Citadel of Fear | Page 6

way, Mr. Kennedy," Boots said, "if you'll forgive changing the
subject to something more recent, what was the bit of bric-a-brac that
Biornson snatched out of your hand? Quetz- Quetz- what was the name
of it?"
"Quetzalcoatl. A piece of old Aztec work. Down in Yucatan one can
pick up all sorts of stone and terra-cotta images among the ruins, but
not like that."
"And this Quetz--what's-his-name--who was he? One o' the poor
heathens idols, maybe?"
"The lord of the air. The fathered serpent." Kennedy was generally
willing to talk, when he could air some superior knowledge. "By
tradition he was a man, a priest, who was afterward deified for his

beneficent acts and character. It is said that he ruled Mexico in its
Golden Age--Anahuac they called it then--and when he left his people
he promised to return at the head of a race of men as white as himself.
"He was a white god, you must understand. For that reason, when the
Spaniards first landed the natives believed the lost god's promise had
been kept. Images of him are common enough, but not in porcelain of
that quality. Biornson surprised me into giving away its real value, like
a fool, but at that I could pay him a good price for the thing and still
make a profit. It would bring almost any sum from a New York
collector."
"Don't deceive yourself that he didn't know its value! You could see in
his eye that he did."
"What do you think of Biornson, anyway?"
"A fine, soft-spoken man--after the first minute."
"Did you notice how he boggled over his name? Svend Biornson! I
dare swear he has another, and one he has reason to conceal."
But the other's retort was cold and to the point.
"We Irish do hate an informer. Are you ready yet to go down?"
Save for a look of black resentment, Kennedy made no reply. However,
as their briefest discussions generally ended in a clash, Boots ignored
the glance and passed out to the dining-room gallery. There was yet no
sound of life in the house, but on descending and finding their way out
into the patio, they discovered Biornson there and he was not alone.
Seated on a stone bench by the fountain was a woman. She was a tall,
slender person, of unusual beauty, and Boots thought her dark eyes and
hair and peculiarly roselike complexion reminiscent of the child who
had first greeted them. She was dressed in a simple gown of some silky,
leaf-green material, and as she talked with Biornson her hand fondled
the long, soft ears of a white hound, whose head rested on her knee.

None of the three seemed at first aware of the guests' approach, but as
they came nearer the woman's face lifted with a quick, startled attention.
She sprang to her feet, and the dog, as if in imitation, reared up beside
her. On its hind legs the brute stood nearly as tall as she; and an
ominous rumble issued from its throat.
"Quiet!" cried Biornson sharply. He laid a hand on beast's neck,
pushing it downward. "Gentlemen, I had hardly expected you to
awaken so early."
He had grasped the hound by its silky white fur, for it wore no collar,
and under that insecure hold the animal surged disobediently forward.
Its eyes flamed in a menace more savage than the bared fangs beneath;
and as the dog seemed about to spring, Biornson flung his arms about
its neck. In a flash it turned and tried to reach his face with snapping
jaws.
At that the woman, whose dark, startled eyes had been fixed on the
strangers, seemed for the first time to become aware of her pet's
misbehavior. She spoke to it in a murmur of soft, indistinguishable
syllables, and the hound, which had so resented Biornson's interference,
subsided instantly. A moment later it was flat on the ground at her feet.
"That's a fine dog," approved Boots, "and you've a finer command over
him, madam. May I ask what breed he is?"
Before the woman could reply, Biornson intervened.
"Just a hound of the hills," he said quickly. "Astrid, these gentlemen are
those of whom I told you." He presented them more formally and, as
Boots had expected, introduced the lady as his wife.
The name "Astrid" had a Scandinavian sound, and her beauty might
well be as Norse as her husband's ancestry, but they had little time to
study her. After murmuring a few shy words of welcome, she excused
herself and left the guests to Biornson's entertainment.
As her green-clad form, with the white hound pressing close beside,

receded into the inner shadows, the eyes of one man followed with a
gleam of interest not aroused by her beauty.
Her accent