“We are caught like rats in a trap!” was Cyril’s reflection; but before he could utter a word the old man turned upon him.
“You see that I have you in my power?” he said. “I know you do, and I know also that you do not trust me. You believe that I have brought you here to take your choice of deaths between the falls and the enemy. Well, be it so; suspicion deserves only disloyalty.”
“What does he say?” asked the Queen of Fräulein von Staubach, who, shaking with terror, translated the words. To her astonishment her mistress stepped forward, and taking the little King from her, placed him in the old man’s arms.
“Make him understand,” she said authoritatively. “I do trust you, Father Giorgei; and I give you the best proof of my trust by confiding to you the safety of my son, your King.”
Cyril trembled lest the old man should fling the child into the torrent; but as Fräulein von Staubach translated the Queen’s words, Giorgei’s face relaxed, and he turned from the window with something like delight.
“You and your child and your servants are safe with me, lady,” he said, “for trust begets loyal service. Without your trust I could not save you, for our only way of escape, if your enemies track you here, is a terrible one, which will demand the most complete confidence in me from all of you. But now I do not fear to try it.”
He closed the shutter again and restored the King to his mother, then turned to a heap of rubbish, and began to draw out of it some pieces of rope, old and frayed, and to knot them together.
“You have more faith in human nature than I, madame,” observed Cyril to the Queen, in German.
“How could I do otherwise than trust him, when he had promised to save us?” she asked, and Cyril reflected that it was not the first time he had seen a woman arrive at a right conclusion upon insufficient premisses. But he had no leisure to make further observations on the peculiarities of feminine logic, for it seemed to him that there was another sound mingling with the roar of the waterfall.
“Surely I hear shouting?” he said to the old man, who dropped his pieces of rope immediately, and drew Cyril towards the front of the building, where a gap between two planks afforded a narrow spy-hole. Looking through this, they saw that the clearing was filled with people, who were pouring into it both by the cart-track and the path through the wood, shouting with eagerness as they realised the character of the place. Among them Cyril recognised the big butcher of Karajevo, and also, to his infinite amusement, the churlish host of the preceding night.
“All lie down on the floor, and do not utter a sound,” said the old man, extinguishing the lantern as he and Cyril returned to the rest. “If they are satisfied with searching the ground-floor, we can stay here; but if they guess that we are on this floor, we must escape by the falls.”
“Is there any other ladder?” asked Cyril.
“No; but if they wished to climb up, they could easily devise some means of doing so. Hush!”
Lying flat on the floor, too far from the edge of the hole for their faces to be seen from below, they saw the darkness above them illuminated by wavering lights, while the sound of voices, raised in order to be heard through the noise of the torrent, mounted to their ears. The mob had manufactured torches from some of the dry wood lying about, and were crowding into the lower rooms, peering into the wrecked machinery and probing the rubbish-heaps with their knives. It took some time to satisfy them that the fugitives were not concealed on the ground-floor; but at last they halted below the hole which led to the loft, and gazed up into the blackness.
“There ought to be a ladder,” shouted one. “Where is it?”
“They must be up there,” returned another. “Father Giorgei always leaves the ladder down here, and it isn’t anywhere about.”
“Never mind,” said the butcher. “We can easily get up without it. A young tree with the branches on will serve as a ladder.”
“But the man is sure to be armed,” said another; “and he could shoot you out of the darkness long before you saw him.”
“We will go up ten or twelve at once and overpower him. I don’t mind being the first,” said the butcher; but the innkeeper pulled his sleeve—
“No, no, my dear friend; why risk your valuable life? Remember your wife and children. Let us set the old place on fire, and burn the wretches out.”
The idea seemed to commend itself to all; but presently a voice said hesitatingly, “What about Father Giorgei?”
“If they have killed him, it can’t signify to him what happens to the house; and if he has given them shelter, he deserves to be punished.”
This was convincing, and the mob rushed out to look for wood, several of them shouting up through the hole, “We have not forgotten you, foxes! We are going to smoke you out of your earth!”
“Surely we had better go before they come back?” said Cyril; but the old man shook his head—
“No; if we opened the shutter now they would see the light, and guess that we had a way of escape. Besides, they may be only trying to frighten us. When they have brought in their wood we will go, if they really set light to it. There will be plenty of time.”
The enemy were not long in returning, laden with logs and branches, which they deposited on the floor and against the wooden portions of the walls. When their preparations were complete, the butcher stepped under the hole once more, and shouted, without waiting to receive any answer.
“Foxes, it’s your last chance! Will you come down or be burnt?”
“See how obstinate they are!” snarled the innkeeper, who was already setting a light to a heap of shavings. “Well, they won’t break down honest people’s gates after this. Put a light wherever you can find any shavings, friends.”
“Pah! it’s getting smoky,” cried one man, coughing loudly. “I suppose there’s no need for us to be suffocated, at any rate? I’m going out.”
“Yes; we need stay no longer,” said the innkeeper complacently. “The whole place will be a furnace in a minute or two.”
“Now!” said Cyril to the old man.
“We mustn’t open the shutter until the place is well alight below,” was the answer, “for they may dash in to see how things are going. But we can get the ropes ready. You understand that you will have to cross the falls?”
“Like St Gabriel?”
“Just so, and by his path. Well, I can only take two across at once, and it will need both you and me to get the lame lady over. Shall I take her first, or the other woman and the child?”
“The King must go first, of course,” said the Queen, when the question was translated to her. “Sophie, I put him in your charge.”
Poor Fräulein von Staubach, who was already trembling at the thought of the perilous transit, displayed no delight in the honourable pre-eminence thus thrust upon her; but the smoke, which was now pouring up into the loft through the hole, was so unpleasant that she did not attempt to hang back. The old man fastened a rope round her waist, and another round the little King, and told her to knot them together when he brought the child to her. Then he opened the shutter, and climbing out on the sill, let himself drop apparently into the raging waters. He seemed to find some foothold, however, for he stood firmly with the torrent washing round his knees, and told Cyril to help out Fräulein von Staubach. In those few moments the poor lady tasted the bitterness of death. Kissing the Queen’s hand, and bestowing a farewell embrace on the little King, she allowed Cyril to help her mount on the window-sill; but there her courage gave way. The sight of the foaming water was too much for her, and, with a scream, she tried to precipitate herself again into the room. But the rotten wood of the sill was displaced by her sudden movement, and she fell on the outside, and remained suspended for a moment, Cyril holding desperately to her wrists, until the old man succeeded in catching her and guiding her feet to his own foothold. Then he led her promptly through the water round the corner of the tower out of sight, and apparently into the very heart of the torrent, returning again alone for the little King. The Queen had tied her handkerchief over the child’s eyes that he might not be frightened by the falling water, and Cyril lowered him successfully out of the window into Giorgei’s arms.
“Shut the window and wait for me!” shouted the old man, as he disappeared again round the corner. “I shall not be five minutes; but you could never get through alone.”
Cyril closed the shutter immediately and returned into the room. The smoke was pouring up through the hole, and red tongues of flame were beginning to mingle with it, leaping up and apparently trying to catch the edges of the flooring. The Queen was sitting on the ground, and Cyril asked her to stand up for a moment that he might fasten the rope round her waist. Putting her hand on the floor to help herself to rise, she drew it back with a little scream, and then smiled.
