Nadia took the paper she held out. It was an official permission for Pauline Vassilievna Soudarova to travel outside the Scythian dominions, until the Emperor should revoke the leave thus granted.
“Oh, Marraine!” cried Nadia, sadly, “and this is all through me. Exile!”
“Oh no, dear child. It is merely permissive, you see. Now, what shall we do? Shall we accept the permission, and place Dr Schmidt and Marie Karlovna in charge of all our work, leaving the house as it is, and directing operations by letter? Or shall we disregard it, and wait until we are arrested, and conducted to the frontier by the police, while the institutions are all closed, and our poor people sent to Caucasia? I want your opinion.”
“I don’t like beating a retreat, Marraine,” said Nadia, frankly, “but if we can ensure the continuance of the work better by leaving at once, perhaps we ought to go.”
“That was just what I thought,” said the Princess. “Now, my child, I have a scheme. I wish to follow in the footsteps of St Paul.”
“A pilgrimage, Marraine?” asked Nadia.
“Not quite. A friend of mine has a yacht, which is lying at Cadiz, and which he is anxious to let for the winter, and I am thinking of hiring it. I have visited the Holy Land already, but I should like to see Malta and Asia Minor and the Ægean. It would be most interesting; and, from the Bosphorus, one might even visit the Black Sea, and perhaps meet some—some old friends. I have a strong conviction that we are not driven out of Scythia in this way for nothing—without some good purpose.”
“Yes, Marraine,” said Nadia, sedately, as the Princess ended her sentence rather hastily; but in her heart she knew that her godmother was anxious to see whether there was no possibility of bringing her and Caerleon together again. Her heart leaped at the thought, but calmer considerations succeeded to the momentary ecstasy. Was it likely that Caerleon would be willing to put his fate again to the touch after two refusals? It was scarcely probable.
Atthe Thracian capital preparations were now being made a second time for the King’s coronation. The outer walls of the chapel of St Peter had risen from their ashes in the courtyard of the palace, and the decoration of the interior was almost complete; while the crown and other regalia had been subjected to a process of renovation, and were ready for service, though somewhat shorn of their original splendour. Many circumstances seemed to combine to enable the ceremony to take place under the happiest auspices. Cyril had been duly presented to the Legislative Assembly as Caerleon’s heir after the visit to Tatarjé, and the announcement was received with acclamation. An income was voted him from the public funds, and the title of Prince, already conferred informally by the people, granted him by a royal proclamation. Even M. Drakovics was content that the succession to the throne should thus be secured, for recent events had convinced him effectually that the King’s marrying was out of the question. The first steps had been taken towards putting into operation the new liquor laws; and, although there had been a good deal of discontent in the capital, in the country the people had grumbled and submitted. Most important of all, the Roumi Government had at length given way before the representations of Pannonia and her allies, and had agreed to recognise Caerleon’s election as king, safeguarding the suzerain rights of the Grand Signior by the stipulation that he should nominate a special commissioner to attend the coronation and invest the new ruler with a portion of his insignia.
“We are getting on swimmingly,” said Cyril, dropping into the Premier’s office late in the afternoon, three or four days before the date fixed for the ceremony. “One almost wishes that things wouldn’t all go quite so smoothly. It makes one think of chucking one’s watch into the river, or making some other sacrifice of that sort to avert misfortune, like the ancients, you know. I believe my brain would give way under the pressure if it went on much longer. When Caerleon is safely crowned and off my hands I shall breathe freely.”
“I have reason to believe,” said M. Drakovics, “that the pro-Scythian party are planning to strike some blow during the coronation proceedings. All the indications seem to point to that, although we have been unable to discover what course they intend to take. They would scarcely try to burn the chapel a second time, but they might use dynamite, or attempt to get up a militarycoup d’état.”
“And we must provide against those possibilities by rigorously excluding strangers from the ceremony, and associating the Carlino regiment with the city troops as guards,” said Cyril. “Well, we have three days left for making preparations. I’m glad I just looked in. I thought you would probably have something to say to me.”
“What is the King doing this afternoon?” asked M. Drakovics.
“Holding his review for the benefit of Prince Otto Georg, of course, with General Sertchaieff in attendance. When one has a foreign Prince to entertain, and a little army doing nothing, one may as well trot out one to amuse the other. By the bye, I believe that I have a crumpled rose-leaf in the fact that we can’t get away from the Schwarzwald-Molzaus. One meets them all over Europe, and the meeting is neither unexpected nor a pleasure.”
It may be noted, as sadly characteristic of the littleness of human nature, that neither Caerleon nor Cyril could find a good word to say of the Princess of Dardania. One had been deceived by her, the other had helped her to deceive him, but they made common cause against her.
