“Just along the causeway now,” Crewe murmured. “Mason’s cabin is the first in the line of the quarters. He’s canny enough to play scout for us and find out just what is happening.”
“Crewe—” Persis fell rather than leaned against a bush. “Crewe-listen!”
In the water-filled ways below she had been always aware of the wavelets, listening in true terror for the splashing of the turtles. Here she could hear the sounds of insects, once or twice a call which might have been that of a night hunting bird.
But suddenly all was still—far too still. As if all the small life natural to this island now crouched hidden, also listening. Her companion must be conscious of the same sudden change in the dark world about them.
Then—cold—a chill which had nothing to do with the ordeal she had just been through but one she had experienced before, one which formed inside her to reach outward, gripped her.
There was a sound now. One Persis would swear was born of no wind, no rustle of grass, for it continued evenly through the dark. Now she looked for what she knew she would see—those glittering points of light which fluttered back and forth in regular pattern. There was a presence here. Was it as aware of them as they were of it?
Persis stuffed the end of one bruised and torn fist in her mouth to keep from crying out. Between her breasts the sheathed dagger seemed to gather an extra degree of icy power.
Swish—unseen skirts—stiff, wide—proudly worn, moved before them. The flutter of the sparks did not alter rhythm, as if stern pride kept that to the same back and forth movement. Yet—there was no one there—no one Persis could see with her eyes.
She closed them as she had before, and now her other hand tugged frantically to jerk the fan dagger from its hiding place. Was this what that other sought—had been seeking for a long, long time?
In her mind, a thought which had never been her own intruded swiftly, easily, claiming kinship in spite of her repulsion. There walked in a half world which was not theirs a dark woman, but one whose skin was white. About her, pride was wrapped like a great cloak or an armor which no ill could force.
She had been a force herself, had that woman. In her way she was as great as Askra. Though she depended upon her natural powers, not upon gods long fled. And she had seen in the end that death was the only price to be paid for some indignities of soul and body. But death not only for herself.
Persis opened her eyes. In her hand the sheathed dagger fan was like a piece of ice, cold, cruel, no longer of her world.
There was no longer any swish of skirts to be heard. But the flutter of the lights continued, back and forth, slowly, languidly, as if to ensorcel those who watched.
Persis took one step forward, her whole being crying out against what she must do but the action forced upon her. She was no longer even aware of Crewe’s presence. This was between her and that other— that other who had been tied here so long.
Murder—red death had come from what she held. And afterward perhaps, self-murder. A high price, but the one she believed now led them had been willing to pay.
“What’s the matter with you?” Crewe’s demand came impatiently.
Could not he see—did not he feel—anything? The girl tensed. What was happening to her? Some illusion born from all she had been through? But that answer could not satisfy her. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, tasted the salt the water had encrusted there.
“Can’t you see her?” Persis wanted so much his reassurance that she had not totally taken leave of her senses.
“See who?”
Again she wet her lips and forced out the words she felt would only make him sure she had lost command of herself.
“The Spanish lady—”
For she was still there. Even though she could not be seen except perhaps by the eyes of an overexcited mind. All that hung in the air were the slow, now-languid flutterings of those sparks of light. Of course—the jewels on the fan! That fan which should be safely in Lydia’s chest, brought out only as a queer and eerie treasure to show visitors.
She expected Crewe to flare out at her, even to tell her that she was caught by delusion. But, to her bewilderment, his voice was quite even and controlled as he asked:
“Where?”
Somehow Persis was able to raise her arm, only a shadowy movement in this dark, but the whiteness of her flesh made it more visible. She pointed to the sparks of ever changing light.
“She is right there.”
“You can see her?” his voice was still undisturbed.
“Not—not really. Not until I close my eyes. But the fan—she’s holding the fan! Those little dancing lights —Can’t you see them?”
She was so hungry for some collaboration, needed to know that her mind was clear and not overcast by this night’s work.
“I cannot see her—”
Persis felt as if she were shriveling inside. So this is how it felt to lose one’s mind—to—to go mad!
“But then she has never appeared to a man.”
For a moment Persis could not take in what he meant. He—he sounded as if he believed her! But how could he? Such superstitions were only born of unsteady and hysterical minds. She laughed and that laughter grew more wildly loud, until an open palm met her cheek with bruising force, choking off the laughter, returning her with the shock to some manner of control.
“I’m—I’m not insane—” She did not know whether that was a question or a statement.
Crewe Leverett made no comment in answer to her half plea. Instead, still holding to Persis with his one usable hand, he asked with that old ring of authority in his voice, a shadow out of her past to draw the truth out of her:
“Where is she?”
“Just ahead, by the corner of the house.”
“Does she face us or away?”
Persis could not understand his reasons for accepting what surely must be a hallucination as a truth of some consequence to them.
“She passed us. Now she is—she is moving on!” For it seemed that that strange whisper of wide skirts again filled the air, the fan was fluttering a little faster.
“Good—then we follow—”
“Why—? There is nothing there—there can’t be anything!”
Persis struggled to free herself from his grip. If he had been weakened by the exertions of this night he seemed to have recovered much of his strength again, for the girl discovered she could not twist free.
“We follow,” was all he said. And because Persis was too weak herself to fight him, she obeyed. However they both wavered and staggered as they went. And she cried out twice as her bare feet scraped on broken shells. But she did not try anymore to reason with her companion. The kitchen doorway lay not too far ahead. She fastened her eyes on the dim wall and the break in it which marked that opening. If she could only get in the house— in spite of all which had happened this night, the thick walls, promised safety.
But when she would have broken free from her companion, turned in that direction, his grip tightened even more until she could have cried out at the pressure on her upper arm. It would seem that the last thing in the world Crewe Leverett intended to do was enter his own house. Instead he forced her along as the swish of invisible skirts could still be heard. And always she saw the glinting of the jeweled fan. They were both mad, Persis decided at last, with an unnatural calmness spreading over her exacerbated nerves— that was the only possible answer.
16
They limped over the causeway toward that part of the Key beyond the mound where the cabins of the islanders straggled along. And there was the brightness of moonlight in the full, so that Crewe drew her back into what small shadow might protect them. They had passed the house which appeared to Persis the only refuge she could trust. In this black-and-white night anything might be stealing on them.
Then—it was gone!
The chill of the air passed; there was no more fluttering of the jewel-sparked fan, no faint swish of skirts unseen. Just ahead was the first of the cabins.
“She’s gone—” Persis somehow got out the two words in a voice which was near a whimper.
Beside her Crewe wavered and almost fell. Persis drew his good arm around her nearly bare shoulders, supporting him. They staggered on together until they reached the first of the huts.
Crewe’s voice came in a breathy rasp. “Pound on the door—now!”