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Ghost Breaker, The

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XVII CONCLUSION Rusty had dived under the table. The great sword of the armored figure was swinging swiftly up in air, and Jarvis leaped with all the sinewy strength of his young manhood. It was none too soon. The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone balustrade where he sat a second before. Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error. The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate. Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again. The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad advanced. He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers—but Rusty was scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance across the room. In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the assailant! It was a futile pebble toss. The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the weird assailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing. His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination. Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he was out of reach. He might have grappled—but the thought came too late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall—there was a great poleax. This was the instrument made for the man-at-arms to withstand the noble knight in the days of old. He whirled it on high as the other came toward him. The double-edged sword rose high to parry the stroke, and the sharp weapon clove through the rotten wood helve: Time had disarmed the American again. A deep-chested laugh came from the human "battleship." Warren laughed back—in the face of death: the old Jarvis fighting laugh was a tradition in Kentucky. His next weapon was a chair. With this as a guard he managed to swing the sword with a clever parry. He gave the metal breastplate a vigorous high kick. From the helmet there came a muffled "Oooof!" Here was one "point" for the modern! <ANTIMG src="images/010.jpg" alt="His next weapon was a chair" width-obs="500" height-obs="388"> His next weapon was a chair Thus they dodged and feinted, striking, whirling, while the Kentuckian planned his campaign. Little by little he drew his implacable opponent toward the charcoal cross-mark on the floor. The great sword rose high—he feigned weakness and dropped his chair. Then, as the toreador dodges the mad onslaught of the maddened bull, he leaped aside and the sword struck the ground. Before it could be raised, he swung from his side position, with the heavy antique chair, against the vizor. The equilibrium of the armored man was none too stable, as he missed his stroke—and his head went back. Again the Kentuckian charged, this time with a barehanded clinch, the chair dropped. Around the metal waist his arms went and he forced the other back but half a foot. It was enough! "Santa Madre!" came from the helmet, as the figure stumbled through the opening trap-stone. There was a scream, which suddenly ended at highest pitch—a splash ... then silence. Jarvis staggered back, with dilated eyes upon the fatal hole—he wiped the cold beads off his clammy brow, and staggered toward the table for support. Rusty's head came out from the shelter of the stone coping—and he smiled an ashen imitation of amusement. "Whar's yoh friend, Marse Warren?" Jarvis' head was low upon his breast, as he answered quietly: "Water—and a long drop! There's a real ghost due to haunt castle now, Rusty." "I knowed them battleship boogies was spooks!" Warren picked up the great sword which had fallen by the trap as the man went through. He walked up the stairs. "Oh, Marse Warren, don't!" "What's the matter?" and he snarled it. "Do I scare you?" "You can't scare me—I'm scared already!" Jarvis made a fencing feint at the other figure. There was no response; again he tried. Then he rushed it, and knocked the armor over. "I guess he's genuine—and harmless." "Oh, Marse Warren, you'se got gall, shore. I'll jest finish dis battleship—so he won't jump no moh." He had grabbed the armor and started toward the trapdoor. "I'm goin' to sink him in de harbor!" "Don't do that—it takes a thief to catch a thief. I'll make a ghost out of you, Rusty. Come here." Objecting, timorous, and still overcome with his native superstition, Rusty was nevertheless forced to don the armor—a sad misfit he was, at that. "Somebody was working in this room, Rusty. It's a cinch that the treasure was here. It's a cinch that we interrupted, and it's still in its little safe-deposit vault. It's a greater cinch that if we go out he'll come back. I want to have you stand up there where the other battleship was, and watch. You'll be as safe as a church in this. No one would think of looking for one of us in this armor—so when he starts to work, whoever he is, you just yell and yell your best." "Gawd, Marse Warren, I could yell loud 'nuff for 'em to hear me back in Kaintucky." "You give me your best yell, and I'll nail him." "Ef you don't nail him, he'll nail me." "Keep cool—that's all." "I'm cool now—I'm ketchin' cold." And he sneezed. "If you sneeze again, I'm going to use a gun on you. Here, give me one of those two guns you have. And whatever you do, don't sneeze. I'm catching cold myself here—anyone would in this musty old hole." He pocketed the weapon and ordered Rusty to his place. There came another sound—a repetition of the earlier faint sound. He turned quickly, and Princess Maria Theresa of Aragon rushed into the room, followed by Dolores. "Thank God you are safe, Mr. Warren! I heard the shooting, down in the other court of the castle." "Where have you been? Why didn't you wait for my signal? The hour is not over yet." "We've been wandering through this dreadful place an eternity—trying to find you, calling everywhere, so that we could reach you before it was too late—before something happened that had