Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 3 — page 102: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

412 not harm it, the Great Catastrophe had shown a violent spite so that its mighty pillars lay toppled and buried under rank forest growth; its courts and halls stood open to the sky in a weedy desolation, and only wild animals sought it for shelter. And for a mile all about the spot the forest grew thick, and the ancient pomp and circumstance of civilization had been leveled, But beneath the earth the old station was little harmed. Platforms of great length where the electric trains common before the Great Catastrophe had taken and dis- charged their millions of passengers, still existed, and, opening on these, the old tun- nels that honeycombed the island. This underground refuge was known to a few of the Folk who had fled to the aban- doned subways to escape slavery. The morning of the first Sunday of July it was occupied by about one hundred of the Com- rades of the Torch. They had selected a place for the meeting of the Folk, a hall of tremendous width and breadth, from one end of which a great stairway ascended to the ruins above. This had been made ready, in a rude way, for the assembling of the great crowd, There were vast piles of torches gathered, and a multitude of lamps. The wide stair- way had been chosen as a stage, and this was dressed in silks of red, white, and blue. Suspended from above, half-way of the height of the stair, and serving as a background, was the flag of the revolution, a larger banner copied from the original made by Mary. All these preparations had been finished. Interest now centered about a lighted space where Tringe squatted, bent over lists writ- ten on paper. One at a time the crooked- backed, man was identifying the guides chosen to bring the Folk through the secret tunnels, and issuing to them their final Instructions. “That’s the last,” said Tringe finally, nodding his great head with satisfaction. “ Twenty-five cantonments accounted for. Each man will bring half the strength of his own place. That should make, roughly, fifteen—no, closer to twenty thousand of ‘the Folk. Think of it, twenty thousand! “THE ARGOSY. “You understand, all of you, each is to choose the ablest and the strongest? Leave women and children behind, and bring only your best. Now slip back to your own places and remember, each must start his delegation in time to arrive here the second hour after midnight. Off with you!” “Tt will succeed?” questioned the gigan- tic Shard. “ You think it can be done, comrade?” “Why not!” Tringe shrugged. “It’s simple enough for a child to understand. Now you, Shard, you’d better be getting back to the isle with your picked men. You've a task of your own—to bring Zom and Mary safely here at the hour. You can’t afford to fail us.” | “Tm off, off directly,” Shard agreed. He shook himself briskly, like a great dog. “ Gods!” he exclaimed, his little eyes glow- ing. ‘To think I should live to see this day! If only we can trust the Folk—” ‘We must trust them—it is their cause,” Tringe answered solemnly. An hour or so after this interview, Solf, the weaver, appeared unobstrusively among the Folk of his cantonment.. Absent-mind- edly, he brushed from his blue smock spots of muddy water and streaks of dirt. His appearance was the signal for many curious, eager looks from his fellows. The secret now was common property. Men knew where Solf had been. One or two bolder ones tried to question him, but these Solf discouraged. They must not be seen whispering. So Solf strolled with elaborate uncon- cern to his own particular niche beneath an arch, and stretched himself on his pile of rags as if to sléep. As-he did so a sol- dier who had been watching from a dis- _tance slipped quietly away through the shadows to rejoin three comrades of the guard. ‘Come,’ he nodded to them. ‘““ He’s away from the common fire now, and this is our chance. Remember the orders —no noise, and, if we can help it, we must not be seen!” Thus it happened that Solf, the weaver, stricken dumb with terror and doubly in- sured against giving alarm by a gag tied between his jaws, was quietly spirited from his couch and taken from the Under City. Go 0)(0 0) AAG S (C@