Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan JohnЧитать онлайн книгу.
towards it. The owner, who was kneeling, raised his face at the sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his eyes.
He recognized them only too well. They belonged to the man he had seen in the inn at Kirkmichael, the man whom Heritage had decided to be an Australian, but whom they now know to be their arch-enemy—the man called Paul who had persecuted the Princess for years and whom alone of all beings on earth she feared. He had been expected before, but had arrived now in the nick of time while the brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said that he had a devil’s brain, and Dickson, as he stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff jaw and his pale eyes.
He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky and dizzy as he was, with freedom newly opened to him and the mental torments of his captivity still an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw before him the villain of the drama, the one man that stood between the Princess and peace of mind. He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy out of action. There was a by spanner lying on the ground. He seized it and with all his strength smote at the man’s face.
The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at his machine, had raised his head at Dickson’s approach and beheld a wild apparition—a short man in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and long smears of blood on his cheeks. The next second he observed the threat of attack, and ducked his head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp. The motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang to his feet, and found the short man, very pale and gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a crisis there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist was well trained in self-defence. He leaped the prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant could get in a blow brought his left fist into violent contact with his chin. Dickson tottered a step or two and then subsided among the bracken.
He did not lose his senses, but he had no more strength in him. He felt horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic figure, towered above him. “Who the devil are you?” he was asking. “What do you mean by it?”
Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to speak he would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes. Angry beyond question they were, but surely not malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on the ground, amusement filled them. The face relaxed into a smile.
“Who on earth are you?” the voice repeated. And then into it came recognition. “I’ve seen you before. I believe you’re the little man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want to murder me.”
Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being woefully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a devil—he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.
“What’s your name?” the voice was asking.
“Tell me yours first,” Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea.
“My name is Alexander Nicholson,” was the answer.
“Then you’re no’ the man.” It was a cry of wrath and despair.
“You’re a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be mistaken?”
Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his hands above his aching head.
“I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul,” he groaned.
“Paul! Paul who?”
“Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot.”
Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other’s face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old bucht.
“Now you are going to tell me everything,” he said. “If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies.”
But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors?
“Are you sure your name’s no’ Alexis?” he asked.
“In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told you about Alexis?
“Give me your hand,” said Dickson shamefacedly. “Man, she’s been looking for you for weeks. You’re terribly behind the fair.”
“She!” he cried. “For God’s sake, tell me what you mean.”
“Ay, she—the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you at this moment she’s somewhere down about the old Tower, and there’s boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it’s very near the darkening. If you’re Alexis, you’re just about in time for a battle.”
But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency to crumple. “I’m fair done,” he moaned. “You see, I’ve been tied up all day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on that bicycle and hurry on, and I’ll hirple after you the best I can. I’ll direct you the road, and if you’re lucky you’ll find a Die-Hard about the village. Away with you, man, and never mind me.”
“We go together,” said the other quietly. “You can sit behind me and hang on to my waist. Before you turned up I had pretty well got the thing in order.”
Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the Russian put the finishing touches to the machine, and as well as his anxiety allowed put him in possession of the main facts of the story. He told of how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of the first meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the factor, of last night’s doings in the House, and of the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple. He sketched the figures on the scene—Heritage and Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards. He told of the enemy’s plans so far as he knew them.
“Looked at from a business point of view,” he said, “the situation’s like this. There’s Heritage in the Tower, with Dobson, Leon, and Spidel sitting round him. Somewhere about the place there’s the Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns from the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are running loose in the policies. And there’s four tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there’s the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear kens when they’ll turn up. It’s awful the incompetence of our Government, and the rates and taxes that high!… And there’s you and me by this roadside, and me no more use than a tattie-bogle … That’s the situation, and the question is what’s our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in play till the police come, and at the same time we must keep the Princess out of danger. That’s why I’m wanting back, for they’ve sore need of a business head. Yon Sir Archibald’s a fine fellow, but I doubt he’ll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no’ to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal and get a grip of the facts.”
“I am going to the Princess,” said the Russian.
“Ay, that’ll be best. You’ll be maybe able to manage her, for you’ll be well acquaint.”
“She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced wife.”
“Keep us!” Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful thought of Heritage. “What ailed you then no’ to look after her better?”
“We have been long separated, because it was her will. She had work to