The final conclusion to which Constans arrived was that he had only to avoid the immediate neighborhood of the Palace Road and the Citadel Square to pursue his investigations with entire safety. Accordingly he grew venturesome, and began to go out-of-doors at all hours of the day or night. And then on the fourteenth day after his arrival in the city his immunity came abruptly to an end.

It was early in the forenoon, and Constans was exploring a quarter of the city that lay to the northeast of the Citadel Square. He became interested in the curious, bridgelike structure which spanned the street; enough of it remained standing to show him that it had been designed for overhead traffic, a highway in the air. There were the rails, the signal-boxes, and other mysterious adjuncts of the ancient railways; he had read about them in his books and he recognized them at once.

Now this particular section of the aerial railway must have been a branch line, for it ended abruptly in front of a building of unusual size and consequent importance. Beyond this again could be seen a surface net-work of iron rails converging to the black mouth of a great tunnel--a highway under the earth. Constans felt a lively impulse to push his explorations further. This was evidently a terminal station of the wonderful steel roads of the ancients; within the building itself he might reasonably expect to find some of the old-time engines and wagons with which the traffic had been carried on.

Passing through a central hall of fine proportions, Constans found himself standing under an immense arched structure of stone and iron and glass. The ancient car-shed, so Constans conjectured; then he paused excitedly before a long platform, at which stood a complete train, made up and ready to start.

Constans examined this new find with critical attention. The enormous locomotive-engine, with its driving-wheels that stood higher than a man's head, impressed him mightily, for all that the monster's burning heart had grown cold and its stentor breathing had been hushed forever.

He climbed into the cab and wondered hugely at the multiplicity of stopcocks and levers and cabalistically lettered dials. It seemed incredible that the giant could have moved even his own weight, and yet there was his appointed task strung out behind him, fifteen long and heavy vehicles--it was amazing!

Behind the engine came the cars for luggage, piled high with bags and boxes, and then the regular train equipment, a long line of coaches.

These last were of the most luxurious pattern--that was plain to see, although the varnish had blistered on the panels and the silken curtains at the windows hung in tatters. The last car of all had clearly been in service as an eating apartment, and fortunately the doors of this coach had been left closed and the windows remained intact. Constans entered and looked about him, noting that the tables still bore their weight of plate and china and napery. Most moving of all was the little nosegay that stood in a tall glass at each cover. But even as he gazed, delighted that the flowers still retained recognizable shape, they broke and crumbled into nothingness.

It was difficult to understand why the train should have been abandoned, it being evident that it had stood here, ready for immediate departure, but the unquestionable fact may serve to emphasize again the suddenness of the final catastrophe. People had simply dropped and forgotten everything. In the extremity of terror civilized man had become a savage, reverting to primeval instincts in preferring his legs to any other means of escape. There was but one thing left for him--to run away.

It was a depressing experience to be standing solitary and alone under these vast arches that had echoed to the tramp of feet innumerable. A sense of his loneliness pressed heavily upon Constans; then, suddenly, he became aware of the presence of a man, who stood leaning against a pillar a short distance away and watched him from under close-knit brows.

The fair hair and frank, kindly face seemed dimly familiar to Constans; and what thighs and breadth of shoulder! The stranger stood little short of gianthood, and Constans would have run small chance against him as man to man. Bitterly he regretted having left his bow behind; even his double-edged hunting-knife was missing from his belt.

The man walked deliberately forward to meet him. Certainly his dress and equipment proclaimed him a Doomsman, and by the same token he must have recognized that Constans was an alien. Yet he smiled and held out his hand as he came up.

"It is Constans, of course; for who else among the House People would dare to cross the Gray Wolf's threshold. Do you not remember Ulick?"

The two young men shook hands heartily, albeit a certain constraint was immediately to fall upon them. For Constans could not be unmindful of his purpose, and Ulick was a true Doomsman, and hatred of the House-dweller was the first article in his hereditary creed. The inheritance of a naked sword lay between them. Was it not inevitable that one or the other of them should be moved to take it up?

It was Constans who realized that only frankness could save the situation, and as they walked along he told Ulick the full story of the enmity between him and Quinton Edge, then of the years of his apprenticeship to his Uncle Hugolin, and of the message in the bottle that had served to crystallize desire into action. The purport of the letter was still fresh in his mind, and he repeated it as nearly as he could word for word.

"Esmay, did you say?" interrupted Ulick. "It was Esmay who helped me trap you. Don't you remember her eyes, brown and with a flame in them like to the carbuncles in the bracelet that I gave her? Elena was her mother."

Constans assented, indifferently. In truth, he had entirely forgotten about the girl.

"Ten days ago she disappeared," said Ulick, gloomily, "and not a trace of her have I been able to discover. Yet I believe that your friend Quinton Edge could tell me if he would."

"I don't understand."

"Nor does anybody else. For all that, I am sure that he does not want her for himself; no woman has ever been able to boast that Master Quinton Edge looked at her twice. Were it otherwise I think I should go mad."

Constans shrugged his shoulders impatiently; then he looked up and saw the pain in the big fellow's face. It touched him, although he could not comprehend the weakness (for such it seemed to him), that had given it birth.

"If you could see her, you would understand," continued Ulick, as though divining his thought. Again they walked along in silence. Constans broke it abruptly:

"And your grandsire, is he still living? I can see him yet, that terrible old man who wanted to cut out my eyes and tongue so that you could have a new toy."

