for a second irresolute, then sharply turned her back.
Nick sat and watched her in silence. Suddenly she wheeled. "There!"
she said. "I've divided it. You will eat this at least. It's absurd of
you to starve yourself. You might as well have stayed in the fort to
do that."

This was unanswerable. Nick took the bread without further protest.
He began to eat, marvelling at his own docility; and suddenly he knew
that he was ravenous.

There was very little left when at length he looked up.

"Show me what you have saved for yourself," he said.

But Muriel backed away with a short, hysterical laugh.

He started to his feet and took her rudely by the shoulder. "Do
you mean to say--" he began, almost with violence; and then checked
himself, peering at her with fierce, uncertain eyes.

She drew away from him, all her fears returning upon her in a flood;
but at her movement he set her free and turned his back.

"Heaven knows what you did it for," he said, seeming to control his
voice with some difficulty. "It wasn't for your own sake, and I won't
presume to think it was for mine. But when the time comes for handing
round rewards, may it be remembered that your offering was something
more substantial than a cup of cold water."

He broke off with a queer sound in the throat, and began to move away.

But Muriel followed him, an unaccountable sense of responsibility
overcoming her reluctance.

"Nick!" she said.

He stood still without turning. She had a feeling that he was putting
strong restraint upon himself. With an effort she forced herself to
continue.

"You want sleep, I know. Will you--will you lie down while I watch?"

He shook his head without looking at her.

"But I wish it," she persisted. "I can wake you if--anything happens."

"You wouldn't dare," said Nick.

"I suppose that means you are afraid to trust me," she said.

He turned at that. "It means nothing of the sort. But you've had one
scare, and you may have another. I think myself that that fellow was
a scout on the look-out for Bassett's advance guard. But Heaven only
knows what brought him to this place, and there may be others. That's
why I didn't dare to shoot."

He paused, his light eyebrows raised, surveying her questioningly; for
Muriel had suddenly covered her face with both hands. But in another
moment she looked up again, and spoke with an effort.

"Your being awake couldn't lessen the danger. Won't you--please--be
reasonable about it? I am doing my best."

There was a deep note of appeal in her voice, and abruptly Nick gave
in.

He moved back to their resting-place without another word, and flung
himself face downwards beside the nest of fern that he had made for
her, lying stretched at full length like a log.

She had not expected so sudden and complete a surrender. It took her
unawares, and she stood looking down at him, uncertain how to proceed.

But after a few seconds he turned his head towards her and spoke.

"You'll stay by me, Muriel?"

"Of course," she answered, that unwonted sense of responsibility still
strongly urging her.

He murmured something unintelligible, and stirred uneasily. She knew
in a flash what he wanted, but a sick sense of dread held her back.
She felt during the silence that followed as though he were pleading
with her, urging her, even entreating her. Yet still she resisted,
standing near him indeed, but with a desperate reluctance at her
heart, a shrinking unutterable from the bare thought of any closer
proximity to him that was as the instinctive recoil of purity from a
thing unclean.

The horror of his deed had returned upon her over-whelmingly with his
brief reference to it. His lack of emotion seemed to her as hideous
callousness, more horrible than the deed itself. His physical
exhaustion had called her out of herself, but the reaction was doubly
terrible.

Nick said no more. He lay quite motionless, hardly seeming to breathe,
and she realised that there was no repose in his attitude. He was not
even trying to rest.

She wrung her hands together. It could not go on, this tension. Either
she must yield to his unspoken desire, or he would sit up and cry
off the bargain. And she knew that sleep was a necessity to him.
Common-sense told her that he was totally unfit for further hardship
without it.

She closed her eyes a moment, summoning all her strength for the
greatest sacrifice she had ever made. And then in silence she sat down
beside him, within reach of his hand.

He uttered a great sigh and suffered his whole body to relax. And she
knew by the action, though he did not speak a word, that she had set
his mind at rest.

Scarcely a minute later, his quiet breathing told her that he slept,
but she sat on by his side without moving during the long empty hours
of her vigil. He had trusted her without a question, and, as her
father's daughter, she would at whatever cost prove herself worthy of
his trust.

