The Bars of Iron

  The Bars of Iron

  By Ethel M. Dell

  1916

  I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY BROTHER REGINALD WITH MY LOVE

  "He hath broken the gates of brass:And smitten the bars of iron in sunder."Psalm cvii., 16.

  "I saw heaven opened."Revelation xix., II.

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  THE GATES OP BRASS

  CHAPTER

  I. A JUG OF WATER

  II. CONCERNING FOOLS

  III. DISCIPLINE

  IV. THE MOTHER'S HELP

  V. LIFE ON A CHAIN

  VI. THE RACE

  VII. A FRIEND IN NEED

  VIII. A TALK BY THE FIRE

  IX. THE TICKET OF LEAVE

  X. SPORT

  XI. THE STAR OF HOPE

  XII. A PAIR OF GLOVES

  XIII. THE VISION

  XIV. A MAN'S CONFIDENCE

  XV. THE SCHEME

  XVI. THE WARNING

  XVII. THE PLACE OF TORMENT

  XVIII. HORNS AND HOOFS

  XIX. THE DAY OF TROUBLE

  XX. THE STRAIGHT TRUTH

  XXI. THE ENCHANTED LAND

  XXII. THE COMING OF A FRIEND

  XXIII. A FRIEND'S COUNSEL

  XXIV. THE PROMISE

  XXV. DROSS

  XXVI. SUBSTANCE

  XXVII. SHADOW

  XXVIII. THE EVESHAM DEVIL

  XXIX. A WATCH IN THE NIGHT

  XXX. THE CONFLICT

  XXXI. THE RETURN

  XXXII. THE DECISION

  XXXIII. THE LAST DEBT

  XXXIV. THE MESSAGE

  XXXV. THE DARK HOUR

  XXXVI. THE SUMMONS

  XXXVII. "LA GRANDE PASSION"

  XXXVIII. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

  PART II

  THE PLACE OF TORMENT

  I. DEAD SEA FRUIT

  II. THAT WHICH IS HOLY

  III. THE FIRST GUEST

  IV. THE PRISONER IN THE DUNGEON

  V. THE SWORD FALLS

  VI. THE MASK

  VII. THE GATES OF HELL

  VIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

  IX. THE GREAT GULF

  X. SANCTUARY

  XI. THE FALLING NIGHT

  XII. THE DREAM

  XIII. THE HAND OF THE SCULPTOR

  PART III

  THE OPEN HEAVEN

  I. THE VERDICT

  II. THE TIDE COMES BACK

  III. THE GAME

  IV. THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

  V. THE DESERT ROAD

  VI. THE ENCOUNTER

  VII. THE PLACE OF REPENTANCE

  VIII. THE RELEASE OP THE PRISONER

  IX. HOLY GROUND

  EPILOGUE

  The Bars of Iron

  PROLOGUE

  "Fight? I'll fight you with pleasure, but I shall probably kill you if Ido. Do you want to be killed?" Brief and contemptuous the question fell.The speaker was a mere lad. He could not have been more than nineteen.But he held himself with the superb British assurance that has its rootin the British public school and which, once planted, in certain soils iswholly ineradicable.

  The man he faced was considerably his superior in height and build. Healso was British, but he had none of the other's careless ease ofbearing. He stood like an angry bull, with glaring, bloodshot eyes.

  He swore a terrific oath in answer to the scornful enquiry. "I'll breakevery bone in your body!" he vowed. "You little, sneering bantam, I'llsmash your face in! I'll thrash you to a pulp!"

  The other threw up his head and laughed. He was sublimely unafraid. Buthis dark eyes shone red as he flung back the challenge. "All right, youdrunken bully! Try!" he said.

  They stood in the garish light of a Queensland bar, surrounded by aneager, gaping crowd of farmers, boundary-riders, sheep-shearers, who hadcome down to this township on the coast on business or pleasure at theend of the shearing season.

  None of them knew how the young Englishman came to be among them. Heseemed to have entered the drinking-saloon without any very definiteobject in view, unless he had been spurred thither by a spirit ofadventure. And having entered, a boyish interest in the motley crowd,which was evidently new to him, had induced him to remain. He had sat ina corner, keenly observant but wholly unobtrusive, for the greater partof an hour, till in fact the attention of the great bully now confrontinghim had by some ill-chance been turned in his direction.

  The man was three parts drunk, and for some reason, not verycomprehensible, he had chosen to resent the presence of thisclean-limbed, clean-featured English lad. Possibly he recognized in him atype which for its very cleanness he abhorred. Possibly his sodden brainwas stirred by an envy which the Colonials round him were powerless toexcite. For he also was British-born. And he still bore traces, albeitthey were not very apparent at that moment, of the breed from which hehad sprung.

