The Lady of the Shroud - Bram Stoker (phonics reader txt) 📗

class="calibre2">In the midst of it all the low, stern voice of Rooke, who had burst a

way to the front beside the Vladika, said:

 

“Now is the time to attack the Tower. Forward, brothers, but in

silence. Let there not be a sound till you are near the gate; then

play your little comedy of the escaping marauders. And ‘twill be no

comedy for them in the Tower. The yacht is all ready for the

morning, Mr. Sent Leger, in case I do not come out of the scrimmage

if the bluejackets arrive. In such case you will have to handle her

yourself. God keep you, my Lady; and you, too, Voivode! Forward!”

 

In a ghostly silence the grim little army moved forwards. Rooke and

the men with him disappeared into the darkness in the direction of

the harbour of Ilsin.

 

FROM THE SCRIPT OF THE VOIVODE, PETER VISSARION,

July 7, 1907.

 

I had little idea, when I started on my homeward journey, that it

would have such a strange termination. Even I, who ever since my

boyhood have lived in a whirl of adventure, intrigue, or diplomacy—

whichever it may be called—statecraft, and war, had reason to be

surprised. I certainly thought that when I locked myself into my

room in the hotel at Ilsin that I would have at last a spell, however

short, of quiet. All the time of my prolonged negotiations with the

various nationalities I had to be at tension; so, too, on my homeward

journey, lest something at the last moment should happen adversely to

my mission. But when I was safe on my own Land of the Blue

Mountains, and laid my head on my pillow, where only friends could be

around me, I thought I might forget care.

 

But to wake with a rude hand over my mouth, and to feel myself

grasped tight by so many hands that I could not move a limb, was a

dreadful shock. All after that was like a dreadful dream. I was

rolled in a great rug so tightly that I could hardly breathe, let

alone cry out. Lifted by many hands through the window, which I

could hear was softly opened and shut for the purpose, and carried to

a boat. Again lifted into some sort of litter, on which I was borne

a long distance, but with considerable rapidity. Again lifted out

and dragged through a doorway opened on purpose—I could hear the

clang as it was shut behind me. Then the rug was removed, and I

found myself, still in my night-gear, in the midst of a ring of men.

There were two score of them, all Turks, all strong-looking, resolute

men, armed to the teeth. My clothes, which had been taken from my

room, were thrown down beside me, and I was told to dress. As the

Turks were going from the room—shaped like a vault—where we then

were, the last of them, who seemed to be some sort of officer, said:

 

“If you cry out or make any noise whatever whilst you are in this

Tower, you shall die before your time!” Presently some food and

water were brought me, and a couple of blankets. I wrapped myself up

and slept till early in the morning. Breakfast was brought, and the

same men filed in. In the presence of them all the same officer

said:

 

“I have given instructions that if you make any noise or betray your

presence to anyone outside this Tower, the nearest man is to restore

you to immediate quiet with his yataghan. It you promise me that you

will remain quiet whilst you are within the Tower, I can enlarge your

liberties somewhat. Do you promise?” I promised as he wished; there

was no need to make necessary any stricter measure of confinement.

Any chance of escape lay in having the utmost freedom allowed to me.

Although I had been taken away with such secrecy, I knew that before

long there would be pursuit. So I waited with what patience I could.

I was allowed to go on the upper platform—a consideration due, I am

convinced, to my captors’ wish for their own comfort rather than for

mine.

 

It was not very cheering, for during the daytime I had satisfied

myself that it would be quite impossible for even a younger and more

active man than I am to climb the walls. They were built for prison

purposes, and a cat could not find entry for its claws between the

stones. I resigned myself to my fate as well as I could. Wrapping

my blanket round me, I lay down and looked up at the sky. I wished

to see it whilst I could. I was just dropping to sleep—the

unutterable silence of the place broken only now and again by some

remark by my captors in the rooms below me—when there was a strange

appearance just over me—an appearance so strange that I sat up, and

gazed with distended eyes.

 

Across the top of the tower, some height above, drifted, slowly and

silently, a great platform. Although the night was dark, it was so

much darker where I was within the hollow of the Tower that I could

actually see what was above me. I knew it was an aeroplane—one of

which I had seen in Washington. A man was seated in the centre,

steering; and beside him was a silent figure of a woman all wrapped

in white. It made my heart beat to see her, for she was figured

something like my Teuta, but broader, less shapely. She leaned over,

and a whispered “Ssh!” crept down to me. I answered in similar way.

