“I am sorry, Simon,” he said calmly, “but you shouldn’t have tried to resist me. I warned you many times. On your own head be it!”
The other gazed up at him, his face twisted with anguish, but a strange dignity in his eyes.
“I have failed,” he muttered, “but at least I tried to stop you. You cannot go on with this, Gaunt. They will not allow you to.”
Gaunt threw back his head and laughed aloud.
“Let them try to stop me!” he cried, and, stepping over Vaughan, he lifted the altar-stone. In a moment he had climbed over the side and disappeared, leaving the dying man alone.
Vaughan struggled feebly on to his knees and began to crawl up the altar steps. He managed to catch the edge of the front slab and tried desperately to drag himself to his feet, but his strength failed and he fell back, groaning.
In a voice so low that, had there been any human ears to hear, they would scarce have caught the words, he murmured:
“Have mercy, Jesu!” Then he sighed once and lay still. The unquiet spirit had passed beyond mortal judgment.
II
The launch chugged steadily on through the fog, which was so thick that none of the four occupants of the boat could see another, save as vague shadows in the gloom. The water was dead still and black as ink. Its very nature seemed to be subtly changed, for it did not foam in their wake, but surged sluggishly round the stern like thick oil.
Tony crouched over the wheel, his face only a few inches from the illuminated compass by which he was endeavouring to steer a course. Hamilton sat beside Tony, glaring into the dazzling funnel of radiance thrown into the fog by the bow searchlight. He very much doubted if it would pick up an obstacle in time to avert a collision, but he was hoping for the best. Valerie and the rector sat together in the stern.
When they had arrived at the harbour, some fifteen minutes before, they had found a small knot of villagers on the quay, gloomily regarding the wall of fog which shut off the sea. No attempt had been made either to help or hinder, and they had watched Hamilton and Tony drag the launch into the water without comment. Hamilton supposed that they were in the grip of the same deadly lethargy against which he himself was struggling so fiercely. Every movement was an effort. It seemed so much easier to stay still and just let things take their course. But, driven by their indomitable purpose, the four had at last got the boat afloat and climbed aboard.
They had been immediately swallowed up by the fog, and had to feel their way out of the narrow harbour mouth with boat-hooks. Once they were in the open sea the rector had advised a compass course due north-west, which, he maintained, would leave them very close to Kestrel at the end of thirty minutes.
Since then they had exchanged no more than a couple of words, sitting staring with smarting eyes into the incredible denseness of the ruddy cloud which covered them. Denser than any fog they had ever known it was — worse than London at its damnedest, as Hamilton had remarked grimly. It was not damp, as water vapour is, but dry and hot, burning the eyes and lungs, smelling sulphurous and bitter, like the smoke from a smouldering heap of pit refuse.
The dead calm made navigation easier, but Tony doubted very much if they would get within a mile of the island. It was unlikely that the tide-race had ceased to run, and they would probably be swept miles out of their course. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes fixed to the compass, dimly seen beneath its hooded lamp, and each time the illuminated card swung to left or right he corrected the movement by a compensating deflection of the rudder.
To Valerie, beside the silent figure of her uncle, it seemed that this dream-like voyage had lasted since the beginning of time and would continue through all eternity. Utterly isolated from the world, and from their own kind, they glided on through the endless, blood-red gloom. Tony’s dim figure at the helm might have been that of a modern Charon, piloting them over the black, fathomless waters of Lethe itself. Indeed, the girl found herself wondering if the catastrophe had come, unseen and unheralded, and they were, in fact, all dead and in another world. A great weariness and desolation lay heavy on her soul. The boat crept on, its engine purring gently.
Tony spoke abruptly, shattering the illusion.
“We have missed it. We must be three miles out now.” His voice sounded muffled and hollow.
The rector lifted his head. He had been praying silently, desperately almost. For the little gleam of light which had come to him at the Mass had died out, leaving him alone in the darkness.
“We must not miss it, Tony,” he said simply. “Change your course and try again.”
Tony spun the wheel to port and the boat swung round obediently. Keeping its head southwards now, he slowed the engine still more.
Hamilton strained his eyes, peering in every direction, but there was nothing to be seen save the all-pervading mist.
Five minutes passed without incident, then Tony put the launch about unprompted and steered due north. Hamilton looked anxiously at his watch; it was half past ten. Time was getting desperately short. The rector’s lips moved ceaselessly.
All at once Valerie stiffened. Was it only imagination, or could she really hear the engine of another boat, somewhere away to the left? She called to Tony, and he cut out the motor. They drifted along silently, but there was no sound to be heard save their own quick breathing. Hamilton cupped his hands round his mouth and gave a hail. Almost immediately the echo was flung back. They were close under the cliffs of Kestrel, and, but for the girl’s sharp ears, would have passed it by unseen.
Hope springing up in his heart, Tony started the engine and they crept cautiously in. A great shadow loomed up out of the obscurity, and Hamilton swung the searchlight, picking up the rocks, dangerously close.
It was anxious work seeking the entrance to the harbour, but the fog seemed a little less dense close to the island, and they found it at last. Boat-hooks out, ready to fend off the rocky walls, they glided in. It was but a moment’s work to make fast and disembark, and together they climbed the stairway.
The fog was left behind the moment they set foot on land, and as they mounted the island presented a fantastic spectacle. On every side great cliffs of vapour shut it in, and it lay, as it were, at the bottom of a vast pit of lurid light. The rocks appeared black as coal, and the Abbey made a picture of horrifying splendour, towering monstrously above them. The effort of climbing in the terrific heat was terribly exhausting, and by the time they reached the platform before the great gateway their clothes were wringing with sweat.
After a moment’s pause to regain their breath they approached the gate, each with a nameless apprehension gnawing at his heart. Then they stopped dead and stood rooted in their tracks. Not only was the wicket in the great door shut, but some feet in front of it, barring every hope of entrance, the portcullis had been dropped.
Speechless with dismay, they crowded forward and examined it. Constructed of massive iron bars, it must have weighed many tons, and the force of its fall had driven the pointed ends of the vertical bars deep into the ground.
“No good,” said Hamilton at last. “We might have forced the door somehow, but that — never.”
“I’ve never seen it down before,” Tony said. “It must be centuries since it was last used — the windlasses in the gatehouse are rusted solid — they will have cut the chains.” With a gesture of despair he turned away.
“Is there no other way in?” asked the rector.
“None,” Tony answered. “The outer wall is only pierced at this point.”
Hamilton looked up at the top of the arch. It might be possible to climb the grating of the portcullis, but the wall of the gatehouse jutted out too far above it to permit further progress. He walked back a few paces and studied the great wall itself. It was fully thirty feet high, and though the granite blocks of which it was built had been much weathered by hundreds of years of wind and rain, they were too closely jointed to offer safe foothold. Moreover, the battlements overhung in such a way that it would have been impossible to negotiate them.