“You would not think, looking at Prince Otto Georg now, that at the time of the Franco-Prussian war his name was in every one’s mouth, would you?” said M. Drakovics. “He was a dashing young cavalry officer—very young—and I remember distinctly the incident which brought him into special notice. Our friend General Sertchaieff was, I believe, at the German headquarters at the time, and it was he who, when we were first compelled to seek a king, suggested, from his recollection of the matter, that the crown should be offered to Prince Otto Georg. The Prince was carrying despatches—for Moltke, I think—and was taken prisoner by a small body of French cavalry. He managed to destroy the despatches, but he had been made acquainted with the contents, and this his captors guessed. They were too far from their headquarters to take him there that night, and therefore they halted in a stable, put their prisoner in the empty loft and took away the ladder, and sat down round a fire underneath. They must have got hold of some wine—at any rate, they went to sleep one by one, and the fire burned low. Prince Otto Georg watched his opportunity, and let himself drop from the entrance to the loft. He fell among the embers of the fire, and burnt his hands badly, but he crept past the Frenchmen to the spot where their horses were tied, unfastened them all, and led them across the grass until they were out of hearing. Then he mounted one, driving the rest before him for a short distance, after which he turned them loose and rode for his life, reaching his destination safely and delivering his message.”
“You are quite right in saying that no one would imagine it who looked at him now,” said Cyril, as M. Drakovics rose to escort him to the door. “By the bye, you have rather a good view of the river from this window. What steamer is that flying Pannonian colours?”
“A Scythian trader, I fancy,” returned the Premier. “A good many of them hoist the Pannonian flag while they are here. It prevents unpleasantness, and we don’t ask too many questions, knowing that we can gain nothing but benefit from their coming, even though it is under the rose. A thriving trade with Scythia would in itself be almost a guarantee of peace. This particular ship has just unloaded her cargo, and leaves to-morrow.”
“Brought wheat, I suppose?”
“No; machinery for use in the arsenal. Sertchaieff has had two clerks on the wharf for three days checking all the cases as they were unloaded. When everything is in working order we shall be far more independent of other nations than any of our neighbours. This is another piece of good news for your Highness to convey to his Majesty.”
“Yes, I think that on the whole Caerleon has about as pleasant a berth as he could wish,” responded Cyril as he went out.
It is generally recognised that our good fortune is always much more clearly visible to others than to ourselves, and the fact that Caerleon himself was totally unconvinced of the advantages of his position need not, therefore, excite any astonishment. If Cyril had thought fit to broach in his brother’s presence his theory of the expedience of making some sacrifice to fortune in order to avert the perils arising from unbroken prosperity, Caerleon would have reminded him bitterly that his separation from Nadia was quite effectual in preventing him, at any rate, from growing intoxicated with success. His face was gloomy enough at the present moment as he rode up to the palace with his royal guest after the review, General Sertchaieff and a group of officers following them at some little distance. It was a wretched wintry afternoon, and only a German prince would have appreciated the compliment paid him in holding a review in his honour on such a day; but the courteous gentleman who rode beside the taciturn King was overflowing with contentment and good humour. Prince Otto Georg of Schwarzwald-Molzau was a gay young man of forty-five or so, a younger son of the reigning Grand-Duke, and said by his detractors to live on the reputation he had gained in the Franco-Prussian war, and on anticipations of aguerre de revanche. This was unkind, although it is undeniable that of late years he had been much better known in Paris or at Monte Carlo than on the parade-ground or the manœuvre-field; but there was a certain amount of truth in the accusation, for he was one of the men who are content to vegetate indefinitely unless aroused by some great stimulus. He had come to Bellaviste to represent his father at the coronation of Caerleon, ostensibly as a kind ofamende honorablefor Princess Ottilie’s heartless conduct; but as he was the brother of the Empress of Pannonia, it was generally believed that political considerations were not wholly unconnected with his visit. It was not, however, of politics that he was speaking as he rode up the street at the side of his host.
“You have the material for a fine army here,” he said; “but you want drill, drill, organisation, organisation. Your men are too much inclined to be independent, to act individually or in small bodies, without waiting for orders. Here we are in Europe—we do not, as in semi-savage warfare, need scouts, men of initiative. The ideal European army is absolutely a machine, without any thought or volition of its own, merely what is communicated to it by its head. If the different items forming that army once begin to try and think for themselves, whether in seeking cover or in making an advance, all is lost. Their only concern is to obey orders, and their commander’s business is to obtain the victory. It is even more humane for the leader to be untrammelled, when he is once in action, by considerations as to the lives of his men, and so on, for he has planned his movements with the view of attaining a certain end with the minimum of loss, and they must be carried out exactly if he is to win. The better an army, the more completely is its will merged in that of its leader—that is to say, the more thoroughly is it drilled into a machine. Your men are more like Cossacks, or irregular levies, at any rate, than thoroughly trained soldiers. It is easy to see that your army has been drilled by Scythians, not by Germans.”