CHAPTER VII

THE COMING OF AN ARMY

Through a great part of the night that followed they tramped steadily
southward. The stars were Nick's guide, though as time passed he began
to make his way with the confidence of one well-acquainted with his
surroundings. The instinct of locality was a sixth sense with him.
Hand in hand, over rocky ground, through deep ravines, by steep and
difficult tracks, they made their desperate way. Sometimes in the
distance dim figures moved mysteriously, revealed by starlight,
but none questioned or molested them. They passed from rock to rock
through the heart of the enemy's country, unrecognised, unobserved.
There were times when Nick grasped his revolver under his disguise,
ready, ready at a moment's notice, to keep his word to the girl's
father, should detection be their portion; but each time as the danger
passed them by he tightened his hold upon her, drawing her forward
with greater assurance.

They scarcely spoke throughout the long, long march. Muriel had moved
at first with a certain elasticity, thankful to escape at last from
the horrors of their resting-place. But very soon a great weariness
came upon her. She was physically unfit for any prolonged exertion.
The long strain of the siege had weakened her more than she knew.

Nevertheless, she kept on bravely, uttering no complaint, urged to
utmost effort by the instinctive desire to escape. It was this one
idea that occupied all her thoughts during that night. She shrank with
a vivid horror from looking back. And she could not see into the dim
blank future. It was mercifully screened from her sight.

At her third heavy stumble, Nick stopped and made her swallow some
raw brandy from his flask. This buoyed her up for a while, but it was
evident to them both that her strength was fast failing. And presently
he stopped again, and without a word lifted her in his arms. She
gasped a protest to which he made no response. His arms compassed
her like steel, making her feel helpless as an infant. He was limping
himself, she noticed; yet he bore her strongly, without faltering,
sure-footed as a mountain goat over the broken ground, till he found
at length what he deemed a safe halting-place in a clump of stunted
trees.

The sunrise revealed a native village standing among rice and cotton
fields in the valley below them.

"I shall have to go foraging," Nick said.

But Muriel's nerves that had been tottering on the verge of
collapse for some time here broke down completely. She clung to him
hysterically and entreated him not to leave her.

"I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" she kept reiterating. "If you go,
I must go too. I can't--I can't stay here alone."

He gave way instantly, seeing that she was in a state of mind that
bordered upon distraction, and that he could not safely leave her. He
sat down beside her, therefore, making her as comfortable as he could;
and she presently slept with her head upon his shoulder. It was but
a broken slumber, however, and she awoke from it crying wildly that
a man was being murdered--murdered--murdered--and imploring him with
agonised tears to intervene.

He quieted her with a steady insistence that gained its end, though
she crouched against him sobbing for some time after. As the sun rose
higher her fever increased, but she remained conscious and suffering
intensely, all through the heat of the day. Then, as the evening drew
on, she slipped into a heavy stupor.

It was the opportunity Nick had awaited for hours, and he seized it.
Laying her back in the deep shadow of a boulder, he went swiftly down
into the valley. The last light was passing as he strode through the
village, a gaunt, silent figure in a hillman's dress, a native dagger
in his girdle. Save that he had pulled the _chuddah_ well over his
face, he attempted no concealment.

He glided by a ring of old men seated about a fire, moving like a
shadow through the glare. They turned to view him, but he had already
passed with the tread of a wolf, and the mud wall of one of the
cottages hid him from sight.

Into this hut he dived as though some instinct guided him. He paid no
heed to a woman on a string-bedstead with a baby at her breast, who
chattered shrilly at his entrance. Preparations for a meal were
in progress, and he scarcely paused before he lighted upon what he
sought. A small earthen pitcher stood on the mud floor. He swooped
upon it, caught it up, splashing milk in all directions, clapped his
hand yellow and claw-like upon the mouth, and was gone.

There arose a certain hue and cry behind him, but he was swiftly
beyond detection, a fleeing shadow up the hillside. And the baffled
villagers, returning, found comfort in the reflection that he was
doubtless a holy man and that his brief visit would surely entail a
blessing.

By the time they arrived at this conclusion, Nick was kneeling by the
girl's side, supporting her while she drank. The nourishment revived
her. She came to herself, and thanked him.

"You will have some too," said she anxiously.

And Nick drank also with a laugh and a joke to cloak his eagerness.
That draught of milk was more to him at that moment than the choicest
wine of the gods.

He sat down beside her again when he had thus refreshed himself. He
thought that she was drowsy, and was surprised when presently she laid
a trembling hand upon his arm.

He bent over her quickly. "What is it? Anything I can do?"

