The Second Class Passenger | Page 7

unspoken demand.
"You lead on," he said at last unsteadily.
"Where?" she asked breathlessly.

He did not speak, but waved an open hand that gave her the freedom of
choice. It was his surrender to the wild spirit of the Coast, and he
grasped the head of the brass image the tighter when he had done it.
She and Fate must guide now; it rested with him only to break
opposing heads.
She smiled and shivered. "Come on, then," she said, and started before
him.
They traversed perhaps a score of roofs enclosed with high parapets, on
to each of which he lifted her, hands in her armpits, swinging her
cleanly to the level of his face and planting her easily and squarely on
the coping. He welcomed each opportunity to take hold of her and put
out the strength of his muscles, and she sat where he placed her,
smiling and silent, while he clambered up and dropped down on the
other side.
At length a creaking wooden stair that hung precariously on the sheer
side of a house brought them again to the ground level. It was another
gloomy alley into which they descended, and the darkness about him
and the mud underfoot struck Dawson with a sense of being again in
familiar surroundings. The woman's hand slid into his as he stood, and
they started along again together.
The alley seemed to be better frequented than that of which he already
had experience. More than once dark, sheeted figures passed them by,
noiseless save for the underfoot swish in the mud, and presently the
alley widened into a little square, at one side of which there was a fresh
rustle of green things. At the side of it a dim light showed through a big
open door, from which came a musical murmur of voices, and Dawson
recognized a church.
"The Little Garden of St. Sebastien," murmured the woman, and led
him on to cross the square. A figure that had been hidden in the shadow
now lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform. He
stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly in Portuguese.
Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to be

repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably; but
she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her argue in
that ill-fated room an hour back.
"What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently.
"He says he won't let me go," answered the woman, with a tone of
despair in her voice.
"The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"
"Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can," she
replied, with a smile.
"Here, you!" cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform--
"you go away. Voetsaak, see! You mind your own business, and get
out."
The officer drawled something in his own tongue, which was, of course,
unintelligible to Dawson, but it had the effect of annoying him
strangely.
"You little beast!" he said, and knocked the man down with his fist.
"Run," hissed the woman at his elbow--"run before he can get up. No,
not that way. To the church and out by another way!"
She caught his hand, and together they raced across the square and in
through the big door.
There were a few people within, most sleeping on the benches and
along the floor by the walls. In the chancel there were others, masked
by the lights, busy with some offices. A wave of sudden song issued
from among them as Dawson and the woman entered, and gave way
again to the high, nervous voice of a map that stood before the altar. All
along the sides of the church was shadow, and the woman speedily
found a little arched door.
"Come through the middle of it," she whispered urgently to Dawson, as

she packed her loose skirts together in her hand--"cleanly through the
middle; do not rub the wall as you come."
He obeyed and followed her, and they were once more in the darkness
of an alley.
"It was the door of the lepers," she explained, as she let her skirts swish
down again. "See, there is the light by the sea!"
The wind came cleanly up the alley, and soon they were at its mouth,
where a lamp flickered in the breeze. Dawson drew a deep breath, and
tucked the image under his arm. His palm was sore with the roughness
of its head.
"Some one is passing," said the woman in a low tone. "Wait here till
they are by."
Footsteps were approaching along the front, and very soon Dawson
heard words and started.
"What is it!" whispered the woman, her breath on his neck.
"Listen!" he