Randall Parrish - Prisoners of Chance

R >> Randall Parrish >> Prisoners of Chance

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"The Puritan--" I questioned--"the man who bore you here--what happened
to him?"

He shuddered, and pointed into the black abyss.

"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
his friends,'" he quoted solemnly.

"He went down?"

He bowed his head silently, his fingers searching for his crucifix. I
sat staring at him, crushed into helplessness.

In a few moments I felt the pressure of his fingers.

"The Lord hath preserved us as by fire," he said in low, solemn tone,
"He hath ridden upon the flaming skies in his chariot, accompanied by
angels and archangels. 'T is ours to bless His holy name."

I gazed into the rapt, boyish face, and said:

"On my knees have I already acknowledged His mercy. I am not
ungrateful."

The troubled countenance brightened with a quick smile.

"God is most good," he murmured; "He hath spared us that we may
continue to honor Him, and do His work. The woman--does she also live?"

The question brought me instantly to my feet, wondering how I could
have neglected her so long. But before I could advance to where she
lay, she sat partially up, her face turned toward us.

"Eloise," I cried, the heart joy apparent in my voice. "Good God! I
had forgotten."

She held forth her hand, her eyes smiling.

"I hold that not strange," she answered, the soft voice faltering
slightly. "I saw you groping like a blind man, yet could neither move
nor speak. I lay helpless as if paralyzed. Tell me what has happened."

I held her hand, falling upon my knees beside her, my eyes searching
her sweet face.

"A lightning bolt smote the cliff," I explained rapidly, "rending the
solid rock. Master Cairnes was hurled headlong into the chasm, and our
pursuers were swept from the path. The very mouth of the cavern has
been forever sealed."

"The cavern?" as if stifled, her eyes opening wide. "They--they are
buried alive?"

"I doubt if any lived to know," I answered soberly. "'T is likely
those within were crushed to death."

She dropped her face into her hands, sobbing hysterically. Unable to
speak, I bowed my head until it touched her shoulder. The crippled
priest crept toward us, forgetful of his own pain in the call of duty.

"Daughter," he said tenderly, stroking her brown hair with his slender
fingers, "to live or die is as Christ wills. The Lord gave, the Lord
hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. Be of good comfort,
remembering these words of promise, 'Lo! I am with you alway, even
unto the end of the world.'"

She looked up through the mist of her tears, first into his face, then
into mine.

"I have passed through much," she confessed simply, "yet 'tis not the
spirit but the body which has become weakened. Forgive me, both of
you."

"Brave heart!" I echoed, caring nothing for the presence of the father.
"No woman ever upbore grievous burden better. If we rest first, you
will regain courage to go on."

Both her hands were resting trustfully in my own.

"With you," she acknowledged softly. "In all confidence with you."

We sat there until the coming of dawn, speaking only seldom, our very
thoughts holding us silent. Occasionally I could feel Eloise's hand
touch mine as if she sought thus to be reassured of my presence, and I
could distinguish an inarticulate murmur from the priest's lips, as if
he continually counted his beads in prayer. The glare of lightning
gradually ceased, the storm passing away to the westward with distant
reverberations. Yet clouds overcast the skies, leaving the early
morning hours dark and cheerless. With the first faint glow of day
lighting the pathway, I stood up, dizzy at viewing the awful abyss
below our narrow shelf. We could perceive now more plainly the
terrific havoc wrought above, but our eyes turned away from it in
horror. We must linger there no longer, but press forward with
whatever of courage remained.

"I must ask you to attempt to walk alone, Eloise," I said regretfully,
"as I must bear the _pere_, whose limbs are crippled."

Her startled eyes were filled with womanly sympathy.

"Crippled? Was it done last night in the storm?"

"No, a month ago; he was tortured at the stake in the village below.
Ever since then he has been held prisoner for sacrifice."

"Do not worry, daughter; my wounds are not worthy your tears," broke in
the soft voice; "they are but a small part of my debt to Him who
perished upon the cross. Yet I think I might manage to walk, Monsieur,
without assistance. Surely, with God's help, I can master the pain."

"Make no attempt," I said; "your slight figure will prove no burden to
me. It was of Eloise I thought."

"Then do so in that way no longer," she burst forth eagerly. "I have
been trouble enough to you, Geoffrey. I will not consent to remain
helpless. See! I can stand alone--ay, and walk; even this great
height does not render my head dizzy."

