The Black Cross | Page 7

bent over the bier, drawing out, one after the other, a slip of paper
folded. There were thirteen slips. Twelve were blank; on one was a
Black Cross graven.
They drew in silence; no start, no movement, no trembling of the
muscles betrayed the one fated. Twelve drew blanks. Which of them
had the Cross; which? They stared dumbly, questioningly, fearfully
from one to the other. One was the assassin. Which? The answer was
shrouded behind the masks.
Lower and lower the candles burned in their sockets, flickering fitfully.
The room grew darker and the figures, cloaked and hooded, seemed to
melt back into the shadows from whence they had emerged, less and

less distinct, until finally the shadow was one, more and more vapoury,
filling the darkness.
Suddenly, a scream cut the silence, like a knife rough and jagged. In a
twinkling the lights went out. There was a scuffling, a struggling in the
corridor, cries and shouting, the sound of wood splintering, the blows
of an axe,--a rushing forward of heavy bodies and the trampling of feet.
The doors burst open, and a cordon of police dashed over the wreckage,
cursing, shouting--and then stopped on the threshold, staring in
amazement and panting with mouths wide open.
"Oï!--Oï! Týsyacha chertéi!"
The room was empty, dark, deserted save for an old woman,
half-witted, who was crouching on the floor before the sacred Icon,
rocking herself and mumbling. They questioned her, but she was deaf
and answered at random:
"Eh, gracious sirs--my lords--eh? So old--so poor, so wretched! See,
there is nothing!--A copeck, for the love of heaven--half a copeck--a
quarter, only a little quarter! Ah! Rioumka vodki[1]--rioumka--vodki!"
The police brushed her aside and searched the room. In the corner was
a low cot, hanging on a nail was an old cloak; on the table the remains
of a black loaf and an empty cup. They searched and searched in vain;
tapping the walls, tearing at the stone foundations, peering up at the
rafters, tumbling over one another in their eagerness.
"Chórt vozmí[2]--!" shouted the captain, "We are on the wrong track.
The scream came from the other side. Head them off! Run, men, run!
Here, this passage, and then straight ahead! Devil take the old beggar!
Shut up, you hag, or I'll strangle you!--Head them off!"
Gradually the hurrying footsteps died away in the distance. The
shouting ceased on the stairs. It was still as the grave, silent, deserted.
The old woman glanced over her shoulder. She was still crouching
before the Icon, rocking herself backwards and forwards; the beads of
the rosary slipping through her fingers one by one; mumbling to

herself.
Suddenly she stopped and listened. The rosary fell to the floor. Her
eyes watched the wreckage of the doorway closely, suspiciously, like
an animal before a trap. The shadows encircled her, they were here,
there, everywhere; but none moved, none crept.
Snatching a slip of paper from her bosom, she bent over it, her eyes
dilated, her mouth twisted with agony. In the centre of the paper,
clearly graven against the white, was a Black Cross.
She moaned aloud, wringing her hands. Her teeth gnawed her lips. She
clung to the foot of the Icon, sobbing, struggling with herself, glancing
around fearfully into the shadows. A gleam from the candle fell on her
hood; it had slipped slightly and a strand of her hair hung from under
the cowl. It sparkled like gold.
She staggered to her feet, still sobbing and trembling, catching her
breath. Then she went to the nail on the wall and took down the cloak.
The woman stood alone in the midst of the shadows; they were heavy,
motionless. Glancing to right and left, behind her, to the wreckage of
the door, to the furthermost corner, back to the Icon again, her eyes
roved, darting from side to side like a creature hunted. Clasping the
cloak to her quivering bosom she approached the candle slowly,
stealthily. Her steps faltered. She hesitated. She stooped
forward--another glance over her shoulder, and blowing with feeble
breath, the spark went out.

[1] A small glass of brandy.
[2] "The devil take you!"
CHAPTER III
Velasco sat in his Studio before the great tiled fire-place, dreaming,
with his violin across his knees. His servant had gone to bed and he

was alone.
The coals burned brightly, and the lamp cast a golden, radiant light on
the rug at his feet, rich-hued and jewel tinted as the stained rose
windows of Notre Dame. Tapestries hung from the walls, a painting
here and there, a few engravings. In the centre stood an Erard, a
magnificent concert-grand, open, with music strewn on its polished lid
in a confusion of sheets; some piled, some fluttering loose, still others
flung to the floor where a