“You will hurt General Sertchaieff’s feelings severely if you tell him that,” said Caerleon, glancing back at the War Minister. “I believe we flatter ourselves that we are in a very high state of military efficiency.”
Prince Otto Georg laughed silently. “Yourcorps d’éliteamuses me,” he said; “your city guard, I mean, and that portion of it especially which you call the palace guard. The uniforms of these gentlemen are so magnificent, and their drill is so lamentable—to a German eye, at least. They are beautiful to behold, but a much smaller number of good soldiers, or even of your Carlinos, would scatter them with the greatest ease. By the bye, is it true that you discovered a Scythian plot among the palace guard which led to the degradation of an officer?”
“Not exactly,” said Caerleon, “although we seem to have been victimised very ingeniously by the officer you mean. He presented himself here as having thrown up a post in the Scythian army for the purpose of joining us, and we gave him a commission. About a month ago we were warned of a plot, which contemplated murdering me, among other laudable objects, and to our surprise, for we had not heard anything to connect him with it, this man disappeared promptly. We have never succeeded in catching him, and all we could do was to outlaw him and strike his name off the roll with ignominy.”
“You leave too much power and responsibility in the hands of these guards of yours,” said Prince Otto Georg, abruptly. “They will grow to think themselves supreme in the State.”
“We are doing our best to reduce their privileges gradually,” replied Caerleon. “They have behaved extremely well so far, on the whole, and we have no excuse for heroic measures.”
“Nevertheless, you would find such a measure your best policy, if I may venture to advise you,” said the Prince. “I could almost envy you the task of bringing your army into shape. It might turn out little less exciting than actual war.”
“Perhaps you would like the privilege of doing it?” suggested Caerleon. “But I forgot, you have declined it already. If you have no objection to telling me, I should very much like to hear why you refused the Thracian crown when it was offered you?”
“To tell the truth,” replied the Prince, confidentially, “it was because I thought that I should find Thracia dull. Drakovics imagined that I was afraid to accept the offer, and I was afraid—that I should be bored. You see, it was not likely that my election would excite the opposition yours has done, for I had the Schwarzwald-Molzau influence behind me from the first. But under present circumstances, I must own, the position looks more hopeful. You have the army to reform, and also Drakovics to conquer. I see you are beginning to teach him that the State is not Drakovics, but he has not fully learnt the lesson even yet. Yes, I think that, on the whole, the situation is distinctly interesting.”
“I am glad that it strikes you in that light,” said Caerleon. “I suppose I am not up to the work.”
“What! you are not thinking of abdicating?” asked the Prince, in dismay.
“Abdicating? No! Now that I’m here I’ll stick to the place. The kingdom has cost me enough already, but I’ll stay on until I’m driven out, and try the temperance experiment properly, in spite of obstructionists and rioters.”
“You take things too seriously, my dear fellow,” said the older man compassionately. “Look at me. I live quietly, I am not devoted to philanthropy, or any other form of excitement. I recognise that these are days for management, not for despotism. If a wave of excitement of any kind should arise, it might carry me with it, though not by my own choice. Similarly, I might find it necessary, were I in your position, to issue a decree, and enforce its fulfilment, but I should much prefer to flatter the people into originating it themselves. But you young men must always plunge into things so madly. You will have prompt obedience, unreasoning submission instantly. You have not learned to take things easily.”
“I am afraid I have an invincible prejudice in favour of wearing out rather than rusting out,” said Caerleon; “and I think,” he added, with a quiet smile, “that your own early history would be on my side, Prince, if I called it as a witness against you.”
Prince Otto Georg smiled, much gratified by the compliment, and the atmosphere at the palace that evening was extremely agreeable. A State banquet had been held the night before in honour of the guest, but to-day, at Prince Otto’s special request, General Sertchaieff had been invited to join the royal party informally, since he wished to have some conversation with him on the subject of the Franco-Prussian war. The War Minister was highly flattered by this mark of favour, and he exchanged reminiscences at great length with the Prince, which he was well qualified to do, having gone through the war attached, as a great favour, to the staff of one of the German princes. After such an opening, it was not remarkable that the tone of the conversation continued to be extremely warlike, and became even undesirably technical in character, to the unmilitary auditor, when it turned on modern weapons and projectiles. This was in the smoking-room after dinner, and although Caerleon was quite content to allow the two visitors to discuss velocities and electric-firing apparatus together, Cyril objected to being left out in the cold, and after several valiant attempts succeeded at last in bringing the talk round to the comparatively simple theme of the use of the revolver in warfare. The two experts rose to the bait, and displayed as much enthusiasm with regard to the mechanism and weight of various types of revolvers as to those of the machine-gun, and Cyril, who flattered himself that he knew something about revolvers, was able to take part in the conversation.
