CHAPTER XL
THE VICTORY
When consciousness and a restful sense of returning strength came atlast Keela was bending anxiously over him.
"You have been quiet so long," she said gravely, "that I grew afraid.Drink." She held forth a cup of woven leaves, and the glance of hergreat black eyes was very soft and gentle.
Carl flushed and taking the cup with shaking hand, drank. There was aflash of gratitude in his eyes.
"Themar?" he whispered. "Where is he?" He looked toward the treesbeyond.
"In the swamp!" said Keela, her face stern and beautiful. "It isbetter so."
"You--you dragged him there?"
"I am very strong," said Keela simply. "The vultures will get him. Itis the Indian way with one who murders."
Their eyes met, a great wave of crimson suddenly dyed Keela's throatand face and swept in lovely tide to the brilliant turban. Aconstrained silence fell between them, broken only by the whir of agreat heron flapping by on snowy wings. And there was something inKeela's eyes that sent the blood coursing furiously through Carl'sfevered veins.
The Indian girl busied herself with the wild duck roasting in the hubof coals. Carl ate a little and lay down again. He saw now thatThemar's horse was tethered beside Keela's--that the dead man'ssaddlebags lay by the fire. Furtive recourse to the drug in his pocketpresently flushed his veins with artificial calm. He fell asleep tofind his dreams haunted again by the lovely face of Keela, kinder andgentler now than that proud, imperious face above the line of flashingtopaz.
He awoke with a start.
The Indian girl lay asleep on a blanket by the fire. The world ofmoon-haunted jungle and water was very quiet. Firelight faintly haloedKeela's face and brought mad memories of the soft light of the Venetianlamp at the Sherrill fete. He noted the pure, delicate regularity offeature, the delicate, vivid skin--it was paler than Diane's--andflaming through his brain went the dangerous reflection that conquestlay now perhaps in the very hollow of his hand.
Desire had driven him on to things unspeakable. It had clouded hisbrain, fired his blood to ugly resolve, blinded every finer instinctwith its turbulent call, until the siren who beckons men onward throughthe marshland of passion had flung the gift at his feet in the hauntedwilds.
Staring at the tranquil, delicate face of the sleeper by the camp fire,a great horror of the scarlet hours behind him awoke suddenly in Carl'sheart. There had been a girl who cried. And he had laughed andshrugged and voiced an ironical philosophy of sex for her consolation.There was no philosophy of sex, only a hideous injustice which Man, theHunter, willfully ignored. There were faces in the fire--faces likethat of Keela, that had lured to sensual conquest and faded.
Trembling violently, Carl stared long and steadily at the Indian girl.There had been a time, before he sank to the bottom of the pit, whenher face had awakened in him an eager deference. The moon darkened. Awhite wall of mist settled thickly over the Glades. Then came otherthoughts. Philip trusted him. He must not forget. And the immortalspark of control lay somewhere within him. Unbridled passion of mindand body had made him very ill. Very well, then, it behooved him toexorcise the demon while this tormenting clarity of vision whirled thedread kaleidoscope of his careless life before him in honest colors.
Unleashed by drug and drink and ceaseless brooding, nerve centers hadrebelled, an infernal blood pressure born of mental agony had inspiredthe droning, his will had slipped its moorings. That his body was notill, he now knew for the first time. Fever, nausea, pain and droning,they had all leaped at the infernal manipulation of his disordered mindwith sickening intensity. Now with a terrible effort he summoned eachtattered remnant of the splendid mental strength he had indifferentlyabused, disciplined his fleeing faculty of concentration and sat veryquiet.
Philip trusted him. He must not forget! Keela's face had made itsdelicate appeal to his finer side until that appeal had been hushed bythe call of his blood. And there were times when Diane had been kind.He must not forget. Like the stirring of a faint shadow, he felt thefirst dawning sense of self-mastery he had known for days.
The horrible Circe with infamous eyes and scarlet robes no longer lured. . . the terrible sirocco of unbridled passion which had dominated hisbody almost to destruction was burning itself out . . . the droning inhis head was very faint. He must not forget Philip, truest and best offriends.
Carl lay down again beside the fire with a great sigh. He was verytired--very sleepy.
He slept soundly until morning.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. There was a curious sense ofutter rest in his veins and meeting Keela's solicitous glance, he said,a little diffidently, that he was better and that he thought they mightgo on. After a breakfast of quail and wild cassava they rode on, Keelaon Themar's horse. Her own obediently followed.
An hour later they came to an aquatic jungle haunted by noisomereptiles. Here fallen trees and a matted underbrush of poisonous vineslay submerged in dank black water. Cypress gloomed in forbiddingshadow above the stagnant water; the swamp itself was rife withhorrible quacks and croaks and off somewhere the distant bellow of analligator.
So dense and dark this terrible haunt of snake and bird and brilliantlizard that Carl shuddered, but Keela, dismounting, tethered her horsesto the nearest tree and struck off boldly across a narrow trail of dryland above the level of the water. Carl followed. Presently thematted jungle thinned and they came to a rude foot-bridge made oftwisted roots. It led to the first of a series of fertile islandswhich threaded the terrible swamp with a riot of color. Here royalpoinciana flared gorgeously beside the orange-colored blossoms of wildcassava, and hordes of birds flamed by on brilliant wings.
Through rude avenues of palm and pine and cypress, through groves ofwild orange and banana fringed with mulberry and persimmon trees, overrustic bridges which led from island to island, they came at last to alarger hummock and the wild, vine-covered log lodge of Mic-co, theIndians' white friend.
It was thatched like the Seminole wigwams in palmetto and set in acluster of giant trees. Trailing moss and ferns and vines hung fromthe boughs, weaving a dense, cool shade about the dwelling. Theexuberant air plants brought memories of Lanier's immortal poem:
"Glooms of the live oaks, beautiful-braided and woven With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,--"
There were brilliant vistas of bloom beyond the shadow. The odor oforange hung heavily in the still, warm air. A pair of snowy heronsflapped tamely about among the pines.
Utter peace and quiet, alive with the chirp of many birds, brilliantsunshine and deep, dark shadow! But Carl stared most at the figurethat came to greet them, a tall, broad man of dark complexion andwonderful, kindly eyes of piercing darkness. His hair and beard weresnow-white and reached nearly to his waist, his attire buckskin, lacedat the seams. But his slender, sensitive hands caught and heldattention.
"Mic-co," said Keela gravely, "he is very tired in his head. Philipwould have him rest."
Mic-co held out his hand with a quiet smile. Whatever his searchingeyes had found in the haggard face of his young guest was reflected inhis greeting.
"You are very welcome," he said simply.
"No," said Carl steadily, "I may not take your hand, sir, until youknow me for what I am. There are none worse. I have been through themire of hell itself. I have dishonorably betrayed a kinsman in thehope of gold. I had thought to kill. Only a freak of fate has stayedmy hand. And there is more that I may not tell--"
"No, I may not take your hand."]
"So?" said Mic-co quietly.
Flushing, Carl took the outstretched hand.
"I--I thank you," he said, and looked away.
Diane of the Green Van Page 40
