Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 25, 1924 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

BUCCANEER BLOOD. muned with her gods—the bloodthirsty pantheon of deities which gazed down upon her from the six great canvases on the walls. There broke in upon this somber and si- lent communion a certain sound. It was a sound which the chatelaine was convinced had not been heard in that house for over seventy years: three dull, reverberating knocks upon the heavy batten door. Quintilian gripped his platter tightly with both hands, as if to hold his body from sinking to the floor. A shudder passed through his bent spine. He rolled his eyes slowly, deliberately to his mistress; but she did not turn about. The only immediate effect upon her— so far as Quintilian could see—was a ces- sation of revolving that little cup. The cup itseli—some sort of a mariner’s novelty— was carved to represent a globe. To the savage mind whose thoughts were the clear- est when visible symbols were within grasp, the world had stopped revolving. Quintilian waited for the command of his mistress. She might bid him open the door: she might send him for firearms; she might order the great door fortified further with the cross-bar which had long been in dis- use. She might even order absolute silence, dictating that they flee immediately for a hiding place and there remain. Then after but a moment of imperturbed waiting she, spoke. Her first thought be- trayed no fear for herself, nor for the servant, much less for the priceless furnish- ings of the house. “ Where is Jacqueline?” ‘She went upstairs, madame.” ‘“‘ Yes, of course—she is in her room. Is her door locked?” “1 do not know, madame.” “Go upstairs. See that her door is locked. If she is asleep, do not wake her. If she is not asleep, tell her nothing of this.” He shuffled off, hobbling up the stairs as quickly as his rickety legs would take him. He returned immediately, puffing, gasping almost inaudibly: “‘ Her door is locked.” Again the sound came, this time more vociferous—a loud banging of fists. 87 Quintilian beat upon his chest—a feeble echo to that other knock. A bat zigzagged down from the dark, tacking off into the hall, fleeing with a succession of squeaks into the realms above the staircase. The negro ‘watched it open-mouthed. He was reminded of rats forsaking a ship. Voices grumbled outside, the guttural vibration rolling like thunder infinitely dis- tant. Quintilian riveted his eyes on the chate- lame. He saw her scrawny hand point- ing. ‘““Go to the door.” The negro obeyed, his piebald forehead moistening. As he shuffled uncertainly his head kept turning like an owl’s so as to constantly face the chatelaine. When he reached the door his forehead wrinkled in mute questioning. ‘“ Ask who is there,” the chatelaine com- manded. The nego turned, lifting his hands to the door as if to lean his weight against it. He kept his palms an inch or two from it, as if fearing to touch the wood. The inani- mate oak—to his savage imagination—had become consciously malignant. ‘““Who’s there?” he asked chokingly. ‘““ Who’s here?” a voice roared. “ We’re here, that’s who! Three gents as wants to drink yer health!” “You cannot enter!” Quintilian said weakly. “We can’t, eh? Well, watch the door, then. Fetch me a rock, Parson. We'll show ‘em how we go through doors.” “Tl fire!” the old negro cried desper- ately. “We'll fire back! All righto, Parson— give it to me. Here goes!” The batten door splintered under a ter- rific and unseen impact. A large piece of oak humped out, cracking in the middle. A filigreed hinge of rusty iron was wrenched from the door sashing. The negro stepped back, astounded at this revelation. Something more would be needed than rotten wood and rusty iron. He turned to the chatelaine. This last evidence of the utter hopeless- ness of their defense had brought her to her feet. But still outwardly serene, she COMMICGLOOKS