Whereupon she rose, and the man lowered her down into the Tower.

Then I saw that it was my dear daughter who had come in this

wonderful way to save me. With infinite haste she helped me to

fasten round my waist a belt attached to a rope, which was coiled

round her; and then the man, who was a giant in strength as well as

stature, raised us both to the platform of the aeroplane, which he

set in motion without an instant’s delay.

 

Within a few seconds, and without any discovery being made of my

escape, we were speeding towards the sea. The lights of Ilsin were

in front of us. Before reaching the town, however, we descended in

the midst of a little army of my own people, who were gathered ready

to advance upon the Silent Tower, there to effect, if necessary, my

rescue by force. Small chance would there have been of my life in

case of such a struggle. Happily, however, the devotion and courage

of my dear daughter and of her gallant companion prevented such a

necessity. It was strange to me to find such joyous reception

amongst my friends expressed in such a whispered silence. There was

no time for comment or understanding or the asking of questions—I

was fain to take things as they stood, and wait for fuller

explanation.

 

This came later, when my daughter and I were able to converse alone.

 

When the expedition went out against the Silent Tower, Teuta and I

went to her tent, and with us came her gigantic companion, who seemed

not wearied, but almost overcome with sleep. When we came into the

tent, over which at a little distance a cordon of our mountaineers

stood on guard, he said to me:

 

“May I ask you, sir, to pardon me for a time, and allow the Voivodin

to explain matters to you? She will, I know, so far assist me, for

there is so much work still to be done before we are free of the

present peril. For myself, I am almost overcome with sleep. For

three nights I have had no sleep, but all during that time much

labour and more anxiety. I could hold on longer; but at daybreak I

must go out to the Turkish warship that lies in the offing. She is a

Turk, though she does not confess to it; and she it is who has

brought hither the marauders who captured both your daughter and

yourself. It is needful that I go, for I hold a personal authority

from the National Council to take whatever step may be necessary for

our protection. And when I go I should be clear-headed, for war may

rest on that meeting. I shall be in the adjoining tent, and shall

come at once if I am summoned, in case you wish for me before dawn.”

Here my daughter struck in:

 

“Father, ask him to remain here. We shall not disturb him, I am

sure, in our talking. And, moreover, if you knew how much I owe to

him—to his own bravery and his strength—you would understand how

much safer I feel when he is close to me, though we are surrounded by

an army of our brave mountaineers.”

 

“But, my daughter,” I said, for I was as yet all in ignorance, “there

are confidences between father and daughter which none other may

share. Some of what has been I know, but I want to know all, and it

might be better that no stranger—however valiant he may be, or no

matter in what measure we are bound to him—should be present.” To

my astonishment, she who had always been amenable to my lightest wish

actually argued with me:

 

“Father, there are other confidences which have to be respected in

like wise. Bear with me, dear, till I have told you all, and I am

right sure that you will agree with me. I ask it, father.”

 

That settled the matter, and as I could see that the gallant

gentleman who had rescued me was swaying on his feet as he waited

respectfully, I said to him:

 

“Rest with us, sir. We shall watch over your sleep.”

 

Then I had to help him, for almost on the instant he sank down, and I

had to guide him to the rugs spread on the ground. In a few seconds

he was in a deep sleep. As I stood looking at him, till I had

realized that he vas really asleep, I could not help marvelling at

the bounty of Nature that could uphold even such a man as this to the

last moment of work to be done, and then allow so swift a collapse

when all was over, and he could rest peacefully.

 

He was certainly a splendid fellow. I think I never saw so fine a

man physically in my life. And if the lesson of his physiognomy be

true, he is as sterling inwardly as his external is fair. “Now,”

said I to Teuta, “we are to all intents quite alone. Tell me all

that has been, so that I may understand.”

 

Whereupon my daughter, making me sit down, knelt beside me, and told

me from end to end the most marvellous story I had ever heard or read

of. Something of it I had already known from the Archbishop

Paleologue’s later letters, but of all else I was ignorant. Far away

in the great West beyond the Atlantic, and again on the fringe of the

Eastern seas, I had been thrilled to my heart’s core by the heroic

devotion and fortitude of my daughter in yielding herself for her

country’s sake to that fearful ordeal of the Crypt; of the grief of

the nation at her reported death, news of which was so mercifully and

wisely withheld from me as long as possible; of the supernatural

rumours that took root so deep; but no word or hint had come to me of

a man who had come across the orbit of her life, much less of all

that has resulted from it. Neither had I known of