She did not shrink from him any longer. He could but dimly see her
face in the strong shadow cast by the moonlight behind the trees.

"I want just to tell you, Nick," she said faintly, "that you will have
to go on without me when the moon sets. You needn't mind about leaving
me any more. I shall be dead before the morning comes. I'm not afraid.
I think I'm rather glad. I am so very, very tired."

Her weak voice failed.

Nick was stooping low over her. He did not speak at once. He only took
the nerveless hand that lay upon his arm and carried it to his lips,
breathing for many seconds upon the cold fingers.

When at length he spoke, his tone was infinitely gentle, but it
possessed, notwithstanding, a certain quality of arresting force.

"My dear," he said, "you belong to me now, you know. You have been
given into my charge, and I am not going to part with you."

She did not resist him or attempt to withdraw her hand, but her
silence was scarcely the silence of acquiescence. When she spoke again
after a long pause, there was a piteous break in her voice.

"Why don't you let me die? I want to die. Why do you hold me back?"

"Why?" said Nick swiftly. "Do you really want me to tell you why?"

But there he checked himself with a sharp, indrawn breath. The next
instant he laid her hand gently down.

"You will know some day, Muriel," he said. "But for the present you
will have to take my reason on trust. I assure you it is a very good
one."

The restraint of his words was marked by a curious vehemence, but this
she was too ill at the time to heed. She turned her face away almost
fretfully.

"Why should I live?" she moaned. "There is no one wants me now."

"That will never be true while I live," Nick answered steadily, and
his tone was the tone of a man who registers a vow.

But again she did not heed him. She had suffered too acutely and
too recently to be comforted by promises. Moreover, she did not want
consolation. She wanted only to shut her eyes and die. In her weakness
she had not fancied that he could deny her this.

And so when presently he roused her by lifting her to resume the
journey, she shed piteous tears upon his shoulder, imploring him to
leave her where she was. He would not listen to her. He knew that it
was highly dangerous to rest so close to habitation, and he would not
risk another day in such precarious shelter.

So for hours he carried her with a strength almost superhuman, forcing
his physical powers into subjection to his will. Though limping badly,
he covered several miles of wild and broken country, deserted for the
most part, almost incredibly lonely, till towards sunrise he found a
resting-place in a hollow high up the side of a mountain, overlooking
a winding, desolate pass.

Muriel was either sleeping or sunk in the stupor of exhaustion. There
was some brandy left in his flask, and he made her take a little. But
it scarcely roused her, and she was too weak to notice that he did not
touch any himself.

All through the scorching day that followed, she dozed and woke in
feverish unrest, sometimes rambling incoherently till he brought her
gravely back, sometimes crying weakly, sometimes making feeble efforts
to pray.

All through the long, burning hours he never stirred away from her. He
sat close to her, often holding her in his arms, for she seemed less
restless so; and perpetually he gazed out with terrible, bloodshot
eyes over the savage mountains, through the long, irregular line of
pass, watching eagle-like, tireless and intent, for the deliverance
which, if it came at all, must come that way. His face was yellow and
sunken, lined in a thousand wrinkles like the face of a monkey; but
his eyes remained marvellously bright. They looked as if they had not
slept for years, as if they would never sleep again. He was at the end
of his resources and he knew it, but he would watch to the very end.
He would die watching.

As the sun sank in a splendour that transfigured the eternally white
mountain-crest to a mighty shimmer of rose and gold, he turned at last
and looked down at the white face pillowed upon his arm. The eyes were
closed. The ineffable peace of Death seemed to dwell upon the quiet
features. She had lain so for a long time, and he had fancied her
sleeping.

He caught his breath, feeling for his flask, and for the first time
his hands shook uncontrollably. But as the raw spirit touched her
lips, he saw her eyelids quiver, and a great gasp of relief went
through him. As she opened her eyes he stayed his hand. It seemed
cruel to bring her back. But the suffering and the half instinctive
look of horror passed from her eyes like a shadow, as they rested upon
him. There was even the very faint flicker of a smile about them.

She turned her face slightly towards him with the gesture of a child
nestling against his breast. Yet though she lay thus in his arms, he
felt keenly, bitterly, that she was very far away from him.

He hung over her, still holding himself in with desperate strength,
not daring to speak lest he should disturb the holy peace that seemed
to be drawing all about her.

The sunset glory deepened. For a few seconds the crags above them
glittered golden as the peaks of Paradise. And in the wonderful
silence Muriel spoke.

