in the woods’ to see that nothing hurts me—”
“You’ll take a dip, too?”
Eagerly she nodded, her eyes beaming.
“I’m just dying for one!” she exclaimed. “Think! I haven’t had a bath, now, for x years!”
“I’m at your service,” declared the engineer. And for a moment a little silence came between them, a silence so profound that they could even hear the faint, far cheepings of the mud-swallows in the tower stair, above.
At the back of Stern’s brain still lurked a haunting fear of the wood, of what the assegai-point might portend, but he dispelled it.
“Well, come along down,” bade he. “It’s getting late, already. But first, we must take just one more look, by this fresh morning light, from the platform up above, there?”
She assented readily. Together, talking of their first urgent needs, of their plans for this new day and for this wonderful, strange life that now confronted them, they climbed the stairs again. Once more they issued out on to the weed-grown platform of red tiles.
There they stood a moment, looking out with wonder over that vast, still, marvelous prospect of life-in- death. Suddenly the engineer spoke.
“Tell me,” said he, “where did you get that line of verse you quoted last night? The one about this vast city-heart all lying still, you know?”
“That? Why, that was from Wordsworth’s Sonnet on London Bridge, of course,” she smiled up at him. “You remember it now, don’t you?”
“No-o,” he disclaimed a trifle dubiously. “I—that is, I never was much on poetry, you understand. It wasn’t exactly in my line. But never mind. How did it go? I’d like to hear it, tremendously.”
“I don’t just recall the whole poem,” she answered thoughtfully. “But I know part of it ran:
A moment she paused to think. The sun, lancing its long and level rays across the water and the vast dead city, irradiated her face.
Instinctively, as she looked abroad over that wondrous panorama, she raised both bare arms; and, clad in the tiger-skin alone, stood for a little space like some Parsee priestess, sun-worshiping, on her tower of silence.
Stern looked at her, amazed.
Was this, could this indeed be the girl he had employed, in the old days—the other days of routine and of tedium, of orders and specifications and dry-as-dust dictation? As though from a strange spell he aroused himself.
“The poem?” exclaimed he. “What next?”
“Oh, that? I’d almost forgotten about that; I was dreaming. It goes this way, I think:
“Never did the sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill, Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all this mighty heart is standing still!….”
She finished the tremendous classic almost in a whisper.
They both stood silent a moment, gazing out together on that strange, inexplicable fulfilment of the poet’s vision.
Up to them, through the crystal morning air, rose a faint, small sound of waters, from the brooklet in the forest. The nesting birds, below, were busy “in song and solace”; and through the golden sky above, a swallow slanted on sharp wing toward some unseen, leafy goal.
Far out upon the river, faint specks of white wheeled and hovered—a flock of swooping gulls, snowy and beautiful and free. Their pinions flashed, spiralled and sank to rest on the wide waters.
Stern breathed a sigh. His right arm slipped about the sinuous, fur-robed body of the girl.
“Come, now!” said he, with returning practicality. “Bath for you, breakfast for both of us—then we must buckle down to work. Come!”
CHAPTER X. TERROR
NOON found them far advanced in the preliminaries of their hard adventuring.
Working together in a strong and frank companionship—the past temporarily forgotten and the future still put far away—half a day’s labor advanced them a long distance on the road to safety.
Even these few hours sufficed to prove that, unless some strange, untoward accident befell, they stood a more than equal chance of winning out.
Realizing to begin with, that a home on the forty-eighth story of the tower was entirely impractical, since it would mean that most of their time would have to be used in laborious climbing, they quickly changed their dwelling.
They chose a suite of offices on the fifth floor, looking directly out over and into the cool green beauty of Madison Forest. In an hour or so, they cleared out the bats and spiders, the rubbish and the dust, and made the place very decently presentable.
“Well, that’s a good beginning, anyhow,” remarked the engineer, standing back and looking critically at the finished work.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t make a fairly comfortable home out of this, for a while. It’s not too high for ease, and it’s high enough for safety—to keep prowling bears and wolves and—and other things from exploring us in the night.”
He laughed, but memories of the spear-head tinged his merriment with apprehension. “In a day or two I’ll make some kind of an outer door, or barricade. But first, I need that ax and some other things. Can you spare me for a while, now?”
“I’d rather go along, too,” she answered wistfully, from the window-sill where she sat resting.
“No, not this time, please!” he entreated. “First I’ve got to go ‘way to the top of the tower and bring down my chemicals and all the other things up there.
“Then I’m going out on a hunt for dishes, a lamp, some oil and no end of things. You save your strength for a while; stay here and keep house and be a good girl!”
“All right,” she acceded, smiling a little sadly. “But really, I feel quite able to go.”
“This afternoon, perhaps; not now. Good-by!” And he started for the door. Then a thought struck him. He turned and came back.
“By the way,” said he, “if we can fix up some kind of a holster, I’ll take one of those revolvers. With the best of this leather here,” nodding at the Gladstone bag, “I should imagine we could manufacture something serviceable.”
They planned the holster together, and he cut it out with his knife, while she slit leather thongs to lash it with. Presently it was done, and a strap to tie it round his waist with—a crude, rough thing, but just as useful as though finished with the utmost skill.
“We’ll make another for you when I get home this noon,” he remarked picking up the automatic and a handful of cartridges. Quickly he filled the magazine. The shells were green with verdigris, and many a rust-spot disfigured the one-time brightness of the arm.