“I wish I could show you what I mean,” he said at last, after an animated discussion of various knotty points, “but we can’t try pistol-practice in this room, for fear of breaking something.” They were not in the sacred “den” which Caerleon had established in an out-of-the-way upper room, but in what might be called the State smoking-room, which had been furnished in gorgeous Moorish style by the late king. “Caerleon has a revolver of the kind I was describing, and I believe it’s out and out the best.”
“Let us send for it, if the Prince would like to see it,” said Caerleon.
“I’ll get it,” said Cyril, “if you’ll give me your keys. I’ll get mine too. It’s a newer make, but I’m sure it’s not so good.”
He returned in a few minutes with both weapons, and explained their action to the guests, General Sertchaieff showing special interest in the subject, and examining the mechanism over and over again. Indeed, it appeared almost that he had looked at it too long for his peace of mind, for just before taking his leave, after arranging that the Prince should visit the arsenal in a day or two with Caerleon, in order to inspect the new machinery, which would then be unpacked, he might have been observed to slip Cyril’s revolver into his own pocket, and take it away with him. Cyril did not happen to remember to look for it when he went to bed, and the loss was therefore not discovered. Prince Otto Georg was duly escorted to the rooms he occupied in the front of the palace, Caerleon and Cyril betook themselves to theirs in the southern wing, and silence settled down upon the building.
Cyril had been asleep for some time when he was awakened by a low, hurried tapping at his door. Sitting up in bed, he called to the intruder to come in, wondering sleepily why the sentry in the passage could not keep people from knocking him up in the middle of the night. To his astonishment it was Wright who entered, closing the door carefully behind him, and striking a match on his clothes as he advanced.
“How dare you come here like this, Wright?” demanded Cyril, angrily. “You must be drunk.” Wright took no notice of the accusation, but lit a candle, and placed it in such a position that the mirror came between it and the window.
“No, my lord,” arresting Cyril’s hand as he was about to turn on the electric light, “don’t show no more light, if you vally your life. I’ve been down at the stables, my lord, lookin’ to ’is Majesty’s charger, as was ’urt to-day by the General’s ’orse knockin’ up agin ’im, and when I come back to the ’ouse, I see as things ain’t right. Do your lordship know as there ain’t a single sentry anywheres about? I come all the way up ’ere without meetin’ one, nor a servant neither, right from the door I come in at.”
“Good gracious!” cried Cyril, “there must be something wrong. Can the guards have deserted in a lump?”
“Well, my lord,” said Wright, “they may be all a-sleepin’ quiet in their beds, or they mayn’t.”
“We must go down and rout them out,” said Cyril, getting out of bed. “You go in by this door, Wright, and wake the King, while I get some clothes on.”
Almost the first thought that now occurred to Cyril’s mind was the recollection of his revolver, but when he looked for it in vain in its accustomed place, he remembered that he must have left it down-stairs.
“I must go and hunt it up,” he said to himself, as he hurried into his clothes. “Caerleon has got his, at any rate. I remember now that he was carrying it.”
But while the words were in his mouth, Caerleon came in hastily in his shirt-sleeves, with his revolver in his hand.
“Who has been tampering with this, Cyril?” he asked, sharply. “Some one has given it a wrench, and the trigger won’t work.”
“There’s something fishy about all these mysterious occurrences,” said Cyril. “Does it strike you that our guns are at the other end of the house, and that we have no other weapons here?”
“If you ask me, my lords,” said Wright, impressively, “I think there’s foul play.”
“Stuff!” said Caerleon. “Don’t croak until you’re told, Wright. If we can’t find any weapons, we must get hold of something that will do instead—not that I think there’s any danger, but it’s as well to be on the safe side.”
“Of course,” said Cyril, “the guardsmayhave all struck work at once, and be enjoying sweet repose in their quarters, but the coincidence about the revolvers is suspicious.”
“I have it!” cried Caerleon. “There are our dress-swords, which will be better than nothing. Put on a coat or something, Cyril, while I get them out, and don’t stand there shivering.”
He went back to his room, and returned with his own sword, while Wright unearthed Cyril’s; and armed with these elaborate if not particularly dependable instruments of warfare, they prepared to start on their voyage of discovery.
“Haven’t you got a weapon of any sort, Wright?” asked Caerleon of the groom.