Ulick smiled, and the current of his darker mood was diverted.

"Lucky for you that he fell asleep again before he could give the order for the irons to be heated. And so we ran away trembling, and I brought you to the vault underneath the sidewalk--do you remember?"

"I remember," said Constans, briefly.

"He is living still; think how old he must be! Nowadays he sleeps nearly all the time; sometimes for a week on end he will not leave his couch in the darkened room. Then again he will have himself apparelled and his great sword girded upon him, and he will come down into the court-yard and walk in the sun for hours. You should see those lazy rascals of guardsmen scatter at the first sight of him--like mice running to their holes when puss begins to yawn and stretch herself."

"You are still the heir?"

"Yes, unless the council sees fit to set my rights aside in favor of my cousin Boris. To tell the truth, neither of us is fit to be chief in Doom while Quinton Edge lives."

"Tell me."

"Why, you see, Boris is a brute whose brains, such as he has, are always fuddled with ale. And I----" Ulick stopped and laughed a little sheepishly.

"Well?"

"Frankly, then, I don't want to carry the weight of the wolf-skin; I should feel like a man buried up to his neck in sand. I dreamed of that the other night, and how a raven that had Quinton Edge's face came and pecked at my eyes."

"Then you really don't care," commented Constans, shrewdly.

"No; except to have my fair share of the fighting and feasting--and, of course, Esmay."

Constans laughed. "You always come back to the girl."

"How could it be otherwise, since I love her?" said Ulick, simply.

Constans grew sober again. "Strange that it should be the same man, Quinton Edge, for whom we are both seeking. I can see, however, that my arrow must not leave the string until first you have had speech with him."

"But that is just what I cannot do," returned Ulick, with a frown. "It is a week now that any one has seen him, and yet neither galley nor troop has left the city since the new moon."

"He must show himself in time; we have only to wait."

"Waiting! it is the one thing----"

"Yet you must; the chance is certain to come. Only, if I help you in this, then afterwards when you have learned what you want----"

Ulick nodded. "Do what you will, but until then it is Esmay who stands first, and he lives under her shadow."

The young men had been walking in the direction of the Citadel Square, and the time had come for Constans to decide whether or not he should give Ulick his full confidence. Yesterday he had moved all his belongings to a large building on the south side of the square overlooking the fortress, and he was minded to establish himself there permanently. It might seem foolhardy for him to take up his abode, not under, indeed, but just above the noses of his enemies; in reality, he was as safe in one place as in another. Here was an immense building, containing literally hundreds of apartments; it was like being in a rabbit-warren, a labyrinth of passages and rooms that it would take a regiment to explore. He had only to observe reasonable prudence in entering and leaving his lair to be assured against the ordinary risks of discovery, and he depended, too, upon the obvious negligence of the sentinels. It was a simple application of the principle that what is nearest to the eye is oftenest overlooked.

For where he stood he could see the huge bulk of the sky-scraper towering into the blue. The building had been constructed upon a narrow, triangular plot of land, and its ground-plan bore a fanciful resemblance to the shape of a flat-iron. Its acute angle was pointed towards them; one compared it instinctively to the prow of some gigantic ship of stone ploughing its way through billows of brick and mortar.

"Come," said Constans, and Ulick, understanding the confidence about to be reposed in him, followed silently.

It was a small front-room on the third floor that Constans had fitted up as his abode, and after Ulick had passed approving judgment upon his friend's domestic arrangement they walked over to the window and stood there looking down into the thoroughfare upon which the building faced.

Formerly this open space had been paved with small oblong blocks of stone, but these had long since been incorporated with the walls of the fortress, and in their stead was a stretch of thick, short turf. Pacing slowly along, there came in sight the figure of a man, his head bent down and his hands clasped behind his back. Constans recognized him instantly, even before Ulick's eager whisper had reached his ear. It was Quinton Edge.

Constans knew that he was doing a foolish thing, but the humor of the moment gripped him, and he yielded to it. To make sport of this insolent, and so wipe out, in some measure, the memory of his own humiliation--the temptation was too great to be resisted, and the next instant the bowstring twanged and an arrow plunged into the ground, a scant yard in front of Quinton Edge, and stuck there quivering.

Involuntarily, the Doomsman stepped back and another arrow grazed his heel; a half turn to the right and a third shaft sheared the curling ostrich-plume from his hat. A fourth arrow to the left of him, and then Quinton Edge understood. He drew himself up and stood still while a dozen more skilfully directed bolts winged their way to complete the barbed circle that hemmed him in. And each missile bore its individual message to his memory--a tiny tuft of scarlet inserted in the feathering.

Quinton Edge waited an instant or so, as though out of pure politeness, then turned and faced the great building that towered mountainously above his head. There were hundreds of window openings in the tremendous facade of the "Flat-iron," and he had no means of guessing the precise one in whose deep embrasure his enemy stood concealed; at any moment he might expect the final shaft striking home to his heart and staining its feathering all crimson in his life blood. Yet there was no hint of perturbation in the affected languor of his voice; he bowed slightly and spoke:

"What a sorry marksman! See! I will give you a final chance to hit the gold. Make the most of it, for here in Doom no man's hair grows long enough to hide a nicked ear."