“I had forgotten that it was so hot,” she said apologetically.
“I think, madame, that it will be well to stand as near the window as possible,” said Cyril, with growing anxiety, “so as to be ready the moment that the old man comes back.”
He found an old packing-case for her to stand on, in order to keep her wounded feet from the floor, and they waited by the window in silence for what appeared to be hours. Still the old man did not return, and a terrible thought crept into Cyril’s mind, What if he did not intend to return? Could a more horrible death be devised for the victims of his vengeance than this which grew closer every moment? The cold sweat stood on Cyril’s brow; but he would not alarm the Queen further, far less suggest to her that her son also was absolutely in Giorgei’s power. He felt that he must do something, and throwing back the shutter, he looked narrowly at the shining, water-washed wall below the sill. There was no trace of any crevice or projection that might help in the descent, and at the foot nothing was visible but the foaming torrent. It was evident that the old man knew of some shelf of rock which afforded a safe standpoint; but to allow oneself to drop into the cataract on the mere chance of finding it would be a feat of such foolhardiness that only the direst necessity could impel a man to risk it. Still, it was for dear life. But the Queen—for her it would be simply impossible. The matter was decided. Cyril closed the shutter again sharply, for the draught served to intensify the force of the flames, and turned to his companion, who had pressed close to the window to enjoy the cooler air.
“It’s no good,” he said; “we can’t do it.”
“No good!” repeated the Queen, her eyes dilated with horror.
“We can do nothing unless old Giorgei comes back, and he has been gone more than ten minutes already.”
“More than ten minutes! He must have been gone two hours—two hours at least. But tell me, if I were not here, could you escape?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then that means that you could. You are sacrificing yourself for me, and it can do no good to either of us. Leave me, and save yourself, I command you.”
Cyril did not offer to stir, and she repeated the order in a tone tremulous with excitement.
“Count, I command you on your allegiance,—go at once.”
“Madame, I absolutely refuse to leave you.”
“But why?” she asked, with an attempt at anger. “Count, I—I dreamt last night that you loved me. If—if I was right, go for my sake, I entreat you. It is my last request.”
“Madame, I also dreamt that dream, and it is for that reason that I will not go. I had rather die with you than live without you.”
A fresh cloud of stifling smoke rolled into the room, making them both gasp for breath. The Queen tottered, and Cyril caught her in his arms.
“I don’t think it will be very painful,” he said, trying to find some crumb of comfort for her. “The smoke will do the business before the flames reach us. It can’t hurt very much.”
“No; it can’t hurt much now,” she replied dreamily.
The shawl had fallen back from her head; and as her face lay on his breast, her hair brushed his very lips. Almost unconsciously, he pressed a kiss upon it. She looked up quickly, with a searching glance; but as her eyes met his in the lurid light, their expression changed, softened, and a flush crept over her face. She sighed as her head sank back to its former position; but it was a sigh of absolute contentment, and Cyril, emboldened by the look he had caught, stooped and kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist, and the thrill of exultation which ran through him swept away the last barriers between them. He kissed her again passionately, and spoke fast and in broken accents, his tongue unloosed by the approach of the death which was so surely creeping nearer.
“Ernestine—my dearest!” he said again and again, his low voice sounding louder in her ears than the roar of the flames or the torrent, “we can welcome death, for it has given us to each other. Life would have kept us apart; but there is nothing between us now. We stand here as man and woman—not Queen and servant any longer. And yet you are my Queen—and I am your servant—always—but now it cannot separate us. We have left our lives behind us. Tell me that you love me—just the one word.”
The overmastering passion with which he spoke stirred Ernestine, and she shook back her hair and looked at him with shining eyes. “My love!” she said, and hid her face again. “Death will be easier than life would have been,” she murmured.
“Oh, my God!” burst from Cyril. “Death now!” The prospect with which he had been contented the moment before seemed all at once to have become terrible beyond expression. Was this new life—this triumphant love—to end thus? With gloomy eyes he watched the flames creeping along the floor, seizing on the odds and ends of rubbish that lay about, coming closer and closer. The wooden walls were on fire as well; but he and Ernestine stood in the partial shelter of the stone tower. Still, the floor was of wood even here. The flames must soon spread to it; it would give way, and they would be precipitated into the abyss of flame beneath. He turned shuddering from the thought, and looking at Ernestine, saw that her lips were moving.
“Are you praying, dearest?” he asked her.
“No; I was thanking God,” she answered simply; and Cyril, raging against his fate and hers, felt almost angry with her for being able to give thanks at such a moment. Suddenly he bent down, and, with a horrified exclamation, crushed out a tongue of flame which had run along the floor and caught her dress. She crept closer to him, and raised her eyes to his.
“Kiss me once more, dear,” she said. “It cannot be long now.”
Their lips were meeting just as a loud knocking upon the shutter from without startled them. Disengaging himself from Ernestine’s arms, Cyril sprang to the window and threw it open. Below in the water stood old Giorgei, much excited, and belabouring the shutter vigorously with his staff.
“Thank the saints you are there still!” he shouted breathlessly. “I was afraid I was too late. That’s right; lower the lady gently,” for Cyril had not lost an instant in lifting the Queen to the sill, and was now helping her to let herself down on the outside. “Don’t be afraid, lady; I am here to catch you. That’s bravely done! Now just round the corner. Shut your eyes if you are afraid of the water. Now, what is it you want to say? Go back quickly and save him, do you mean? Why, of course. You stand there, and I’ll bring him to you in a trice.”
Cyril was not a moment too soon in lowering himself out of the window, for the flames and smoke, encouraged by the draught, poured out after him, and caught the shutter even before he had turned the corner. The Queen was standing knee-deep in the swirling water, clinging to an iron ring fixed into the wall, and Giorgei nodded at her approvingly.
“That’s right; you have some sense, I see, but you’ll need it all in a minute.” It did not seem to strike him that she could not understand his exhortations. “Cover up your eyes if you are frightened; but don’t stand still for a second. That was what kept me so long. The other lady, she got frightened in the middle, and stood holding on to a rock and shaking. She wouldn’t move one way or the other, and at last I had to take the child on first and come back for her, and even then I couldn’t get her to stir for a long time. It was only when I told her she would be the death of you both if she stuck there that she let go of the rock, and then she was too terrified to walk. I had to carry her across in my arms, after all, and she is not so light as she was once, either.”
“Shall I blindfold you, dear?” said Cyril to Ernestine in English.
