Джек Лондон - Hearts of Three [С англо-русским словарем]

‘What was it you saw?’ Leoncia questioned, as they passed out.

And Francis lied. He did not mention seeing the Lady Who Dreams in his New York library. Instead, he replied:

‘It was a stock-ticker, and it showed a bear market on Wall Street somersaulting into a panic. Now how did she know I was interested in Wall Street and stock-tickers?’

‘Somebody’s got to marry that crazy woman,’ Leoncia spoke up, as they lolled upon the mats of the room to which the priest had taken them. ‘Not only will he be a hero by saving our lives, but he will save his own life as well. Now, Señor Torres, is your chance to save all our lives and your own.’

‘Br-r-r!’ Torres shivered. ‘I would not marry her for ten million gold. She is too wise. She is terrible. She — how shall I say? she, as you Americans say, gets my goat. I am a brave man. But before her I am not brave. The flesh of me melts in a sweat of fear. Not for less than ten million would I dare to overcome my fear. Now Henry and Francis are braver than I. Let one of them marry her.’

‘But I am engaged to marry Leoncia,’ Henry spoke up promptly. ‘Therefore, I cannot marry the Queen.’

And their eyes centered on Francis, but, before he could reply, Leoncia broke in.

‘It is not fair,’ she said. ‘No one of you wants to marry her. The only equitable way to settle it will be by drawing lots.’ As she spoke, she pulled three straws from the mat on which she sat and broke one off very short. ‘The man who draws the short straw shall be the victim. You; Señor Torres, draw first.’

‘Wedding bells for the short straw,’ Henry grinned.

Torres crossed himself, shivered, and drew. So patently long was the straw, that he executed a series of dancing steps as he sang:

‘No wedding bells for me,

I’m as happy as can be…’

Francis drew next, and an equally long straw was his portion. To Henry there, was no choice. The remaining straw in Leoncia’s hand was the fatal one. All tragedy was in his face as he looked instantly at Leoncia. And she, observing, melted in pity, while Francis saw her pity and did some rapid thinking. It was the way out. All the perplexity of the situation could be thus easily solved. Great as was his love for Leoncia, greater was his man’s loyalty to Henry. Francis did not hesitate. With a merry slap of his hand on Henry’s shoulder, he cried:

‘Well, here’s the one unattached bachelor who isn’t afraid of matrimony. I’ll marry her.’

Henry’s relief was as if he had been reprieved from impending death. His hand shot out to Francis’ hand, and, while they clasped, their eyes gazed squarely into each other’s as only decent, honest men’s may gaze. Nor did either see the dismay registered in Leoncia’s face at this unexpected denouement. The Lady Who Dreams had been right. Leoncia, as a woman, was unfair, loving two men and denying the Lady her fair share of men.

But any discussion that might have taken place, was prevented by the little maid of the village, who entered with women to serve them the midday meal. It was Torres’ sharp eyes that first lighted upon the string of gems about the maid’s neck. Rubies they were, and magnificent.

‘The Lady Who Dreams just gave them to me,’ the maid said, pleased with their pleasure in her new possession.

‘Has she any more?’ Torres asked.

‘Of course,’ was the reply. ‘Only just now did she show me a great chest of them. And they were all kinds, and much larger; but they were not strung. They were like so much shelled corn.’

While the others ate and talked, Torres nervously smoked a cigarette. After that, he arose and claimed a passing indisposition that prevented him from eating. ‘Listen,’ he quote impressively. ‘I speak better Spanish than either of you two Morgans. Also, I know, I am confident, the Spanish woman character better. To show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll go in to her now and see if I can talk her out of this matrimonial proposition.’

One of the spearmen barred Torres’ way, but, after going within, returned and motioned him to enter. The Queen, reclined on the divan, nodded him to her graciously.

‘You do not eat?’ she queried solicitously; and added, after he had reaffirmed his loss of appetite, ‘Then will you drink?’

Torres’ eyes sparkled. Between the excitement he had gone through for the past several days, and the new adventure he was resolved upon, he knew not how, to achieve, he felt the important need of a drink. The Queen clapped her hands, and issued commands to the waiting woman who responded.

‘It is very ancient, centuries old, as you will recognize, Da Vasco, who brought it here yourself four centuries ago,’ she said, as a man carried in and broached a small wooden keg.

About the age of the keg there could be no doubt, and Torres, knowing that it had crossed the Western Ocean twelve generations before, felt his throat tickle with desire to taste its contents. The drink poured by the waiting woman was a big one, yet was Torres startled by the mildness of it. But quickly the magic of four-centuries-old spirits began to course through his veins and set the maggots crawling in his brain.

The Queen bade him sit on the edge of the divan at her feet, where she could observe him, and asked:

‘You came unsummoned. What is it you have to tell me or ask of me?’

‘I am the one selected,’ he replied, twisting his moustache and striving to look the enticingness of a male man on love adventure bent.

‘Strange,’ she said. ‘I saw not your face in the Mirror of the World. There is… some mistake, eh?’

‘A mistake,’ he acknowledged readily, reading certain knowledge in her eyes. ‘It was the drink. There is magic in it that made me speak the message of my heart to you, I want you so.’

Again, with laughing eyes, she summoned the waiting woman and had his pottery mug replenished.

‘A second mistake, perhaps will now result, eh?’ she teased, when he had downed the drink.

‘No, O Queen,’ he replied. ‘Now all is clarity. My true heart I can master. Francis Morgan, the one who kissed your hand, is the man selected to be your husband.’

‘It is true,’ she said solemnly. ‘His was the face I saw, and knew from the first.’

Thus encouraged, Torres continued.

‘I am his friend, his very good best friend. You, who know all things, know the custom of the marriage dowry. He has sent me, his best friend, to inquire into and examine the dowry of his bride. You must know that he is among the richest of men in his own country, where men are very rich.’

So suddenly did she arise on the divan that Torres cringed and half shrank down, in his panic expectance of a knife blade between his shoulders. Instead, the Queen walked swiftly, or, rather, glided, to the doorway to an inner apartment.

‘Come!’ she summoned imperiously. Once inside, at the first glance around, Torres knew the room for what it was, her sleeping chamber. But his eyes had little space for such details. Lifting the lid of a heavy chest of ironwood, brass-bound, she motioned him to look in. He obeyed, and saw the amazement of the world. The little maid had spoken true. Like so much shelled corn, the chest was filled with an incalculable treasure of gems diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, the most precious, the purest and largest of their kinds.

‘Thrust in your arms to the shoulders,’ she said, ‘and make sure that these baubles be real and of the adamant of flint, rather than illusions and reflections of unreality dreamed real in a dream. Thus may you make certain report to your very rich friend who is to marry me.’

And Torres, the madness of the ancient drink like fire in his brain, did as he was told.