“Buckle, your Majesty,” returned Wright, unfastening the strap round his waist. “’E ain’t bad at a pinch.”
Thus unsatisfactorily accoutred, they set out along the corridor. The electric light was burning brightly, but, as Wright had said, there was not a human being to be seen. It felt almost uncanny to be marching noiselessly over the thick carpets, in the blaze of light, without hearing a sound or uttering a word, and Cyril and Wright caught themselves glancing apprehensively at the open doors of dark rooms and at the heavy folds ofportières. As for Caerleon, he was far too much incensed against the guards on account of what he conceived to be their dereliction of duty to have any thought of supernatural terrors, or even of the more palpable danger of a possible enemy lurking to intercept him. His intention was to go straight to the guard-room and give the guards a thorough fright, which would teach them not to confide too trustfully in their sovereign’s drowsiness on another occasion. The head of the great staircase was reached without encountering any further suspicious circumstances; but Wright, looking out into the courtyard from a window, pointed out to Cyril in a whisper that there were no lights visible there. They began to descend the stairs, and as they did so, there was a sound of footsteps in the hall beneath, and several men appeared from the direction of the entrance. Both parties caught sight of each other at the same moment, and halted suddenly, Caerleon, Cyril, and Wright half-way between the head of the stair and the landing in the middle, the others on the lowest step. They were General Sertchaieff, Louis O’Malachy, and half-a-dozen stalwart troopers of the palace guard. For a moment astonishment kept every one silent, then Caerleon recovered himself.
“May I ask the meaning of this, General? What brings you to the palace at this hour, in the company of a man who is a traitor and a spy?”
“Milord Caerleon,” returned the War Minister, “I am deputed by the National Convention to inform you that Thracia has returned to her true allegiance. The city is in the hands of the patriotic supporters of the exiled King, and you might well expect that no mercy would be shown you. Our gracious monarch, however, abhors bloodshed, even in the case of an adventurer whose usurpation began in fraud, and has been maintained by means of force and treachery, and it has been decided, in accordance with his expressed wish, to spare your life on condition of your abdicating and leaving the country instantly.”
“And you are the person to bring me this message?” said Caerleon. “I hope I am to understand that you have been compelled to do so by force?”
“Milord,” said General Sertchaieff, “your question touches my honour. I am acting of my own free will as the agent of my rightful sovereign, King Peter II.”
“X.!” cried Cyril. “What fools we have been!” But the veins on Caerleon’s forehead were swelling, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eye.
“Then you are a perjured traitor,” was his answer to General Sertchaieff. “As for abdicating, I’ll do nothing of the sort, and I’ll leave the country just as soon as you can get me out of it, and not before.”
“Come on, you bloomin’ cowards!” yelled Wright, the joy of battle carrying him away. “We ain’t afraid of yer! Eight men don’t dare fight three. Yah!”
The long-drawn contempt infused into the last monosyllable appeared to stimulate the courage of the attacking party, and they made a rush up the steps and threw themselves upon the defenders, who were much embarrassed by the extent of their position, for the staircase was a very wide one. Cyril singled out General Sertchaieff as his opponent, and if any one had found time to watch them, a very pretty display of swordsmanship might have been seen. Louis O’Malachy had not mounted the stairs with the rest of his party, but had disappeared, apparently to summon further assistance, and the soldiers left their leader to account for Cyril, and devoted their attention to Caerleon. He found himself hard put to it to maintain his position against them, although Wright, using as a buckler a chair which he had caught up on the landing, rendered him yeoman service by dealing fierce and disabling blows with his belt on the heads and wrists of the opposing swordsmen. All too soon Caerleon’s untrustworthy blade broke off in his hand, and he was left to repel his assailants with the remaining half, but their shout of triumph distracted the attention of General Sertchaieff, who glanced aside for a moment, and in that moment Cyril ran him through the arm and obliged him to drop his sword. Wright whisked up the sword immediately, and thrust it into Caerleon’s hand before any of the enemy could prevent him, and the fight was now of a more equal character, since General Sertchaieff was forced to retire disabled. He retreated no further than the half-way landing, however, and taking out his revolver, began to fire and load again as fast as he could with his left hand.
“If he’s going to pot at us one by one, we’re done for!” gasped Cyril.
“If he shoots no better than this, we’re all right,” returned Caerleon, breathlessly, and the fight went on in silence until a sudden exclamation of rage from Cyril showed the King his brother’s sword shivered at his feet. At the same moment a heavy blow from behind threw him forward among the enemy, and a howl of fury from Wright proclaimed that an attack in the rear had proved successful. When Caerleon recovered his scattered senses, he found himself held down by four men, while Cyril and Wright were in a like predicament. Under cover of the noise made by General Sertchaieff’s pistol practice, Louis O’Malachy had led a party round and captured the position from behind.