“No; I am not frightened with you,” she answered, looking at him with a rapt expression in her eyes. He doubted whether she was even aware that she was standing in the water, and yet the means of transit which the old man now pointed out was such as to put every faculty on the alert. In front of them, at the top of the fall, the river made its longest leap, twenty feet or so without a break, and dashed clear of the rocks, leaving an empty space under a curtain of water. Here a precarious path had been formed, partly by nature, but chiefly, no doubt, by the hand of man; and it was possible to cross the cascade, as St Gabriel had done in his day, beneath the water and not on its surface. No wonder poor Fräulein von Staubach was frightened! thought Cyril. But he had little time for reflection. Fastening about his own waist the end of the rope which was round that of the Queen, the old man led the way, and in a moment the fugitives found themselves in a cavern of which the roof was formed of falling water, and where the air was filled with sound, and the temperature icy cold. The rocks were damp with constantly oozing moisture, and the greatest care was needed to prevent a slip; but the Queen never made a false step. She seemed to know by instinct where to place her feet, and obeyed any order without the slightest hesitation, and the perilous passage was accomplished in perfect safety. Fräulein von Staubach and the little King, watching anxiously among the rocks on the farther shore, flew to greet her, while Cyril wondered secretly whether his hair had not turned grey during the last hour. He looked round to speak to Giorgei; but the old man had disappeared, and looking back in astonishment into the water-tunnel, Cyril caught sight of him vanishing round a projecting rock. It was evident that he had departed to avoid being thanked; and as even gratitude itself could not face the terrors of the passage again for the sake of tracking him, the fugitives were obliged to respect his wishes.
Therocks on this side of the waterfall were not bare, but covered, wherever a crevice or a hollow afforded a resting-place for the smallest amount of soil, with close-growing bushes, and these served to conceal the movements of the little party from their foes on the opposite bank. Glancing across before turning his back finally on the torrent, Cyril saw the mob standing in eager expectation and watching the house, the roof of which was now blazing from end to end. It was evident that they thought their victims must at last show themselves and entreat the mercy which it was now too late to grant, even had there been any inclination to do so; and Cyril felt grateful for the volumes of smoke which rolled between them, and effectually prevented the mob from perceiving that any one was passing through the bushes beyond the waterfall. Arrived at the summit of the cliff, and turning away from the river, the fugitives saw, at no great distance in front of them, a small house somewhat fancifully built of wood, and occupying a position which commanded an extensive view. As it was not certain how much farther they had still to walk before reaching Prince Mirkovics’s castle, Cyril proposed that he should go on and make inquiries at the house, while the rest waited for him in the shelter of a thicket, so as not to attract the notice of any passer-by. He was not long in returning.
“Our troubles are over now, I hope,” he said. “The house is a shooting-box belonging to Prince Mirkovics, and occupied by one of his gamekeepers. The woman in charge is a pleasant person, and quite willing to give us hospitality for a few hours. I told her that we were acquainted with the Prince; but I did not think it advisable to say who we really were. You agree with me, madame?”
The Queen, who had scarcely spoken since crossing the river, and had been walking on as if in a dream, with the light in her eyes which Cyril had noticed when they left the burning house, started suddenly when he addressed her, as though she had been struck, and turned a piteous gaze on him.
“I leave everything to you—Count,” she said falteringly; and Fräulein von Staubach gave Cyril a glance full of suspicion.
“Then, madame, as soon as I have seen you settled in the gamekeeper’s house, I will go on to the castle, and find out whether Prince Mirkovics possesses any kind of vehicle which he could send to convey you and his Majesty. You will no doubt wish to return to civilised life as soon as possible?”
“Civilised life!” cried Fräulein von Staubach, as the Queen remained silent; “do we look fitted for civilised life, Count? It is absolutely out of the question that her Majesty should be seen in such a guise.”
“I had forgotten that,” said the Queen, blushing hotly, as she realised the strangeness of her appearance, in her torn and soiled Thracian garments, now drenched almost to the waist, and with her bandaged feet thrust into the worn-out slippers of the innkeeper’s compassionate maid-servant. “What can we do?” she asked helplessly, looking at her brown hands.
“If your Majesty remembers the circumstances under which Prince Mirkovics left the Court,” suggested Cyril hesitatingly, “you will see that there would be some awkwardness in appearing before him in our present state of—of destitution.”
The Queen’s face flushed again. On the occasion of some Court festivity at the Palace, Prince Mirkovics had disregarded her unwritten law by appearing in the Thracian national costume instead of Western evening dress, and both she and her mother had received him with marked coldness. The proud old chieftain had withdrawn immediately from Bellaviste, and returned to his native hills; and it was only at the entreaty of King Otto Georg and M. Drakovics that he had consented to allow his daughter to remain a member of the royal household. They knew that if he severed all connection with the reigning house, his many friends and relations would do the same, thus depriving the throne of its most loyal supporters. And now the Queen, herself in rags, must appeal to the charity of Prince Mirkovics to furnish her with shelter and clothes—truly a humiliating position. She looked appealingly at Fräulein von Staubach, who, after a struggle with herself, answered Cyril’s remark—
“That is quite impossible, Count; and it is also impossible that you should represent to Prince Mirkovics the condition of her Majesty’s wardrobe. It is I who must go to the castle.”
“Am I to have the honour of escorting you, Fräulein?”
“Would you leave her Majesty without attendance, Count?” irritably. “I will not approach Prince Mirkovics, but ask at once for Princess Anna. She is spending the winter at home, and to whom has the Queen a better right to look for assistance than to her own maid of honour? She shall come back with me, bringing a suitable dress for her Majesty, and then you can go to the castle and make yourself known to the Prince, who will of course hasten to welcome their Majesties; but by that time the Queen will be prepared to receive him, and there will be two ladies in attendance.”
This suggestion, which promised to obviate the great clothes difficulty, although rather to the eye than in reality, was agreed to by the Queen; and as soon as Fräulein von Staubach had seen her mistress established on one of the cane lounges of the shooting-box for a rest, she departed for the castle under the guidance of the gamekeeper. Cyril, who had accepted the loan of the good man’s best suit, took the opportunity of removing the false beard and wig which he had worn during his wanderings, and of washing off the paint and mud which had contributed to disguise him. He further inveigled the little King into allowing his face and hands to be washed, and his general appearance smartened up by the woman of the house, although the child had been so constantly carried that his clothes had suffered very little in comparison with those of the rest of the party. The King only submitted to the brushing and cleansing process in consideration of a bribe—the promise that he should go with his hostess and see her milk the goats; and as soon as he was set at liberty he gave her no peace until she took up her pails and led the way out of the house. Cyril accompanied them, fearing lest his sovereign, in the ardour of his study of natural history, should make too close an acquaintance with the goats’ horns; but almost before the milking had begun, the little King uttered an angry exclamation.
“Mamma is calling me!” he said, and Cyril, looking towards the house, saw the Queen standing on the verandah, looking anxiously after her son, who wailed sadly, “They never let me do anything nice, and the goats are so pretty, and I’m not going too near, Herr Graf. Please do go and tell mamma that I want to stay here.”
“I will look after the little gentleman, honourable sir, and see that he doesn’t come to any harm,” said the woman; and Cyril accepted the assurance, and returned to the Queen, who remarked doubtfully on hearing it that she supposed Michael might as well stay where he was for the present, but that it would be very difficult to get him into proper ways again when they were back at Bellaviste.
“I fear that you will be obliged to spend some days at the castle as the guest of Prince Mirkovics, madame, before we can hope to return to Bellaviste,” said Cyril. “Communication is difficult in these mountains, and there will be plenty of time to drill his Majesty into courtly ways once more.”
“Why will you talk to me like this, even when we are alone?” asked the Queen reproachfully. “Please do not stand on the steps—come up here. I want to talk to you. I know what you are thinking,” she went on, as Cyril mounted the steps and stood beside her. “You think that I might wish to withdraw what I said to you just now, because things are different. They are different, I know; we thought then that we had come to the end of our lives, and instead we are beginning a new life, but I—my feelings—have not changed.”
