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Ghost Breaker, The

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XV MYSTERIOUS INFLUENCES The Princess of Aragon gazed into the republican eyes of the Kentuckian with a glowing fire which was contrary to all rules and conventions of the divine right of kings. No common man should have been given such a glimpse of empire; but, in justice to the magic of such glances which come once from the eyes of every good woman, for some good man, in each lifetime, it must be acknowledged that their potent wizardry turns the commonplace, even the tawdry surroundings of a thousand million every-day lives, into dazzling kingdoms of love. Warren Jarvis felt the thrill, and he lost his humorous poise: the heart-breaking seriousness of it all now came to his realization. How he wanted to draw her to him, forgetting all the differences in nativity, the social and political conditions which separated them so insufferably! Back in New York she had been to him as any other sweet, well-bred girl; but here, in the Land of the Middle Ages, there were centuries between them. He wished to touch her hand, and yet so deep was his reverence—not for her family position, but for her own proud poise of soul—that he stifled his desire and dropped his eyes, ashamed of his own weakness! The girl divined his thoughts better than he realized. She had stepped upon the low platform at the base of the stairs, and thus her face was on a level with his. "Oh, Mr. Jarvis—you are brave, so brave! I never can tell you how you have sustained me, in my fears and grief. I can never let you realize how gallant I believe you to be for what you are doing to-night for my sake." Jarvis shook his head in deprecation. "Are we not merely honest traders, your Highness? We made a compact, risking your life at the start to save mine. Now, is the completion—when I find your brother and solve the mystery of the fortune, I will know that our account is squared. Then, I may be—human!" Her eyes dropped before his own ardent answer, and she turned to the stairs. "I must go get the memorandum and the locket." "Yes, of course? Where is it? You should have guarded that well." "It is safe in my room, Mr. Jarvis,—I won't be long," and up the steps she fled as though trying to escape from her own heart, in some strange, new, yet not unpleasant panic. "Rusty! Oh, Rusty!" called Warren. "Bring down my hat and coat, and the extra tinware." The voice of the negro answered, choked and muffled in a mystifying way. "Yassir! Yassir!" "What are you doing up there? Hurry; we're starting." "Yassir!" Jarvis turned and walked toward the window, looking up at the dismal silhouette of the ancient castle. The moon had risen, on the edge of the horizon, and already the place was beginning to look ghostlike with the pale iridescence. "I wouldn't change places," he soliloquized between efforts to light a fresh cigarette, "with that darned old spook ... that she thinks is in that castle ... for all the gold that she thinks is in that cussed old castle ... and all the rest of the motheaten castles in Spain!" Rusty came down the stairs, his jaws working, and his cheeks puffing vigorously. Jarvis spun around nervously at the sound. He was keyed up this evening, despite the humorous resolution which had straightened the lines of that amiable mouth. "What have you been doing, Rusty? What's in your mouth?" he demanded impatiently. "Yassir ... I mean, no, sir! I was jest slippin' a little snack dat young lady bring up to me. I was so hungry I could jest feel my stommick slippin' through my suspenders an' climbin' up my backbone on de other side.... Um, yum—an' some Spanish po'k-chop, at dat!" He rolled his eyes in ecstasy and licked his lips. "But it warn't near enough!" Just then Jarvis heard a scream, from the elevation of the balcony. The Princess was calling, frantically. "Mr. ... Warren ... Mr. Warren Jarvis!" He darted toward the steps, and met her half-way up them, as she ran down, her face ghastly with fear. "What is it? Tell me?" "Oh ... Mr. Warren...." "Yes, yes!" "The locket...." "The locket is gone?" "Yes," and this was very weak. "And the memorandum?" "Gone, too!" she gasped. Jarvis called to Rusty, interrupting the finish of the running meal. "Quick, Rusty—the horses!" "The hosses, boss? whar is dey?" "Outside! Go get the girths tight. Have you got that extra supply of cannon?" "Yassir! I'll go. I got enough to fight de Spanish War over agin. An' dis time I'm goin' up San Juan Hill myself." "Shut up, and get out—do what I tell you." He turned to her nervously, but the battle-light was in the blue eyes this time. "Your Highness," and she stopped on the step above, "I've struck