We advanced slowly and cautiously down the path, feeling yet the
exhaustion of the night. The way proved less difficult than we
expected. The tunnel was by far the hardest portion, as we were
compelled to grope the entire distance through intense darkness,
guiding ourselves with hands against the wall. Having little fear that
any of the tribe remained to dispute our passage, we conversed freely
and cheerfully, avoiding all unnecessary reference to the recent
tragedy. We emerged from the dark hole somewhat before noon, making
use of the entrance leading through the altar-house. The sight of the
deserted platform reminded us of the Puritan, and as I glanced aside at
Eloise, her gray eyes were filled with tears. A fire smouldered on the
altar, waiting replenishment from hands that would labor no more; and
we gladly hurried from the gloomy interior to the sunlit slope without.

The desolate, deserted village presented a scene of loneliness
impossible to describe; not a figure was moving among the huts, no sign
of life anywhere. We discovered an abundance of food, and partook of
it in the open. Eloise appeared unwilling to accompany me, so I went
alone to explore the mystery of Naladi's house, leaving her assiduously
ministering to the needs of the priest. My search was rewarded by the
discovery of my lost rifle, with what remained of ammunition, together
with a variety of feminine garments with which to replace those sadly
soiled and tattered ones Madame wore. The desire was in the hearts of
us all to get away as soon as possible, to put behind us that desolate
spot, those deserted houses, and the haunting cliff. The _pere_ had
constructed, during my absence, a pair of rude crutches for his use;
and, so soon as Eloise had more becomingly clothed herself, we
departed, bearing such provisions as we could conveniently carry. With
the gun in my possession, I expected no great shortness in the food
supply. Madame carried it at first, however, as we made swifter
progress by my taking the father on my shoulder. He was no great
burden, his weight scarcely more than that of a child.

In this manner we tramped steadily forward through the bright sunshine,
along canals filled with clear, cool water, and across fields no longer
tilled by slaves, until we discovered the secret path which led forth
from this death valley. A moment we paused, glancing back toward the
village, and up at the frowning front of rock, the tomb of the Natchez.
Then silently, soberly, as befitted those who had witnessed an act of
God, we pressed on into the labyrinth, shutting out forever that scene,
except as a hideous memory. To me the change was like entering upon a
new world; I was a prisoner released, breathing once again the clear
air of hope and manhood. Burdened as we were, the passage through the
tangled cedars to where the stream flowed down the canyon proved one of
severe exertion. When we finally attained the outer rocks, with the
sullen roar of the falls just below, I was breathing heavily from
exhaustion, and a flush had come back into Eloise's pale cheeks. Very
gladly I deposited the priest in a position of comfort, and the three
of us rested in silence, gazing about upon the wilderness scene. We
had spoken little to each other regarding the future; under the
depressing influence of that dread valley we felt incapable of thought,
our minds yet dazed by the tragic events we had experienced. Even now
I constantly saw before me the faces of Cairnes and De Noyan, scarcely
able to banish their memory long enough to face intelligently the
requirements of the present. Yet now it must be done. The _pere_ sat,
with crutches lying across his rusty black robe, his girlish features
softened by a look of infinite peace; Eloise leaned against the rock in
a posture of weariness, her bosom rising and falling with tumultuous
breathing. I recalled to mind the leagues of desolate wilderness yet
to be traversed. Possibly I indulged unconsciously in outward
expression, for the priest gazed across at me.

"The sun is still sufficiently high for considerable travel, my son,"
he remarked quietly, "and you will require daylight for the earlier
part of your journey."

"It was upon my mind, but I scarcely knew how best to proceed."

"Possibly my experience may guide you. The way should not prove unduly
fatiguing after you pass the falls," with a wave of the hand downward,
and a slight smile. "I wandered here alone up that valley, seeking the
Indian village somewhat blindly, discovering much of interest on the
way. Would that my own future path led me through such ease; but 'tis
mine to go whithersoever the Lord wills. However, my discoveries will
be of value. Slightly below the falls, concealed beneath an
outcropping rock, you will find several stanch Indian boats. The
lightest one will transport safely the two of you, together with what
provisions you require. The current runs swiftly, yet a strong,
skilful hand on the steering oar should bring you through without
mishap."

We both stared at him, greatly puzzled by his strange speech. Eloise
was first to speak in protest.