“I think your lordship will now see that it is expedient to submit without further resistance,” said General Sertchaieff smoothly, as he tied a handkerchief round his wounded arm. Caerleon made no answer, for he had caught Wright’s eye, and seen his free hand stealing towards the ankle of one of the men who held him, and in another instant two of the captors had gone down with a crash, and Caerleon was on his feet and hitting out furiously, while Wright made herculean but unavailing efforts to join him. But the struggle was hopeless from the first, for Caerleon could not even get his back against the wall, and he was dragged down by sheer weight of numbers, and bound firmly with the tasselled cord torn from a curtain.
“I don’t think you will get that undone,” said Louis, bending over him and testing the knots, then, with that tendency towards the theatrical which besets a certain class of Irishmen in moments of excitement, he kicked him heavily, adding, “That is for my sister.”
“Nasty coward!” growled Wright. “’It a man when ’e’s down that you don’t dare touch when ’e’s up, and bring in a young lady’s name about it, you precious blackguard, do!”
“Captain O’Malachy,” interrupted General Sertchaieff, as Louis advanced threateningly towards his unconquerable assailant, “if you will be so good as to take three men and secure the person of the Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, I will wait here with the prisoners for your return.”
Louis departed instantly, to return before long with a laugh.
“No fighting there. He accepts the situation with great philosophy,” he said, and Caerleon felt oddly disappointed. Something had given him the idea that he might reckon on Prince Otto Georg for support at this crisis.
“Your presence is now required down-stairs, milord,” said General Sertchaieff. “If you will give yourself the trouble of walking, it will be as well; otherwise we must take you.”
Choosing the less of the two evils, Caerleon allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and conducted down the stairs to his study by his captors, wondering vaguely whether a scaffold and a block would meet his eyes on entering. Nothing of the kind was visible, however, although the room was crowded with people—officers of the palace and city guards mostly, with a sprinkling of civilians, principally officials connected with the Ministry of War, and a number of men of foreign appearance, who were evidently exiles returned from Scythia. On the writing-table lay a document, which General Sertchaieff presented to Caerleon as a formal deed of abdication, and demanded his signature.
“I thought you had done with that foolery,” said Caerleon. “I have told you already that I won’t abdicate.”
“Milord,” said the War Minister, impressively, “we are anxious not to shed blood, but we are not men to be trifled with; and if you refuse to sign the paper, Captain O’Malachy has his orders.”
“Sign under compulsion,” whispered Cyril. “I can bear witness that you were forced by threats to do it, and it can’t stand.”
“Shut up, Cyril!” said Caerleon, gruffly. “Have you unlimited time to waste, General?”
“At least consider your brother and your servant, who must suffer with you if you remain obstinate, instead of returning in safety to England,” said General Sertchaieff.
“If ’is Majesty will say anything to get me my ’ands free for a moment, fust thing I do, I’ll give you one in the eye,” said Wright, ferociously.
“We are to understand, then, milord, that you refuse finally to sign the deed?” asked the General.
“I do refuse,” said Caerleon, “and if there is one man here, of all those who have taken oaths of allegiance to me and have eaten my bread, who has one spark of honesty left in him, I hope he will let it be known that I preferred death to abdication.”
“May I ask whether you are referring to me?” demanded Louis O’Malachy. “I have not offered to carry any messages of yours to my unhappy sister.”
“No, I don’t think you ever had a spark of honesty in you,” returned Caerleon. “And as for your sister, to send a message to her through you would be to insult her.”
“Captain O’Malachy, you will conduct the prisoners to the river-bank, and follow the directions you have received,” said General Sertchaieff.
Caerleon drew a long breath. To be led out, and shot like a dog! But his stubborn English pride came to his aid. Show any sign of flinching before these Scythian spies and Thracian traitors? Never! and he squared his shoulders and held his head erect as he was led out of the room. On the threshold a thought struck him, and he paused to say—
“I do not know whether this rebellion is to be conducted according to the usages of civilised nations in time of war, but in any case I entreat you, for the honour of Thracia, to allow Prince Otto Georg of Schwarzwald-Molzau to return unharmed to his own country. He came here merely as my guest, and has taken no part in Thracian politics.”
“Make your mind easy, milord,” said a tall man, with a strong likeness to General Sertchaieff, who stood among the returned exiles. “As the representative of my gracious sovereign, I can assure you that the King of Thracia does not make war on non-combatants.”