the first trail of the spook that is haunting your castle; he made a mistake by poaching on other preserves!" The girl ran her hand through her hair, excitedly, bewildered. "What do you mean?" "Have you any idea of who could take it?" "Why—no! I hid it in the corner of my grip, and was sure no one could find it." Jarvis laughed grimly. "Your castle ghost is no slouch at finding things. He is no ignoramus, either, for he must be able to read and write and understand geography to get any good out of that memorandum. Does it give the exact details of the treasure trove?" "As plain as ABC!" she answered. "You think...?" "Yes, I've been thinking ever since you first told me the story. Now I'm going to load my revolver with those thoughts, and earn the title of my profession. Time is everything. I take the northern road, don't I?" "Yes, and the second turn to the right, through a broken wall." "Yes, you've told me all this a dozen times before. But it's life and death, and I want to make sure. What then?" "That road leads to the postern gate at the top of the hill," she added. The outer door had opened softly. Its position, sheltered under the long sweep of the old balcony, was out of their immediate view. They had been speaking in rapid English, but the man who slouched noiselessly through the entrance, toward the arch under the stairs, surmised the gist of the conversation. He drew a revolver, well hidden in the shadow, and waited. "I understand. I have my bearings, too." Warren stepped down, to the level of the floor. "Wait," said Maria Theresa softly. "This little cross—it is a token which I wish my knight to wear in the tourney—to-night!" She slipped the golden chain, and the simple religious emblem, over his head and about his neck, with a movement which was a wireless touchless caress. "Only for to-night?" asked the Kentuckian, as he looked squarely into the crimson face above him;—how the roses and lilies played hide-and-seek beneath the soft skin of those clear features! "You may never see to-morrow," she murmured, and she drew up the cross, from its pendent position, pressing it to her red lips with reverence. The American spirit cried out within for honest self-expression. "Then, if I never see to-morrow, forgive me for telling you to-night that I love you." She would have spoken, but he raised his hand for silence. Beneath the archway the shadowed figure drew nearer, slipping into the sharp angle behind the stairs. "Do not rebuke me to-night—wait until to-morrow—if to-morrow ever comes!" He paused, and still she was silent—except for the soft music of her breathing—that regal bosom so close to his own upturned face! "And now your humble vassal goes forth in his liege-lady's name and cause, and, while all Seguro waits, Ghost and Ghost Breaker shall stalk those haunted, melancholy halls!" Again they looked into each other's eyes. "Your Highness, within the hour I shall hang the signal of victory within the window of the castle!" He carried her hand to his lips, even as he had done on the memorable night so far across the waters. But this time the fingers were burning, and the slim flower of a hand was not drawn away! "God be with you!" she answered softly, and crossed herself. The Kentuckian watched her silently, a thousand mad thoughts whirling behind the calm and resolute brow. She slowly ascended the stairs and returned to her room. He murmured tenderly under his breath: "Highness ... Highness ... now, I understand how titles fit!" A new noise came to his ears, and he listened without a tremor or movement of his body. It was the click of a revolver cock! The Kentuckian knew this sound too well to be deceived. Slowly he turned about, toward the large table on which stood the solitary oil lamp of the room. He began to unfold his overcoat, which had been hanging over his left arm. Then he started whistling the first rippling bars of that good old Southern battle-song "Dixie." Slowly he walked toward the lamp, apparently examining his overcoat. The man drew out from the shelter of the arch, and the revolver was pointed straight at his back. Suddenly the overcoat flew from the American's hands, covering and extinguishing the glass lamp, which fell with a crash in the darkness. There was a portentous pause—it seemed hours; its length was the bare fraction of a second. Two shots rang out, and scurrying feet were the only indication of life within the room. Another shot sent its tongue of blood-thirsty flame into the black void. There was a groan of anguish. Then footsteps advanced to the door. The cheery tune of "Dixie" was continued in the moonlight! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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