“I am overwhelmed by your graciousness, madame,” began Cyril, not daring to look at her lowered eyes and blushing face; but she interrupted him impetuously, her voice ringing with impatience—
“Madameagain! and after what has passed between us! Why won’t you understand that I am Ernestine to you? I know what it is; you don’t trust me—Cyril.”
“You are unfair to me, Ernestine.” Stung by her reproach, he sought refuge in turning the tables on her. “It is you who will not trust me. Can’t you see that in our difficult position the utmost prudence is necessary? Your family—the European Courts——”
“They have no authority over me,” she said eagerly. “I married once to please my family; but the experiment was not so successful that I should wish to try it again. I have had enough ofnoblesse obligein such matters. And as to the other Powers, what do I care for them? I am not ashamed of my choice. You will see whether I shrink from announcing to the world that you are to be my husband.”
“Do you know what the consequences of such an announcement would be for me, Ernestine?”
“No. What should they be?”
“The scaffold and the block, I suppose. In history that is generally the lot of the man who loves the Queen, isn’t it? But forgive me, my dearest,” as he caught sight of her agonised face; “it would not be so bad as that. I should merely have to leave Thracia, and after that I should probably disappear.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, laying a trembling hand on his. “Does my love really place you in danger, Cyril? Oh, why did I not bite my tongue out before confessing it? Can you ever forgive me?”
Cyril resisted the temptation to take her in his arms and kiss away her tears. He had deliberately struck the chord which he knew would find the surest response in her, and the advantage must not be frittered away. In other words, unless the new Ernestine would allow herself to be managed as the old one had never done, Thracia would no longer be a desirable place of residence for him; but if she proved amenable, there was still hope that he might succeed in maintaining his position. He took both her hands in his, and spoke slowly and impressively.
“Dearest, you won’t mind my putting before you the true state of the case? It would be no kindness to conceal from you the difficulties in our way. Perhaps you don’t know that if you marry a second time the Thracian Constitution deprives you of your position as regent during your son’s minority, while, as your husband, I should be unable to hold my present post. You see that our marriage would mean our forsaking King Michael, and leaving Thracia?”
“Of course I would never be separated from him,” she said indignantly. “But is there no alternative?” and her dark eyes were raised appealingly to his.
“Our only hope lies in an alteration of the Constitution; but that would never take place if the fact of our engagement became known. Drakovics is no friend of yours, and although he has tolerated me hitherto as a necessary evil, he would be delighted to find any excuse for getting rid of me. If he knew what has passed between us, it would give him the very weapon he wants, and all the Powers would be on his side.”
“Tell me what you would wish me to do,” she murmured, despairing sadness visible in every feature.
“Don’t look so miserable, dear. Can’t you trust me to find a way out of this if there is one? I ask you at present only to keep our secret until we have returned to Bellaviste, and I have had time to look round. It is just possible that we may be able to offer Drakovics some equivalent for acquiescing in our plans, or some other chance may turn up. You may be sure that I shall set all my wits to work to find one.”
“Yes,” said the Queen doubtfully, though with the shadow of a smile; “but must we pretend not—not to care for one another?”
“Everything must be just as it was before,” was the decisive reply.
“No, that cannot be; for before last Thursday you and I were always quarrelling. If I quarrelled with you now, after all you have done for my boy, I should be the most ungrateful woman alive, and I am not that. You must allow me to be grateful.”
“Very well, in so far as her Majesty may condescend to be grateful to her poor servant. No. I am not teasing you,” as her eyes filled again with tears. “I have shared my difficulties with you, Ernestine, and asked you to do a hard thing for me, I know, in keeping this distance between us; but I believe you will do it.”
“I will,” she said; “although I had rather you had asked me to come down and stand beside you. But you will not find me fail you.”
“I was sure of it. And as to the necessary ceremony and etiquette, you will remember that we are merely playing parts again, as we did when we left Tatarjé. We have different parts now; but there is just as much at stake.”
“You make me ashamed of myself,” she said. “Yes; I will remember. And now, do you mind fetching the King back? I am sure he has stayed long enough watching the goats.”
As Cyril obeyed, he saw that there was a reason for her request quite different from that which she had given, in three figures which were approaching the house. No doubt Fräulein von Staubach was returning, and Ernestine, catching a distant glimpse of her, had thought it well to begin playing her part at once. Cyril laughed to himself at her diplomacy.
“She shrank from hurting my feelings by saying that we ought not to be seen alone together,” he reflected, “so she sends me off on an imaginary errand. What have I done to make her credit me with such delicate sensibilities?”
It was not without the exercise of strong moral suasion that he was able to induce the little King to leave the fascinating neighbourhood of the goats; and they only reached the house at the same time as the three people whom Cyril had noticed, and who proved to be Fräulein von Staubach, Princess Anna Mirkovics, a pale, plain girl who cherished a romantic attachment for the Queen, and the gamekeeper, who carried a large bundle done up in a wrapper. Princess Anna was evidently ill at ease. She remained at the foot of the steps while Fräulein von Staubach went up them to seek the Queen, and stood looking the picture of misery, twisting her fingers nervously together. Even when the Queen stepped out on the verandah, she made no attempt to approach, looking up at her with tearful eyes.
“Anna!” said the Queen in astonishment, “what is the matter? Am I so much altered that my own friends do not know me?”
“Oh no, no, dearest madame!” cried the girl, fairly sobbing. “It is only—how can I dare to approach you in this dress?” and she pointed to the Thracian costume she was wearing.
“Prince Mirkovics will not allow any but the national dress to be worn on his estates, madame,” explained Fräulein von Staubach. “Princess Anna was obliged to leave all her European dresses at her aunt’s house before she came home.”
“And I have nothing but a Thracian dress to bring for you, madame,” sobbed Anna; “but indeed it is not my fault—nor my father’s either, since he could not tell that you would be coming here.”
“Why, you foolish Anna!” said the Queen, half-laughing, “am I such an ogress that you are afraid to approach me? Come here at once. I have worn a Thracian dress for days, and it is most comfortable, and not, I think, unbecoming. Your father is a very sensible man to insist upon it. Now leave off crying, or I shall think you are sorry to see me. Ah, Count, I see you are laughing, because you remember how foolish I used to be about things Thracian. Surely you will allow that I have been punished for my fault; and may I not learn wisdom from the punishment?”
“Madame, I would not venture to suggest that any action of yours deserved punishment,” returned Cyril, as Princess Anna looked up in surprise at the friendly tone in which the Queen addressed him, “although I may rejoice over the change in your opinions. Is it your Majesty’s pleasure that I should now leave you in order to inform Prince Mirkovics of your presence here?”
“By all means,” said the Queen; but Anna Mirkovics added a frightened “Pray be careful, Count,” which showed him that his mission would hardly be a very easy one. He did not dwell on the thought, however, as he set out along the road which the gamekeeper showed him, for his mind turned naturally to his own affairs. Making use of a power on which he was wont to pride himself not a little, he set to work to isolate his affections from the rest of his personality, much as a chemical investigator isolates a new element, and to look at them from a distance, as he had done on that night in the forest. The result of his observations was not very flattering.