  Whatever the cause of his animosity, he had given it full and ready vent.A few coarse expressions aimed in the direction of the young stranger haddone their work. The boy had risen to go, with disgust written openlyupon his face, and instantly the action had been seized upon by the olderman as a cause for offence.

  He had not found his victim slow to respond. In fact his challenge hadbeen flung back with an alacrity that had somewhat astonished thebystanders and rendered interference a matter of some difficulty.

  But one of them did at this juncture make his voice heard in a word ofadmonition to the half-tipsy aggressor.

  "You had better mind what you do, Samson. There will be a row if thatyoung chap gets hurt."

  "Yes, he'd better get out of it," said one or two.

  But the young chap in question turned on them with a flash of his whiteteeth. "Don't you worry yourselves!" he said. "If he wants tofight--let him!"

  They muttered uneasily in answer. It was plain that Samson'sbull-strength was no allegory to them. But the boy's confidenceremained quite unimpaired. He faced his adversary with the lust ofbattle in his eyes.

  "Come on, you slacker!" he said. "I like a good fight. Don't keepme waiting!"

  The bystanders began to laugh, and the man they called Samson turnedpurple with rage. He flung round furiously. "There's a yard at the back,"he cried. "We'll settle it there. I'll teach you to use your spurs on me,my young game-cock!"

  "Come on then!" said the stranger. "P'r'aps I shall teach you somethingtoo! You'll probably be killed, as I said before; but if you'll take therisk I have no objection."

  Again the onlookers raised a laugh. They pressed round to see the face ofthe English boy who was so supremely unafraid. It was a very handsomeface, but it was not wholly English. The eyes were too dark and toopassionate, the straight brows too black, the features too finelyregular. The mouth was mobile, and wayward as a woman's, but the chinmight have been modelled in stone--a fighting chin, aggressive,indomitable. There was something of the ancient Roman about the wholecast of his face which, combined with that high British bearing, made himundeniably remarkable. Those who looked at him once generally turned tolook again.

  One of the spectators--a burly Australian farmer--pushed forward from thethrong and touched his arm. "Look here, my son!" he said in an undertone."You've no business here, and no call to fight whatever. Clear out ofit--quick! Savvy? I'll cover your tracks."

  The boy drew himself up with a haughty movement. Plainly for the momenthe resented the advice. But the next very suddenly he smiled.

  "Thanks! Don't trouble! I can hold my own and a bit over.
There's nogreat difficulty in downing a drunken brute like that."

  "Don't you be too cock-sure!" the farmer warned him. "He's a heavyweight, and he's licked bigger men than you when he's been in just thestate he's in now."

  But the English boy only laughed, and turned to follow his adversary.

  Every man present pressed after him. A well-sustained fight, though anevent of no uncommon occurrence, was a form of entertainment that neverfailed to attract. They crowded out to the back premises in a body,unhindered by any in authority.

  A dingy backyard behind the house furnished ground for the fray. Here thespectators gathered in a ring around an arc of light thrown by astable-lamp over the door, and the man they called Samson proceeded withsavage energy to strip to the waist.

  The young stranger's face grew a shade more disdainful as he noted theaction. He himself removed coat, waistcoat, and collar, all of whichhe handed to the farmer who had offered to assist him in making goodhis escape.

  "Just look after these for a minute!" he said.

  "You're a cool hand," said the other man admiringly. "I'll see you don'tget bullied anyhow."

  The young man nodded his thanks. He looked down at his hands and slowlyclenched and opened them again.

  "Oh, I shan't be bullied," he said, in a tone of grim conviction.

  And then the fight began.

  It was obvious from the outset that it could not be a very prolonged one.Samson attacked with furious zest. He evidently expected to find hisopponent very speedily at his mercy, and he made no attempt to husbandhis strength. But his blows went wide. The English lad avoided them withan agility that kept him practically unscathed. Had he been a hardhitter, he might have got in several blows himself, but he only landedone or two. His face was set and white as a marble mask in which only theeyes lived--eyes that watched with darting intensity for the chance toclose. And when that chance came he took it so suddenly and sounexpectedly that not one of the hard-breathing, silent crowd around himsaw exactly how he gained his hold. One moment he was avoiding asmashing, right-handed blow; the next he had his adversary locked in agrip of iron, the while he bent and strained for the mastery.

  From then onwards an element that was terrible became apparent in theconflict. From a simple fisticuff it developed into a deadly strugglebetween skilled strength and strength that was merely brutal. Silently,with heaving, convulsive movements, the two struggling figures swayed toand fro. One of Samson's arms was imprisoned in that unyielding clutch.The other rained blows upon his adversary's head and shoulders thatproduced no further effect than if they had been bestowed upon cast-iron.

