She led them into the lower room that had been the Master’s. There she sat idly in a deep chair of ancient craftsmanship, lit a black cigarette at the lamp, and thrust her slim legs carelessly before her, gazing at Hull. But he, staring through the window behind her, could see the dark blot that was Vail Ormiston weeping beside the body of her father.
“Now,” said the Princess, “how would you like to die, Hull?”
“Of old age!” he snapped. “And if you will not permit that, then as quickly as possible.”
“I might grant the second,” she observed. “I might.”
The thought of Vail was still torturing him. At last he said, “Your Highness, is your courage equal to the ordeal of facing me alone? I want to ask something that I will not ask in others’ ears.”
She laughed contemptuously. “Get out,” she snapped at the silent guards. “Hull, do you think I fear you? I tell you your great muscles and stubborn heart are no more than those of Eblis, the black stallion. Must I prove it again to you?”
“No,” he muttered. “God help me, but I know it’s true. I’m not the match for Black Margot.”
“Nor is any other man,” she countered. Then, more softly, “But if ever I do meet the man who can conquer me, if ever he exists, he will have something of you in him, Hull. Your great, slow strength, and your stubborn honesty, and your courage. I promise that.” She paused, her face now pure as a marble saint’s. “So say what you have to say, Hull. What do you ask?”
“My life,” he said bluntly.
Her green eyes widened in surprise. “You, Hull? You beg your life? You?”
“Not for myself,” he muttered. “There’s Vail Ormiston weeping over her father. Enoch, who would have married her and loved her, is dead in last night’s ambush, and if I die, she’s left alone. I ask my life for her.”
“Her troubles mean nothing to me,” said Margaret of N’Orleans coldly.
“She’ll die without someone—someone to help her through this time of torment.”
“Let her die, then. Why do you death-bound cling so desperately to life, only to age and die anyway? Sometimes I myself would welcome death, and I have infinitely more to live for than you. Let her die, Hull, as I think you’ll die in the next moment or so!”
Her hand rested on the stock of the weapon at her belt. “I grant your second choice,” she said coolly. “The quick death.”
OLD EINAR AGAIN
Black Margot ground out her cigarette with her left hand against the polished wood of the table top, but her right rested inexorably on her weapon. Hull knew beyond doubt or question that he was about to die, and for a moment he considered the thought of dying fighting, of being blasted by the beam as he flung himself at her. Then he shook his head; he revolted at the idea of again trying violence on the exquisite figure he faced, who, though witch or demon, had the passionless purity and loveliness of divinity. It was easier to die passively, simply losing his thoughts in the glare of her unearthly beauty.
She spoke. “So die, Hull Tarvish,” she said gently, and drew the blunt weapon.
A voice spoke behind him, a familiar, pleasant voice. “Do I intrude, Margaret?”
He whirled. It was Old Einar, thrusting his good-humored, wrinkled visage through the opening he had made in the doorway. He grinned at Hull, flung the door wider, and slipped into the room.
“Einar!” cried the Princess, springing from her chair. “Einar Olin! Are you still in the world?” Her tones took on suddenly the note of deep pity. “But so old—so old!”
The old man took her free hand. “It is forty years since last I saw you, Margaret—and I was fifty then.”
“But so old!” she repeated. “Einar, have I changed?”
He peered at her. “Not physically, my dear. But from the stories that go up and down the continent, you are hardly the gay madcap that N’Orleans worshipped as the Princess Peggy, nor even the valiant little warrior they used to call the Maid of Orleans.”
She had forgotten Hull, but the guards visible through the half open door still blocked escape. He listened fascinated, for it was almost as if he saw a new Black Margot.
“Was I ever the Princess Peggy?” she murmured. “I had forgotten—Well, Martin Sair can stave off age but he cannot halt the flow of time. But Einar—Einar, you were wrong to refuse him!”
“Seeing you, Margaret, I wonder instead if I were not very wise. Youth is too great a restlessness to bear for so long a time, and you have borne it less than a century. What will you be in another fifty years? In another hundred, if Martin Sair’s art keeps its power? What will you be?”
She shook her head; her green eyes grew deep and sorrowful. “I don’t know, Einar. I don’t know.”
“Well,” he said placidly, “I am old, but I am contented. I wonder if you can say as much.”
“I might have been different, Einar, had you joined us. I could have loved you, Einar.”
“Yes,” he agreed wryly. “I was afraid of that, and it was one of the reasons for my refusal. You see, I did love you, Margaret, and I chose to outgrow the torture rather than perpetuate it. That was a painful malady, loving you, and it took all of us at one time or another. ‘Flame-struck,’ we used to call it.” He smiled reflectively. “Are any left save me of all those who loved you?”
“Just Jorgensen,” she answered sadly. “That is if he has not yet killed himself in his quest for the secret of the Ancient’s wings. But he will.”
“Well,” said Olin dryly, “my years will yet make a mock of their immortality.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Hull. “What do you want of my young friend here?”
Her eyes flashed emerald, and she drew her hand from that of Old Einar. “I plan to kill him.”
“Indeed? And why?”
“Why?” Her voice chilled. “Because he struck me with his hands. Twice.”
The old man smiled. “I shouldn’t wonder if he had cause enough, Margaret. Memory tells me that I myself have had the same impulse.”
“Then it’s well you never yielded, Einar. Even you.”
“Doubtless. But I think I shall ask you to forgive young Hull Tarvish.”
“You know his name! Is he really your friend?”
Old Einar nodded. “I ask you to forgive him.”
“Why should I?” asked the Princess. “Why do you think a word from you can save him?”
“I am still Olin,” said the aged one, meeting her green eyes steadily with his watery blue ones. “I still carry Joaquin’s seal.”
“As if that could stop me!” But the cold fire died slowly in her gaze, and again her eyes were sad. “But you are still Olin, the Father of Power,” she murmured. With a sudden gesture she thrust her weapon back into her belt. “I spare him again,” she said, and then, in tones gone strangely dull, “I suppose I wouldn’t have killed him anyway. It is a weakness of mine that I cannot kill those who love me in a certain way—a weakness that will cost me dear some day.”
Olin twisted his lips in that skull-like smile, turning to the silent youth. “Hull,” he said kindly, “you must have been born under fortunate stars. But if you’re curious enough to tempt your luck further, listen to this old man’s advice.” His smile became a grin. “Beyond the western mountains there are some very powerful, very rare hunting cats called lions, which Martin Sair says are not native