“You are a nice moral young man, Cyril Mortimer,” he told himself. “Somehow or other you have tricked that poor little woman into handing you over her heart in exchange for the shabby second-hand article which is all you have to offer; and yet you won’t give up a dirty portfolio for her, though she is willing to risk her crown for you. The fact is, you are a cad, and if Caerleon were here, he would say you ought to be kicked. He might even go so far as to do it. But the worst part of the whole sad affair, as the good people would call it, is that you don’t intend to reform. You had rather be a cad than a fool. And therefore, since you have come to that practical conclusion, just leave off gassing about your caddishness.”
He set his teeth and walked on, turning deliberately from the thought of Ernestine to that of the difficulties which must be faced in the near future, although their exact nature was involved in some uncertainty owing to the ambiguous attitude assumed of late by M. Drakovics. In the secret of this attitude, Cyril felt convinced, there lay some advantage for him, if he could only discover it.
“It’s quite clear that he has been up to something,” he soliloquised. “I’m afraid he has taken good care to cover up his tracks; but if I can hunt him out, I will. Not that I bear any malice against him, of course; but I am badly in need of a fellow-criminal, with whom to exchange crimes and pardon. What nuts if I can spot any of his little dodges!”
Various ideas, springing from this aspiration, occupied his mind until he reached the castle, and was admitted by the armed doorkeeper into the great courtyard. On the raised terrace before the house sat Prince Mirkovics and the older members of his clan, smoking, drinking coffee, and talking. The Prince had spent his morning in performing the duties of his station. He had dispensed justice to the people of his district, inspected the work on his farm, given an eye to the construction of a new road, practically the first to be made in that part of the country, and enjoyed his siesta after the mid-day meal; and now he was watching the evolutions of his mounted retainers, who were going through a primitive form of drill, such as had no doubt preceded the operations against Roum in the war of independence. His astonishment on beholding Cyril was great.
“You here, Count?” he exclaimed, rising to greet him. “On a hunting expedition, I suppose?” looking with some perplexity at his garb. “But why not send to say you were coming, so that we might have got up a bear-hunt for you? Come, sit down with us,” and he dragged him towards the group. “You know my brother, the Bishop of Karajevo? and I think you have met most of these gentlemen before?”
“Pardon me, my dear Prince,” said Cyril, releasing himself with difficulty from the hospitable grip; “but I am not here on my own account. I have the honour to announce to you that her Majesty the Queen, in returning from Tatarjé to the capital with the King, has arrived at the boundary of your estate, and hopes to enjoy the shelter of your roof to-night.”
“The Queen in this district, and coming here!” cried Prince Mirkovics, his face growing red and his grey moustache bristling wrathfully. “Are you aware, Count, that when I last appeared at Court her Majesty barely acknowledged my presence, and would not so much as grant me her hand to kiss? Am I to be publicly insulted at Bellaviste, and then bearded in my own house?”
“So far as I am aware, her Majesty has no intention of the kind,” returned Cyril; “but in any case, Prince, you would not refuse hospitality to a lady, who is Regent of Thracia to boot?”
“What business has she to be Regent of Thracia?” growled the Prince. “Men should rule over men. Let her be content to make laws for her silly Court.”
“Come, Prince, this is treason,” and Cyril laughed forbearingly. “You don’t really wish me to return and tell the Queen that Prince Mirkovics forgets the loyalty of a lifetime in the pique of a day?”
“No, I don’t,” roared the Prince; “but am I to submit to have my authority set at naught before my own clan?”
“By no means. You are the King’s representative here, and have the right to maintain your ancient privileges. I am quite sure that her Majesty has failed hitherto to appreciate your position. Why not let her see what it really is?”
“She shall see it. You have a wise tongue in a young mouth, Count. Dmitri,” to his youngest son, “go and tell your mother to prepare the guest-chambers for the King and Queen and their attendants, and let all the rest of you get ready to ride with me to escort their Majesties here.”
All was bustle immediately, and in a surprisingly short time a gorgeous cavalcade left the castle, headed by Prince Mirkovics, Cyril, and the Bishop. All the clansmen displayed their richest national costumes with a kind of grim pride, wholly unmixed with any touch of pleasure in welcoming their sovereign, for the slight offered to their chief had been hotly resented by his followers. The array of stern faces would have suited a foray better than a peaceful occasion like the present, and Cyril wondered secretly how the Queen would bear herself before these hostile and contemptuous mountaineers. When the gamekeeper’s house came in sight, the troop halted, and he rode on to announce the approach of Prince Mirkovics, returning with the answer that her Majesty would be pleased to receive him. As the foremost horsemen rode up to the steps, she appeared on the verandah, leading the little King by the hand, with Princess Anna and Fräulein von Staubach in the background. Excitement had given her a brighter colour than usual, and her slight form showed to advantage in the velvet pelisse with hanging sleeves, opening in front over a silken under-dress, with which the faithful Anna had provided her. Her chestnut hair hung in long braids from under a velvet cap studded with gold coins, and Cyril perceived to his surprise that it was possible, at any rate occasionally, for the woman with whom he had fallen in love to look astonishingly beautiful. As for Prince Mirkovics, he could only gasp with bewilderment, and seemed inclined to rub his eyes, either at the sight of the Queen in Thracian costume or of his own daughter in attendance on her. Remembering his duty, however, he dismounted and advanced towards the Queen, saying, as he bowed low on the steps—
“Lady, my poor house is at your service. Deign to cover it with glory by resting there with the King your son.”
In his determined obstinacy, Prince Mirkovics had spoken in Thracian, which his daughter translated to the Queen in a frightened whisper, adding a translation to her father of Ernestine’s answer—
“Most willingly do I accept your hospitality, Prince, for I have looked forward to it ever since leaving Tatarjé. In the time of trouble we know our real friends, although we may have treated them carelessly in the day of prosperity.”
“The loyalty of my family is not dependent upon the reward it meets with, lady,” said the Prince, only half mollified.
“True; if I had not known that, I should not have sought your hospitality to-day. But is that old fault of mine never to be pardoned, Prince? See, I have done what I could,” she pointed to her Thracian dress. “You would not comply with my rules when you came to Bellaviste, but I have complied with yours.”
The charm of manner which could subdue even M. Drakovics was not less potent in its effect upon the old mountaineer. Prince Mirkovics fell on his knees and kissed the hand which the Queen held out.
“Madame,” he said in French, which he spoke to a certain extent, “forgive me. It is I who am to blame. If your Majesty will be so gracious as to honour my house to-day, when next you travel in this direction your eyes shall not rest upon a man or woman who is not wearing German clothes. Your pleasure shall be done.”
“Then my pleasure is that your people keep to their national dress, Prince. Since I have seen so much of it, I have changed my mind; and I shall change the rules of the Court as well, if only in memory of your loyal welcome to-day.”