"What do you mean by two of us? Do you deem us dastards enough to
leave you here alone?"

He smiled into her face with the tender smile of a woman, and held up
his shining silver crucifix.

"Daughter," he said modestly, "my work is not yet done. Upon this
symbol I took solemn oath to live and die in faithful service to the
heathen tribes of this river. Would you have me retreat in cowardice?
Would you have me false to the vows of my Order? to the voice of the
Master?"

"But you are crippled, helpless, in continual pain!" She crossed
hastily to him, dropping upon her knees at his side. "Oh, _pere_, we
cannot leave you; it would mean death."

His slender fingers stroked her brown hair, his eyes alight with the
fire of enthusiasm.

"Whether or not I am worthy of martyrdom, God knows. All I see is my
plain duty, and the beckoning hand of the bleeding Christ. Daughter,
you are a child of the true Church; your pleading should never retard
the labor of the priesthood. My suffering is nothing, my life nothing,
if only through such sacrifice souls may be rescued from the consuming
flames of hell."

She could not speak, but sobbed, her face hidden.

"Where do you go seeking other tribes?" I asked hoarsely, scarcely
believing his words.

He arose with difficulty to his feet, holding himself erect on the rude
crutches. I noticed now, for the first time, a bag of woven grass
hanging at his girdle.

"Yonder, Monsieur, to the westward," a new dignity in his manner as he
pointed up the narrow canyon. "There are tribes a few days' journey
away. I have learned of them, without being told their names. To
such, under God, I bear my message of salvation."

"But you will starve on the journey."

"I carry food here," touching the bag. "It will suffice; if not, there
are berries and roots in abundance. My Master has always fed me in the
wilderness."

What more could I say or do to change his purpose? It was a girlish
face fronting me, yet the thin lips were pressed tightly together, the
dark eyes fearless and resolute. I laid my hand on Eloise's shoulder.

"It must be as he says," I acknowledged regretfully. "We can but
depart."

She arose slowly to her feet, her eyes still sadly pleading. The
_pere_ gazed questioningly into both our faces, the rigid lines of his
mouth softening.

"My daughter," he said, in calm dignity, "we of a desert priesthood are
ordained unto strange duties, and unusual privileges. Do you love this
man?"

A wave of color surged into her cheeks, as she gave one rapid glance
aside into my face. Then she answered in all simplicity:

"Yes, _pere_, from childhood."

Resting upon his crutch, he touched her with his hand.

"Yet he who perished yonder was your husband. How came you thus to
marry, with your heart elsewhere?"

"It was the desire of my father, and the will of the Church."

He bowed his head, his lips moving in silent prayer for guidance.

"Then the will of the Church hath been done," he said humbly. "Here in
the wilderness we perform the will of God, untrammelled by the councils
of men. 'T is my dispensation to bury the dead, baptize the living,
and join in marriage those of one heart. It is not meet that you two
journey together except with the solemn sanction of Holy Church."

My pulses throbbed, yet I could only look at her, as she stood
trembling, her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning.

"But--but, _pere_, will it be right?" she faltered faintly.

"Let the dead past bury its dead," he answered gravely. "I hold it
right in the name of Christ, from whom I derive authority. Geoffrey
Benteen, take within your own the hand of this woman."

'T is but a dream, our standing there together in the sun; a dream,
those words of the marriage rite spoken by him in the desolation and
silence of the desert. We knelt together upon the stones, hand
clasping hand, while above our bowed heads were uplifted the priest's
thin, white hands in benediction. Whether or not in that hour Andre
Lafossier exceeded his authority I cannot tell. In heart we were
joined of God; our union has never been questioned of man.

We stood there watching, longing to prevent the sacrifice, as he moved
away from us slowly upon his crutches. It was a pitiful sight, that
slender figure, in frayed, tattered black robe, going forward alone,
and in agony, to death or torture. It was in my heart to cry after
him, but she understood far better the mighty motive of his sacrifice,
and restrained me with uplifted hand. Far up the canyon, he paused a
moment and glanced back. The distance already veiled his face, but up
into the sunlight he lifted the silver crucifix. Then he
disappeared--to endure his fate in Christ's name. Then, hand in hand
and heart to heart, our voices silent, Eloise and I went down into the
valley to where the boats lay. The dead past was behind us; the future
was our own.

THE END

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