Caerleon bowed his head in acknowledgment of the reply, and followed his guards. They passed through the courtyard, where the first snow lay on the ground, new-fallen, then out through the gardens. A few steps further brought them to the batteries on the river-face of the town, and they were ordered to enter the lift by which shells and ammunition were raised from the shore. The descent accomplished, they came out on the bank of the river, where a boat was lying, manned by two sailors whom Louis addressed in Scythian. The prisoners were thrust in without ceremony, the soldiers took their places, and the boat was pushed off from the shore.
“Caerleon,” said Cyril, in a low voice, “I’m sorry I’ve brought you to this, old man. If I had had the sense to see through that blackguard O’Malachy, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Oh, don’t go and blame yourself,” said Caerleon, hastily. “It’s just as much my fault. Wright, I wish you were not obliged to lie just on my chest. No, don’t wriggle, that’s worse.”
“Silence, dogs!” said one of the soldiers, angrily, and the boatmen rowed steadily on until they reached the Scythian steamer which had attracted Cyril’s notice that afternoon. The prisoners were dragged up the ladder, and placed in a row on the deck.
“You have one more chance,” said Louis O’Malachy to Caerleon. “Will you sign?”
“No,” returned Caerleon, doggedly.
“Then I must carry out my orders. Your fate is on your own head.”
WhileCaerleon and his two companions were lying bound on the grand staircase of the palace, under the charge of General Sertchaieff, Prince Otto Georg was aroused from sleep by a sudden incursion of armed men into his room. Sitting up, he blinked curiously at them as their leader turned on the electric light and came to his bedside.
“It is my duty to inform your Highness that you are my prisoner,” were the words which met his ears, and which were emphasised by the casual display of a revolver in the hand of the speaker.
“I do not think,” said the Prince, with extreme mildness, fumbling the while mechanically but unsuccessfully for his eyeglass, “that I have the pleasure of recognising your face, sir. When were you presented to me?”
“My name is O’Malachy,” returned the intruder, “and I am a captain in the army of King Peter II. of Thracia. It is unfortunate that your Highness’s visit to Bellaviste should chance to coincide with a slight readjustment of affairs here—the restoration of the rightful sovereign, and the overthrow of the tyranny under which the country has groaned for so long.”
“I assure you that I fully perceive my presence to bede tropin these painful domestic circumstances,” said the Prince.
“Pray do not imagine for a moment that your Highness will be put to any inconvenience. You are the guest of King Peter instead of the usurper Carlino, that is all. I regret that I am obliged, merely as a matter of form, to post a sentry, by General Sertchaieff’s directions, in the corridor outside your door, with orders to fire if you attempt to leave your room.”
“In that case, you may be sure that I will not trouble the sentry,” said Prince Otto Georg, blandly. “But before I wish you good-night, Herr Captain, perhaps you will kindly enlighten me on one point. What of King Carlino? Did I understand you to say that he had abdicated the throne?”
“The propriety of doing so has not yet been represented to him,” returned Louis, “but there can be little doubt that he will find it advisable to yield quietly. A pistol at the head, Highness, is occasionally a powerful persuasive.”
“Thanks; I will not detain you longer,” and the Prince waved his hand politely, and laid his head on the pillow again. “If I know anything of my young friend Carlino, he will choose the pistol,” he mused, as Louis and his men left the room, and the former locked the door on the outside. For a moment the prisoner lay listening, while the sentry began his measured tramp up and down the corridor, then he sat up suddenly.
“Let me think,” he said to himself. “There may yet be a chance of doing something. For these plotters, there are two points of attack, Carlino and Drakovics. Both men must be in their hands to give them any hope of success. Now it is scarcely likely that their numbers are sufficient to allow them to seize both at once—that is, to obtain the mastery of the palace and the town at one blow. Which will they attempt to capture first? Drakovics is the most important—Carlino is a figurehead, comparatively speaking—but still, I think this is one of the cases in which the natural foolishness of mankind may safely be considered as a factor. The seizure of Carlino would appear a greater success at first—and it would give them the command of the palace, which they could defend against the town, while the town could not long hold out against a foe in possession of the palace. They have, then, concentrated their strength on the palace in order to make a prisoner of the King, and while they are doing their best to induce him to abdicate, it may yet be possible to warn Drakovics.”
Prince Otto Georg was out of bed now, and dressing in the dark with the speed and silence of an old campaigner. Hurrying into his boots and a fur-lined coat, he went to the window, drew up the blind noiselessly, and looked out.
“Snow!” he said. “So far, so good.”