Much gratified, Prince Mirkovics presented his brother and other relations to the Queen, and then offered his hand to conduct her down the steps to the horse which he had brought for her. This was, strictly speaking, Cyril’s duty; but the Queen signed to him to waive his rights, and allow the old chief to mount her, which he did in a wholly unexpected way, by lifting her in his arms and depositing her on the gorgeous peaked saddle, which was like an arm-chair placed sideways, with a foot-rest instead of a stirrup. The other ladies and the little King were also provided with steeds; and when all were mounted the troop of retainers formed in two lines, that the royal party might pass between them, after which a tumultuous outburst of cheers and firing off of matchlocks announced that the start had taken place. Prince Mirkovics rode beside the Queen, with his daughter close behind to act as interpreter, and next came the Bishop, keeping a vigilant eye on the little King and his pony. This arrangement left Cyril and Fräulein von Staubach to the escort of the Prince’s sons, who had many questions to ask concerning the adventures of the travellers, all of which Cyril did not see fit to answer fully. He was glad that Fräulein von Staubach appeared disinclined to talk, and rode on stolidly, replying merely in monosyllables when she was addressed, for he was anxious by means of his own answers to impress upon her that it was advisable to maintain a certain degree of reticence respecting the events of the last five days. Shortly before reaching the castle, however, when the cavalcade was traversing a narrow forest-track in which only two could ride abreast, he was surprised to notice that she manœuvred her horse so as to keep beside him.
“What have you been saying to the Queen, Count?” she asked him suddenly in English.
“I did not know that I was in the habit of submitting my conversations with her Majesty to your censorship, Fräulein.”
“Ah, you evade my question? I will ask it differently. Have you had the incredible cruelty and baseness to make love to her Majesty?”
“Allow me to quiet your apprehensions, Fräulein. Whatever has passed between the Queen and myself has been honoured with her Majesty’s entire approval.”
“Does that make it any better? You coward, to shelter yourself behind her!” She paused to see whether she had produced any effect, but finding Cyril smiling calmly, went on with a kind of sob, “I suppose you will tell me that it is all my fault for bringing you in yesterday evening. How could I dream that you would so far forget your duty as to—I knew that the poor Queen had done so, and I thought your voice would rouse her; but I had no idea—not the slightest—that you had the presumption to return——”
“Yes,” said Cyril, interrupting her incoherent sentences. “It is dangerous to play with fire, Fräulein, especially when there is gunpowder lying about. An explosion is at least possible.”
“Oh, my poor mistress, have I brought this upon you!” wailed Fräulein von Staubach, apostrophising the unconscious Queen, who was quite out of hearing. “Why did I not guess what a serpent—— You have had the meanness”—she turned suddenly upon Cyril again—“to demand that her Majesty shall sacrifice her throne, separate herself from her child, incur the fury of her relatives and the scorn of Europe—and all for you!”
“It gives me great pleasure to assure you, Fräulein, that I have not had the meanness to demand anything of the kind.”
“You have not asked the Queen to marry you?”
“I have not asked her Majesty to marry me.”
“Then what have you done?” incredulously.
“Your questions are somewhat searching, Fräulein. Forgive me if I do not answer them in complete detail. Her Majesty has been good enough to intimate that she considers herself engaged to me.”
“Coxcomb!” Fräulein von Staubach’s voice rose almost to a shriek. “And yet you have the effrontery to say that she is not going to marry you?”
“Pardon me, Fräulein; I said that I had not asked her. My intentions are strictly honourable, I assure you.”
“You wish, I suppose,” with deadly coldness, “to give me to understand that her Majesty proposed to you? Oh, I congratulate you on your chivalry, Count! It is exquisite, inimitable. And you mean to drag her down into misery and contempt?”
“I shall do nothing of the kind, Fräulein. As my behaviour during this interview ought to have proved to you, I am a tolerably patient person. I can wait.”
“Wait? and how long?”
“Years, if necessary, till a favourable opportunity offers itself. There will be no misery or contempt, Fräulein, for her Majesty to face, unless it is due to treachery on your part. I am in no hurry.”
“And this,” she said, with illogical fierceness, “you call being in love!”
With this Parthian shaft the combat terminated, for at the moment they emerged into the open space before the castle, and it was necessary for them to take up their posts immediately behind the King and Queen, in order to share with them in the offering of bread and salt which Princess Mirkovics presented at the gate. With great ceremony the visitors were conducted across the courtyard and into the house; but before they partook of the meal which had been prepared for them, a council of war was held, consisting of the Queen, Cyril, Prince Mirkovics, and the Bishop, to deliberate upon the steps which ought to be taken at once. It was decided that Prince Mirkovics should keep his retainers under arms as a guard to the castle, in case the rioters from Karajevo, discovering that their prey had escaped them, should cross the river and attempt an attack; and that Cyril should leave the next morning for Bellaviste, there to inform M. Drakovics of the safety of the royal party and find out what measures were being adopted to crush the rebellion, and then return to the castle with an escort to fetch the King and Queen. The Queen took little part in the discussion, sitting very upright in her chair, and gazing at the rest with a peculiar solemnity of expression which the two Thracians found somewhat disconcerting, although it increased their opinion of her wisdom; but which Cyril interpreted as showing that she was almost falling asleep, though struggling bravely against being overcome by her fatigue. His diagnosis was confirmed a little later by Princess Mirkovics, who announced that her Majesty would not appear at supper. She had lain down to take a moment’s rest, and had immediately fallen into such a deep sleep that she could not be roused, a result which surprised no one who knew even a portion of the fatigues and anxieties of the last few days.
The Queen was still asleep when Cyril started in the morning on his journey to Bellaviste. Relays of horses had been prepared for him as far as the railway, which he struck at a small country station, where it was possible to stop the trains for the capital. He reached Bellaviste in the course of the afternoon, and went first to his own house, in order to change his Thracian clothes for more civilised attire. To his great amusement, he found his official garb laid out in readiness for him to wear, with the faithful Dietrich guarding it.
“Well, Dietrich, glad to see you again. How did you guess I was coming back to-day?”
“Excellency, I have put out your clothes three times every day,—for morning, and the Palace, and the evening. Your Excellency told me to wait here for orders; and I have not left the house since I carried the note which you gave me to his Excellency the Premier.”
“Oh, you delivered it, did you?”
“Into the Premier’s own hands, Excellency.”
“And what did he say when he got it?”
“His Excellency was much disturbed. He pressed his hand to his forehead, and staggered from his seat, crying out, ‘He has stayed behind!’ Then, remembering me, I suppose, he said, ‘My friend, your master has risked his life in the hope of preventing a rebellion. I fear you may never see him again.’ But I had your orders, Excellency, and I returned here and waited.”
“Good,” said Cyril absently, for his mind was busied with what he had heard. It was sufficiently puzzling, bearing in mind the telegram which M. Drakovics had sent begging him to remain at Tatarjé, and which, having been delayed three days in transmission, had arrived too late to allow him to alter his expressed intention. “It looks as though he expected me to come in spite of the telegram,” he said to himself. “What can it mean? Surely the telegram did not turn up too early instead of too late? Did Drakovics know of the plot, and want me out of the way, but preserve appearances by sending a bogus telegram which ought to have been delivered after my departure? No, it’s too complicated; but I’ll keep it in mind, at any rate.”
As soon as he had changed his clothes, he went at once to the Premier’s office, where M. Drakovics received him with an effusion which seemed to his suspicious eye to be somewhat forced.
“Ah, my dear Count!” he said, holding out his hand, “I feared I had taken my last leave of you. Since I see you in safety, I need not ask after their Majesties. They are well, I trust?”