"Do you see them?" she said.

He saw that her eyes were turned upon the shining mountains. There was
a strange light on her face.

"See what, darling?" he asked her softly.

Her eyes came back to him for a moment. They had a thoughtful,
wondering look.

"How strange!" she said slowly. "I thought it was--an eagle."

The detachment of her tone cut him to the heart. And suddenly the pain
of it was more than he could bear.

"It is I--Nick," he told her, with urgent emphasis. "Surely you know
me!"

But her eyes had passed beyond him again. "Nick?" she questioned to
herself. "Nick? But this--this was an eagle."

She was drawing away from him, and he could not hold her, could not
even hope to follow her whither she went. A great sob broke from him,
and in a moment, like the rush of an overwhelming flood from behind
gates long closed, the anguish of the man burst its bonds.

"Muriel!" he cried passionately. "Muriel! Stay with me, look at
me, love me! There is nothing in the mountains to draw you. It is
here--here beside you, touching you, holding you. O God," he prayed
brokenly, "she doesn't understand me. Let her understand,--open her
eyes,--make her see!"

His agony reached her, touched her, for a moment held her. She turned
her eyes back to his tortured face.

"But, Nick," she said softly, "I can see."

He bent lower. "Yes?" he said, in a choked voice. "Yes?"

She regarded him with a faint wonder. Her eyes were growing heavy, as
the eyes of a tired child. She raised one hand and pointed vaguely.

"Over there," she said wearily. "Can't you see them? Then perhaps it
was a dream, or even--perhaps--a vision. Don't you remember how
it went? 'And behold--the mountain--was full--of horses--and
chariots--of--fire!' God sent them, you know."

The tired voice ceased. Her head sank lower upon Nick's breast. She
gave a little quivering sigh, and seemed to sleep.

And Nick turned his tortured eyes upon the pass below him, and stared
downwards spellbound.

Was he dreaming also? Or was it perchance a vision--the trick of his
fevered fancy? There, at his feet, not fifty yards from where he sat,
he beheld men, horses, guns, winding along in a narrow, unbroken line
as far as he could see.

A great surging filled his ears, and through it he heard himself shout
once, twice, and yet a third time to the phantom army below.

The surging swelled in his brain to a terrific tumult--a confusion
indescribable. And then something seemed to crack inside his head.
The dark peaks swayed giddily against the darkening sky, and toppled
inwards without sound.

The last thing he knew was the call of a bugle, tense and shrill as
the buzz of a mosquito close to his ear. And he laughed aloud to think
how so small a thing had managed to deceive him.

PART II

CHAPTER VIII

COMRADES

The jingling notes of a piano playing an air from a comic opera
floated cheerily forth into the magic silence of the Simla pines, and
abruptly, almost spasmodically, a cracked voice began to sing. It was
a sentimental ditty treated jocosely, and its frivolity rippled out
into the mid-day silence with something of the effect of a monkey's
chatter. The _khitmutgar_ on the verandah would have looked
scandalised or at best contemptuous had it not been his role to
express nothing but the dignified humility of the native servant.
He was waiting for his mistress to come out of the nursery where her
voice could be heard talking imperiously to her baby's _ayah_. He had
already waited some minutes, and he would probably have waited much
longer, for his patience was inexhaustible, had it not been for that
sudden irresponsible and wholly tuneless burst of song. But the
second line was scarcely ended before she came hurriedly forth, nearly
running into his stately person in her haste.

"Oh, dear, Sammy!" she exclaimed with some annoyance. "Why didn't you
tell me Captain Ratcliffe was here?"

She hastened past him along the verandah with the words, not troubling
about his explanation, and entered the room whence the music proceeded
at a run.

"My dear Nick," she cried impulsively, "I had no idea!"

The music ceased in a jangle of wrong notes, and Nick sprang to his
feet, his yellow face wearing a grin of irrepressible gaiety.

"So I gathered, O elect lady," he rejoined, seizing her outstretched
hands and kissing first one and then the other. "And I took the first
method that presented itself of making myself known. So they beguiled
you to Simla, after all?"

"Yes, I had to come for my baby's sake. They thought at first it would
have to be home and no compromise. I'm longing to show him to you,
Nick. Only six months, and such a pet already! But tell me about
yourself. I am sure you have come off the sick list too soon. You
look as if you had come straight from a lengthy stay with the
_bandar-log_."