  The grip of the boy's arms only grew tighter and tighter with snake-likeforce, while a dreadful smile came into the young face and became stampedthere, engraved in rigid lines. His lower lip was caught between histeeth, and a thin stream of blood ran from it over the smooth, clean-cutchin. It was the only sign he gave that he was putting forth the whole ofhis strength.

  A murmur of surprise that had in it a note of uneasiness began to runthrough the ring of onlookers. They had seen many a fight before, butnever a fight like this. Samson's face had gone from red to purple. Hiseyes had begun to start. Quite plainly he also was taken by surprise.Desperately, with a streaming forehead, he changed his tactics. He hadno skill. Until that day he had relied upon superior strength and weightto bring him victorious through every casual fray; and it had neverbefore failed him. But that merciless, suffocating hold compelled him toabandon offensive measures to effect his escape. He stopped his wild andfutile hammering and with his one free hand he grasped the back of hisopponent's neck.

  The move was practically inevitable, but its effect was such as only oneanticipated. That one was his adversary, who slowly bent under his weightas though overcome thereby, shifting his grip lower and lower till italmost looked as if he were about to collapse altogether. But just as thebreaking-point seemed to be reached there came a change. He gatheredhimself together and with gigantic exertion began to straighten his bentmuscles. Slowly but irresistibly he heaved his enemy upwards. There camea moment of desperate, confused struggle; and then, as the man lost hisbalance at last, he relaxed his grip quite suddenly, flinging himheadlong over his shoulder.

  It was a clean throw, contrived with masterly assurance, the result ofdeliberate and trained calculation. The bully pitched upon his head onthe rough stones of the yard, and turned a complete somersault with theviolence of his fall.

  A shout of amazement went up from the spectators. This end of thestruggle was totally unexpected.

  The successful combatant remained standing with the sweat pouring fromhis face and the blood still running down his chin. He stretched out hisarms with a slow, mechanical movement as if to test the condition of hismuscles after the tremendous strain he had put upon them. Then, still asit were mechanically, he felt the torn collar-band of his shirt, withspeculative fingers. Finally he whizzed round on the heels and stared atthe huddled form of his fallen foe.

  A shabby little man with thick, sandy eyebrows had gone to hisassistance, but he lay quite motionless in a twisted, ungainly attitude.The flare of the lamp was reflected in his glassy, upturned eyes. Dumblyhis conqueror stood staring down at him. He seemed to stand above themall in that his moment of dreadful victory.

  He spoke at length, and through his voice there ran a curious tremor asof a man a little giddy, a little dazed by immense and appalling height.

  "I thought I could do it!" he said. "I--thought I could!"

  It was his moment of triumph, of irresistible elation. The devil in himhad fought--and conquered.

  It swayed him--and passed. He was left white to the lips and suddenly,terribly, afraid.

  "What have I done to him?" he asked, and the tremor was gone from hisvoice; it was level, dead level. "I haven't killed him really, have I?"

  No one answered him. They were crowding round the fallen man, stoopingover him with awe-struck whispering, straightening the crumpled, inertlimbs, trying to place the heavy frame in a natural posture.

  The boy pressed forward to look, but abruptly his supporter caught him bythe shoulder and pulled him back.

  "No, no!" he said in a sharp undertone. "You're no good here. Get out ofit! Put on your clothes and--go!"

  He spoke urgently. The boy stared at him, suffering the compelling hand.All the fight had gone completely out of him. He was passive with theparalysis of a great horror.

  The farmer helped him into his clothes, and himself removed theblood-stain from the lad's dazed face. "Don't be a fool!" he urged. "Pullyourself together and clear out! This thing was an accident. I'llengineer it."

  "Accident!" The boy straightened himself sharply with the movement ofone brought roughly to his senses. "I suppose the throw broke his neck,"he said. "But it was no accident. I did it on purpose. I told him Ishould probably kill him, but he would have it." He turned and squarelyfaced the other. "I don't know what I ought to do," he said, speakingmore collectedly. "But I'm certainly not going to bolt."

  The farmer nodded with brief comprehension. He had the steady eyes of aman accustomed to the wide spaces of the earth. "That's all right," hesaid, and took him firmly by the arm. "You come with me. My name isCrowther. We'll have a talk outside. There's more room there. You've gotto listen to reason. Come!"

  He almost dragged the boy away with the words. No one intercepted orspoke a word to delay them. Together they passed back through the emptydrinking-saloon--the boy with his colourless face and set lips, the manwith his resolute, far-seeing eyes--and so into the dim roadway beyond.

  They left the lights of the reeking bar behind. The spacious night closedin upon them.

  PART I

  THE GATES OF BRASS