“Well, and safe under the protection of Prince Mirkovics. It’s all up with the plot now, although your telegram arrived too late for me to nip it in the bud as I should have liked. By the bye, I think it was truly noble of you to send me a warning, when the success of the plot would have suited your plans so well.”
“My plans?” M. Drakovics looked up quickly.
“Yes; of course it would have taken a load off your shoulders if the King had been converted, and you had only to deal with him in an Orthodox condition. But it’s no use crying over failed plots.”
“You will always have your jests, Count,” M. Drakovics was shuffling his papers busily; “but I fear we have no time for more to-day. Since the King and Queen are in safety, we may proceed, I suppose, to stamp out the rebellion?”
“Quite so. What are your plans? Is this the general idea?” as the Premier placed a document before him. “I see,—a simultaneous advance by river and by rail. Who is going to command? Constantinovics? why, he is a regular old-school Pannonian field-marshal. He will secure his communications, and fool about with supplies, as if he were in a hostile country.”
“We cannot afford to strike and fail, my dear Count.”
“Of course not; but do you anticipate a strenuous resistance?”
“To tell you the truth, I do not. You are aware that the rebels pretend to have her Majesty in their hands? I believe that when their story is proved false, the rebellion will melt away. But in any case it must be crushed.”
“Quite so. By the way, I have the Queen’s express orders that nothing is to be done to prejudice the safety of those of our people who are in their power. There is my clerk Paschics, who was arrested when passing through Ortojuk with us, and all the ladies and officials whom we left at Tatarjé to cover the Queen’s flight. They are to be saved at all costs.”
“It is unfortunate for us that they are in the hands of the rebels, for they may be used to extort terms from the Queen.”
“I fear they are bound to be, if you will do everything in such a leisurely way. Why, a small force of irregulars, starting from Prince Mirkovics’s castle, and travelling, as we did, by the old road, could make a dash on Tatarjé and capture it before any one knew that an expedition had started.”
“Your ideas are too adventurous, Count. We cannot engage in a guerilla warfare on our own soil, when we are blessed with generals competent to direct a regular war. The matter is in the hands of Constantinovics, who has drawn up his plan of campaign——”
“Which means ‘Hands off!’ to civilians, I suppose?” said Cyril, laughing. “Well, I think I had better intrust to you, for Constantinovics, this paper in her Majesty’s handwriting. It is a list of the people who assisted or befriended us in the course of our escape, and who are to be protected and rewarded in every possible way. The Queen drew it up at the council yesterday.”
“The list appears to be a somewhat miscellaneous one,” said M. Drakovics, glancing through the paper. “A charcoal-burner, an old servant, the Jews of Karajevo, a mad revolutionary! My dear Count, your adventures must have outdone the ‘Arabian Nights’ if you were reduced to seeking assistance from such people as these.”
“We had not the luck we hoped for, certainly, and I was obliged to modify our plans from time to time. You will see that Constantinovics gets the list?”
“No, I will do better than that; I will intrust it to my nephew Vassili, who is to accompany the expedition as my representative.”
“You did not tell me that we were all to be represented.” Cyril’s suspicions rose again in full force at this piece of intelligence. Vassili Drakovics was popularly supposed to be his uncle’s destined successor as Premier and ruler of Thracia, and Cyril regarded him with a distrust which was only tempered by contempt. “I almost think I shall go in person,” he added carelessly, without appearing to look at the Premier.
“My dear Count! just when it is so necessary that I should have you at hand for consultations? And you are mistaken in thinking that Ministers are to be represented individually on the staff of the expedition. The fact is,”—M. Drakovics bent forward confidentially, but there was a good deal of uneasiness in the way in which his hand shuffled the papers,—“it is in my interests that Vassili is going. There is a—a letter of mine which I fear may be put to a wrong use unless I can get it back into my own hands.”
“A letter? Why, have you also been dabbling in conspiracy, Drakovics?”
The Premier’s sallow face grew a shade paler. “I am not joking,” he said. “The letter is a perfectly innocent one, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, in reply to a request about some office for his brother; but I have heard rumours—indeed, with such a tissue of falsehoods as they have been weaving, would they be likely to let slip such an opportunity of dragging my name into the matter?”
“But you would get it back in any case when the rebels are tried, if it had not been destroyed.”
“Ah, but how can I be sure that it will not fall into unfriendly hands? The rebels may have made alterations in the original, or even cut out my signature and attached it to a forgery. To leave it to be produced at the trial would be to subject myself to endless suspicion and annoyance. My honour is at stake, Count, and must be vindicated. As to the letter itself, you shall see it when I have it back. But where are you going now?”
“To the Palace, to find one of the ladies and give her a list which Fräulein von Staubach intrusted to me of things I am to take back for the Queen. The castle is rather a primitive place in the way of toilet arrangements, I fancy. By the bye, we must get a carriage up there somehow, for her Majesty is quite unfit to ride as far as the railway. I suppose we must set the escort to push behind in the places where there is no road at all, and harness their horses on in front. You will see that the escort is detailed to start to-morrow? I will look after the other things.”
“But I wonder,” he said to himself, as he quitted the Premier’s presence, “what the truth is about that letter? There is something fishy, I am sure. Drakovics has given himself away in his eagerness to get it back, not to mention his engaging candour in telling me about it at all. What is it? It would give me the very handle I want against him if I could find out.”
WhateverM. Drakovics’s misgivings may have been with respect to the letter of which the rebels had obtained possession, the measures which he took to recover it were crowned with complete success, and he appeared in Cyril’s office triumphant, three days after his colleague had returned a second time to Bellaviste, in attendance on the Queen and the little King.
“Everything has fallen out exactly as I prophesied to you, Count,” he cried, “with the exception of one or two unfortunate accidents, such as one could not hope to provide against. You saw, of course, yesterday’s telegram from Constantinovics announcing that he and the royal forces had occupied Tatarjé with very little opposition? Well, here is a long letter from my nephew Vassili, giving details, and, best of all, enclosing that letter of mine which caused me such anxiety. I promised to show it to you; here it is.”
Cyril glanced at the document with languid interest. It was an ordinary business letter in the Premier’s writing, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, and promising to meet his wishes with regard to the subject upon which they had been in correspondence. But for the fact of its having been written by M. Drakovics’s own hand, there was nothing remarkable about it; and except for the danger of its being tampered with, it appeared quite inadequate to account for the writer’s anxiety to recover it. Cyril returned it quickly.
“Many thanks, Drakovics. I congratulate you on getting the precious thing back so soon. But what are the unfortunate accidents to which you refer?”
“I must give you the gist of Vassili’s letter before you will understand them. As I anticipated, the moment that the rank and file of the rebels learned that they had been deceived in imagining that they had the Queen in their hands, they lost heart. There was a little fighting round the Bishop’s palace, led by the commandant and Colonel O’Malachy; but the Bishop and the Mayor, when once their eyes were opened, insisted upon a surrender. They had been doubly deceived, first by means of this letter here, into supposing that I—why, I cannot imagine—sympathised with their object, and then by the lady who personated her Majesty.”
“Really,” said Cyril, “the Bishop must be singularly guileless for a man of his age and political experience. It’s pretty evident that he is too simple-minded for the position that he occupies.”
