Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

in good spirits, for he had had no dyspepsia since we left Constantinople, and announced that he believed he was at last getting even with his darned duodenum. As for me I was pretty restless, for I could not imagine what was detaining Sandy. It was clear that our presence must have been kept secret from Hilda von Einem, for she was a pal of Stumm’s, and he must by now have blown the gaff on Peter and me. How long could this secrecy last, I asked myself. We had now no sort of protection in the whole outfit. Rasta and the Turks wanted our blood: so did Stumm and the Germans; and once the lady found we were deceiving her she would want it most of all. Our only hope was Sandy, and he gave no sign of his existence. I began to fear that with him, too, things had miscarried.

And yet I wasn’t really depressed, only impatient. I could never again get back to the beastly stagnation of that Constantinople week. The guns kept me cheerful. There was the devil of a bombardment all day, and the thought that our Allies were thundering there half a dozen miles off gave me a perfectly groundless hope. If they burst through the defence Hilda von Einem and her prophet and all our enemies would be overwhelmed in the deluge. And that blessed chance depended very much on old Peter, now brooding like a pigeon on the housetops.

It was not till the late afternoon that Hussin appeared again. He took no notice of Peter’s absence, but lit a lantern and set it on the table. Then he went to the door and waited. Presently a light step fell on the stairs, and Hussin drew back to let someone enter. He promptly departed and I heard the key turn in the lock behind him.

Sandy stood there, but a new Sandy who made Blenkiron and me jump to our feet. The pelts and skin-cap had gone, and he wore instead a long linen tunic clasped at the waist by a broad girdle. A strange green turban adorned his head, and as he pushed it back I saw that his hair had been shaved. He looked like some acolyte⁠—a weary acolyte, for there was no spring in his walk or nerve in his carriage. He dropped numbly on the divan and laid his head in his hands. The lantern showed his haggard eyes with dark lines beneath them.

“Good God, old man, have you been sick?” I cried.

“Not sick,” he said hoarsely. “My body is right enough, but the last few days I have been living in hell.”

Blenkiron nodded sympathetically. That was how he himself would have described the company of the lady.

I marched across to him and gripped both his wrists.

“Look at me,” I said, “straight in the eyes.”

His eyes were like a sleepwalker’s, unwinking, unseeing. “Great heavens, man, you’ve been drugged!” I said.

“Drugged,” he cried, with a weary laugh. “Yes, I have been drugged, but not by any physic. No one has been doctoring my food. But you can’t go through hell without getting your eyes red-hot.”

I kept my grip on his wrists. “Take your time, old chap, and tell us about it. Blenkiron and I are here, and old Peter’s on the roof not far off. We’ll look after you.”

“It does me good to hear your voice, Dick,” he said. “It reminds me of clean, honest things.”

“They’ll come back, never fear. We’re at the last lap now. One more spurt and it’s over. You’ve got to tell me what the new snag is. Is it that woman?”

He shivered like a frightened colt. “Woman!” he cried. “Does a woman drag a man through the nether-pit? She’s a she-devil. Oh, it isn’t madness that’s wrong with her. She’s as sane as you and as cool as Blenkiron. Her life is an infernal game of chess, and she plays with souls for pawns. She is evil⁠—evil⁠—evil.” And once more he buried his head in his hands.

It was Blenkiron who brought sense into this hectic atmosphere. His slow, beloved drawl was an antiseptic against nerves.

“Say, boy,” he said, “I feel just like you about the lady. But our job is not to investigate her character. Her Maker will do that good and sure some day. We’ve got to figure how to circumvent her, and for that you’ve got to tell us what exactly’s been occurring since we parted company.”

Sandy pulled himself together with a great effort.

“Greenmantle died that night I saw you. We buried him secretly by her order in the garden of the villa. Then came the trouble about his successor⁠ ⁠… The four Ministers would be no party to a swindle. They were honest men, and vowed that their task now was to make a tomb for their master and pray for the rest of their days at his shrine. They were as immovable as a granite hill and she knew it.⁠ ⁠… Then they, too, died.”

“Murdered?” I gasped.

“Murdered⁠ ⁠… all four in one morning. I do not know how, but I helped to bury them. Oh, she had Germans and Kurds to do her foul work, but their hands were clean compared to hers. Pity me, Dick, for I have seen honesty and virtue put to the shambles and have abetted the deed when it was done. It will haunt me to my dying day.”

I did not stop to console him, for my mind was on fire with his news.

“Then the prophet is gone, and the humbug is over,” I cried.

“The prophet still lives. She has found a successor.”

He stood up in his linen tunic.

“Why do I wear these clothes? Because I am Greenmantle. I am the Kaaba-i-hurriyeh for all Islam. In three days’ time I will reveal myself to my people and wear on my breast the green ephod of the prophet.”

He broke off with an hysterical laugh. “Only you see, I won’t. I will cut my throat first.”

“Cheer up!” said Blenkiron soothingly.