"_Tu quoque!_" laughed Nick. "And with far less excuse. Only you
manage to look charming notwithstanding, which is beyond me. Do you
know, Mrs. Musgrave, you don't do justice to the compromise? I should
be furious with you if I were Will."

Mrs. Musgrave frowned at him. She was a very pretty woman, possessing
a dainty and not wholly unconscious charm. "Tell me about yourself,
Nick," she commanded. "And don't be ridiculous. You can't possibly
judge impartially on that head, as you haven't the smallest idea as to
how ill I have been. I am having a rest cure now, you must know, and I
don't go anywhere; or I should have come to see you in hospital."

"Good thing you didn't take the trouble," said Nick. "I've been
sleeping for the last three weeks, and I am only just awake."

Mrs. Musgrave looked at him with a very friendly smile. "Poor Nick!"
she said. "And Wara was relieved after all."

He jerked up his shoulders. "After a fashion. Grange was the only
white man left, and he hadn't touched food for three days. If Muriel
Roscoe had stayed, she would have been dead before Bassett got
anywhere near them. There are times when the very fact of suffering
actively keeps people alive. It was that with her."

He spoke briefly, almost harshly, and immediately turned from the
subject. "I suppose you were very anxious about your cousin?"

"Poor Blake Grange? Of course I was. But I was anxious--horribly
anxious--about you all." There was a quiver of deep feeling in Mrs.
Musgrave's voice.

"Thank you," said Nick. He reached out a skeleton finger and laid it
on her arm. "I thought you would be feeling soft-hearted, so I have
come to ask you a favour. Not that I shouldn't have come in any case,
but it seemed a suitable moment to choose."

Mrs. Musgrave laughed a little. "Have you ever found me anything but
kind?" she questioned.

"Never," said Nick. "You're the best pal I ever had, which is the
exact reason for my coming here to-day. Mrs. Musgrave, I want you to
be awfully good to Muriel Roscoe. She needs some one to help her along
just now."

Mrs. Musgrave opened her eyes wide, but she said nothing at once, for
Nick had sprung to his feet and was restlessly pacing the room.

"Come back, Nick," she said at last. "Tell me a little about her. We
have never met, you know. And why do you ask this of me when she is in
Lady Bassett's care?"

"Lady Bassett!" said Nick. He made a hideous grimace, and said no
more.

Mrs. Musgrave laughed. "How eloquent! Do you hate her, too, then? I
thought all men worshipped at that shrine."

Nick came back and sat down. "I nearly killed her once," he said.

"What a pity you didn't quite!" ejaculated Mrs. Musgrave.

Nick grinned. "Sits the wind in that quarter? I wonder why."

"Oh, I hate her by instinct," declared Mrs. Musgrave recklessly,
"though her scented notes to me always begin, 'Dearest Daisy'! She
always disapproved of me openly till baby came. But she has found
another niche for me now. I am not supposed to be so fascinating as I
was. She prefers unattractive women."

"Gracious heaven!" interjected Nick.

"Yes, you may laugh. I do myself." Daisy Musgrave spoke almost
fiercely notwithstanding. "She's years older than I am anyhow, and I
shall score some day if I don't now. Have you ever watched her dance?
There's a sort of snaky, coiling movement runs up her whole body.
Goodness!" breaking off abruptly. "I'm getting venomous myself. I had
better stop before I frighten you away."

"Oh, don't mind me!" laughed Nick. "No one knows better than I
that she is made to twist all ways. She hates me as a cobra hates a
mongoose."

"Really?" Daisy Musgrave was keenly interested. "But why?"

He shook his head. "You had better ask Lady Bassett. It may be
because I had the misfortune to set fire to her once. It is true I
extinguished her afterwards, but I don't think she enjoyed it. It was
a humiliating process. Besides, it spoilt her dress."

"But she is always so gracious to you," protested Daisy.

"Honey-sweet. That's exactly how I know her cobra feelings. And that
brings me round to Muriel Roscoe again, and the favour I have to ask."

Daisy shot him a sudden shrewd glance. "Do you want to marry her?" she
asked him point blank.

Nick's colourless eyebrows went up till they nearly met his colourless
hair. "Dearest Daisy," he said, "you are a genius. I mean to do that
very thing."

Daisy got up and softly closed the window. "Surely she is very young,"
she said. "Is she in love with you?"

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