“That will be for the court to decide when he is brought to trial,” replied the Premier, changing countenance a little. “In any case, he submitted at once when he learned the truth, and gave assistance in securing his fellow-conspirators. He even surrendered this letter, which had been intrusted to his care. Moreover, the rescued ladies all bear testimony to the consideration with which they were treated during their imprisonment in his palace.”
“In other words, Bishop Philaret is one of those who aspire to run with the hare and yet hunt with the hounds?”
“Possibly; but we may be thankful that he has shown so accommodating a spirit. If he had been like the rest—but we are coming to the unfortunate accidents I mentioned. During the night after the recapture of the town, Colonel O’Malachy succeeded in making his escape from the place where he was imprisoned, and the commandant committed suicide.”
“Good gracious! there has been treachery at work,” cried Cyril.
“Impossible, Count. Both prisoners were searched before they were left alone; but they must have contrived to secrete some tool or weapon. The commandant was found with his brains blown out, and a discharged revolver in his hand, and Colonel O’Malachy appears to have escaped through the window and the garden at the back, by means of tying his bed-clothes together into a rope. The two men were confined in a private house, for the ordinary prison was full.”
“You may take my opinion as that of the average man,” said Cyril, slowly and meaningly, “that there was foul play somewhere. A stout elderly man like the O’Malachy, and lame too, could never escape unaided from a window.”
“Of course, the whole affair will be most strictly inquired into, and the sentries put on their trial,” said M. Drakovics. “Vassili can testify that both the prisoners were secure when Constantinovics and he visited them late at night. The thing is a mystery.”
“A very ugly mystery for all concerned, if it is not cleared up.”
“Oh, come, you take too dark a view of things, my dear Count. It will be awkward for the poor wretches of sentries, of course; but how could it possibly affect any one else? By the bye, this is something in your department. Vassili says that the rescued prisoners—our friends, that is, naturally—were to leave Tatarjé by rail this morning, which means that they will arrive here to-night.”
“I will tell the Queen, and inquire what she wishes done,” said Cyril, as the Premier rose to depart; but when he was left alone he sat still for a time. “I must hear what the ladies have to say,” he told himself at last. “They may be able to throw some light on the earlier stages of the affair. But as to these two ‘unfortunate accidents,’ I have no doubt whatever. It is true, of course, that the commandant’s brains were blown out; but I think it extremely unlikely that the revolver which did it was in his hand at the time. As for the O’Malachy, he was helped to escape because he knew too much to be brought to trial, and because, as a Scythian subject, it would have been dangerous to put him out of the way. It looks very much as if the Bishop had been squared, but that time will show.”
Banishing these speculations from his mind with an effort, he sought an audience of Ernestine, and acquainted her with the approach of Baroness von Hilfenstein and the rest of the members of the Court. She was overjoyed by the news, and, as he had expected and hoped, directed him to take a special train, the royal train, and meet them at a station some thirty miles from Bellaviste, thus bringing them back in triumph, as a mark of the Queen’s appreciation of their services. There was no time to be lost if the transfer was to be effected without undignified haste, and Cyril telephoned his orders immediately to the railway officials, and found the royal train waiting for him when he reached the station. In spite of his precautions, he was a little late in arriving at his goal, and found the people whom he had come to welcome waiting on the platform to welcome him, which they did in many cases with tears of joy. When he had reassured them all separately as to the safety of the King and Queen, and the fact that their health was not likely to suffer permanently from the hardships they had undergone (this was a point on which Mrs Jones, in particular, showed herself almost impossible to convince), he succeeded in getting them safely bestowed in the train, and himself made one of a pleasant party in the royal saloon. Baroness von Hilfenstein and her daughter had endless questions to ask about the escape from Tatarjé, Stefanovics was all anxiety as to the feeling in Bellaviste with regard to the rebellion, and every one else had some inquiry to make; but at last Cyril succeeded in gaining a hearing for his own question.
“Tell me what happened after we had left,” he said. “Not the vaguest scrap of information has reached us about that.”
“Really,” said Baroness von Hilfenstein, “it all happened very much as you said it would, Count. About half an hour after you had gone we began to hear stealthy sounds, as though people were moving about round the house, and presently there came a tremendous knocking at the front door. The apartments of M. and Madame Stefanovics were situated in the front of the house, as you know; and after telling his wife to rise and dress at once, M. Stefanovics opened the window and asked who was there. It proved to be the commandant, who said that he had received intimation of a plot to seize the persons of the King and Queen, and begged that they would allow him to conduct them at once to the Bishop’s palace for safety.”
“Seeking safety in the lion’s mouth!” said Cyril. “I hope you did not recall the story of the spider and the fly to the commandant’s memory, Stefanovics?”
“No, indeed, Count,” returned the chamberlain. “I expressed horror at the news and gratitude to the commandant, but declined to alarm the Queen before morning. To that my friend replied that he durst not keep his men in the grounds of the Villa, where they were so much exposed to attack, and that he must get them safely behind walls in another hour, if he had to take the royal party with him by force. As he threatened to break open the door, I went down to open it, sending my wife to warn the Baroness.”
“Yes,” interrupted Baroness Paula, “and Madame Stefanovics and my mother came and dragged me out of bed and into the Queen’s room, and made me dress up in her clothes, and told me so many things which I was to do and was not to do that I was quite dazed. Then, before I was ready, in stalked Mrs Jones through the private door, carrying in her arms—what do you think? Why, the great doll in the uniform of a Hercynian grenadier which the Emperor Sigismund sent to our King, dressed up in his Majesty’s clothes. I really thought it was the King until she showed me the face. Meanwhile, Madame Stefanovics had gone to wake the other ladies——”
“And I whispered to each not to be alarmed by anything she might see, but to behave just as usual,” said Madame Stefanovics proudly.
“And very soon after that we were ready,” continued Baroness Paula, “and my mother conducted us out. The Queen’s crape veil quite hid my face, and no one seemed to have a suspicion. The commandant was waiting in the hall, and he bowed very low and regretted the necessity for disturbing me at such an hour. I said that he was only doing his duty, and that I was grateful to him for his fidelity—imitating the Queen’s voice as well as I could. The gentlemen of the household were all ready too, and we drove away from the villa with proper ceremony,—the commandant had had the carriages prepared while we were dressing. The soldiers marched on either side, and we reached the Bishop’s palace without any alarm.”
“I can best describe to his Excellency the next development of the plot,” said Pavlovics, the King’s chamberlain. “Rooms were provided for us at the palace, Count, and we were left in peace during the night; but in the morning the commandant appeared with a file of soldiers in the apartments which had been allotted to us of his Majesty’s household, and ordered that the King should be roused, dressed, and brought to him. The Government, so he said, had decided that for the safety of the kingdom it was imperative that his Majesty should become a member of the Orthodox Church, and the Bishop was already waiting in the cathedral to perform the ceremony of confirmation. The Queen had agreed to the measure, but would appear to resist it, for fear of the anger of her German relatives, and therefore it would be best if it could be carried out without arousing her Majesty. Thunderstruck, and not knowing what to believe, I asked to speak to Mrs Jones, who declared she would not give up the King for any such purpose, and that his Majesty was ill in bed. Going back to the commandant, I told him this, and both Herr Batzen and I endeavoured to induce him to abandon his intention——”