always happened before!" Dolores had seated herself at the side table, and her face was buried in her hands. She was sobbing. "Too late? What do you mean? This is madness for you to take this risk." The girl, forgetting royalty and convention, caught his hand in both of hers, and a light of joy came into her eyes. "My brother is safe, thank God! He is on his way to the King to get soldiers to search the castle." "Where has he been? How do you know?" "He was imprisoned in this castle—since the day he entered. To-night he tried to signal, but could not. Your bullet went straight home, Mr. Warren, and Robledo is dying. He has confessed all to the holy father. I must go back, for I promised to be with him at the end." "The end ..." and Jarvis' voice grew husky, he understood by now the tears of Dolores. He turned toward her gently. "I'm so sorry—you and he—I might have—oh, what a terrible shame!" The girl crossed herself, with the stoic calmness of her religion, as she rose to face him. "It is better so. He sinned—grievously, many times, señor. My Prince is safe ... my Princess is safe. And you are safe—you, the bravest man in Seguro." Maria Theresa turned toward the door, where stood a man whom Jarvis had not espied before. "Take her back to the inn, Maximo, as quietly as possible. Then send the chauffeur for me again as soon as he can come up the rough road." "But, your Highness, you must go back as well—it is dangerous for you to remain here. I have found the clews for which you went to America. Let me finish the job." "No, I will stay with you." He caught her hands, and looked down into the dark eyes, so wondrously upturned to his. "You must come by the fire, and get warm.... Here, sit in this chair. You have been frightened to death, prowling through this horrid place.... Your hands are icy.... There, there! Go on and cry—forget that you're a Princess and be a real girl. Cry all you want! That's fine!" He took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders as she sat by the flaming remnants of the old table. He turned about and beckoned to Rusty, who with a revolver in hand, his courage restored in a way by the turn of events, disappeared from view. Jarvis gently placed a hand upon the heaving shoulder. "I'll round up this spook to-night for good and all. Then the vassal's task is done. His fate is in your hands, Highness; what's to become of him?... Don't send me away. I loved you from the first—not like a vassal either—and will always love you. "I know I'm just a plain American citizen ... and a man. All the man in me cries out, 'I love you!' Don't send me away." "You must go. You must leave Spain, for your life would never be safe here: you know what feuds are, and you have started one." Just then an audible, unmistakable, common-place sneeze interrupted this most wonderful of all conversations. Jarvis looked about. The sneeze was in the room. "Rusty, are you outside?" "Yassir. But don't keep me here long, 'kase I'ze freezing to death." "Did you sneeze?" "No, sir; but I calc'late I'll have to befoh long." "Don't move, your Highness—I've found the Ghost at last!" He walked toward the suspicious picture, and pointed the revolver at it. "There is somebody in that picture. Come out or I'll shoot. Quick now!" There was no response. He sent a bullet, carefully aimed at the upper lefthand corner, where he planned that it would do no harm. There was a response. "Don't shoot!" <ANTIMG src="images/011.jpg" alt=">"Don't shoot!"" width-obs="393" height-obs="500"> "Don't shoot!" And the canvas opened neatly, to permit the elegant but dusty figure of Carlos Hernando, Duke of Alva, to step to the mantelpiece and leap clumsily to the floor. The Princess had sprung to her feet. "Your Excellency, you are a long way from Madrid!" The Duke, brushing off his sleeves, snarled back: "You fool, you've stepped right into the trap. I knew you were after the treasure." "Oh, no, your man-at-arms did that, and if you try to lie yourself out of this ... if it weren't for your cousin, I'd blow your damned head off! Then I'd throw you down after the other poor devil—you've got a lot of souls to answer for. See here, give me that locket—no, give her that locket, or by the living God, I'll break your ... Come on now!" "Carlos!" and the girl held out a stiff arm. The Duke fumbled in an inner pocket, and dropped the memorandum into her hand. "I told you all ghosts were cowards." The Duke looked insolently into Jarvis' face, yet there was an undisguised admiration for the stanch nerves of his opponent. At heart, despite his criminal, conceited weaknesses, the Duke had thoroughbred blood beating and pulsing through the veins. "You play a good game, Mr. Warren.... Are all Americans like you?" "They all play the game in Kentucky," snapped Jarvis. "And I thought all Americans were fools." He crossed to the door. "I think, my dear Maria, that for the sake of the family name it would do my health good to take a trip to Monte Carlo and the Riviera—even Egypt might help. Mr. Warren, take her advice and return to Kentucky." He walked up the steps and smiled back with his cynical appreciation of the situation, a mediæval sport to the end, as Jarvis realized. "Hey, Rusty, you just follow that Duke as well as you did me. See him out of the castle and on his way rejoicing. And don't let your finger slip on that revolver." "Yassir—wid pleasure, sir." The footsteps died away, and Jarvis looked at the Princess. She smiled back at him. "What kind of a place is Kentucky?" "God's country, lady.... Must I go back alone, your Highness?" She put her hands upon the tired shoulders, and looked up with the ineffable look which passeth all understanding, except between the one man and the one woman. She held her lips up to him! "Warren—don't call me Highness!... my name is Maria!" THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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