He returned and took one of the sheets from the bed, then, with the utmost care, opened the window, which was fortunately a casement, and moved easily. As has been already mentioned, the room was in the front of the palace, and the window opened directly two or three feet above the great porch. Here Prince Otto had noticed the day before a hinged iron ladder, folded up and concealed by the coping from the view of any one below, but ready in case of fire. He climbed out upon the leaden roof of the porch and looked round. No light shone from any of the windows on this side of the building, and the great door was fast shut. The conspirators had made their entrance through the courtyard from the back, and the sentries who kept guard in front of the palace on ordinary occasions had forsaken their posts like the rest, while it had not occurred to Louis to place any others. There was not a soul to be seen. Prince Otto Georg drew out and unfolded the ladder, let it down over the side of the porch, and fastening it firmly at the top by the hooks attached to it, descended it in safety. It was impossible to remove it when he had reached the ground, and he could only hope that, as the side of the porch was in deep shadow, it might escape the notice of any one who might chance to come out at the front door.
“And now,” he said to himself, wrapping the sheet round him, “one may as well take every precaution, painful as it would be to be discovered in this costume. To think of my giving myself all this trouble for the sake of a man I saw for the first time the day before yesterday!”
Gathering up the ends of the sheet, he walked cautiously across the garden, indistinguishable among the whitened shrubs to any one looking out of the windows of the palace. But on arriving at the wall he found his further progress impeded, for there was a sentry on guard at the gate, and another at the corner overlooking the town. Prince Otto groaned mentally, but there was no help for it. Choosing a spot as remote as possible from both sentries, he climbed the wall by the aid of a tree which grew beside it, and threw his fur-lined coat over into the road. This done, he let himself drop from the branches, with considerably less agility and confidence in his own powers than he had felt at the time of his former exploit of the kind, but with happier results, for the coat broke his fall, and he rose unhurt, and after creeping a short distance in the shadow of the wall, turned down a side-street, and made the best of his way to M. Drakovics’s house. In spite of the highly logical reasoning with which he had started on his journey, he felt a good deal of misgiving as to whether he had been justified in calculating so confidently on human folly; and it was with unfeigned joy that on coming round the corner of the house he caught sight of the Premier standing at a window with a light behind him, and looking out at the river. To attract his attention was the work of a moment, and in obedience to the call M. Drakovics, in extreme astonishment, hastened to admit his visitor by a side-door. There was no time for lengthy explanations.
“There is a plot to depose the King and restore the house of Franza, headed by General Sertchaieff and Captain O’Malachy. They have seized the palace, and the King is in their hands. By the uniforms of the men whom I saw, I believe that both the palace and the city guard are implicated.”
After the first exclamation of surprise, M. Drakovics remained silent, passing his hand thoughtfully over his chin, until the Prince had finished speaking.
“When your Highness arrived, I was watching the Scythian steamer in the river,” he said. “Boats have been going to and fro between her and the quay all evening, and it struck me that something was wrong. No doubt they were bringing arms on shore.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Prince Otto Georg, interrupting his meditation impatiently. “Have you men enough whom you can trust to defend this house, or the Hôtel de Ville?”
“The police are staunch,” returned M. Drakovics; “but to oppose them to the city guard would be simply massacre. There are not enough of them. No! Is your Highness prepared for flight? To reach the Carlino barracks is our only hope.”
“If you think we can do more good there, I am ready to go,” said the Prince. “But what about the city, and your adherents?”
“The conspirators will not injure the city, since they must be reckoning upon the townspeople as their chief support,” said M. Drakovics; “and if your Highness will wait for one instant, I will do what I can to warn the most prominent among the Carlinists.”
He turned aside to a speaking-tube, and after the preliminary whistle, began to converse with some person apparently at the other end of the house.
“A band of traitors have formed a plot to restore the Franza dynasty. They are in possession of the palace and of the King’s person, and will be here in a few minutes. Listen carefully to what I say. You will offer no resistance. No, I do not want your comments; listen. You will say that I am spending the night out of town. If you are further questioned, I trust to your ingenuity to account for my absence. Telephone now at once to the bureaus of all the other Ministers, except the Ministry of War, that the situation is to be accepted until I send word to the contrary. If the Sertchaieffs turn you out of your offices, submit; if not, go on as usual. Of course you will take no oath to Peter Franza, on pain of being dealt with as traitors when I return. Keep me informed at the Carlino barracks of anything you may discover with regard to the extent and progress of the conspiracy. You understand?”
The invisible auditor apparently answered that he did, for M. Drakovics replaced the plug in the mouth of the tube, and turned to Prince Otto Georg.
“I am sorry to have kept your Highness waiting so long. If you will come this way, we shall find my boat in its shed.”
They hurried down the garden to the river, and got out the boat. M. Drakovics, who was well accustomed to the water, took possession of both oars, remarking drily that there was no time to waste in giving rowing lessons just then. Prince Otto Georg pushed the boat off, and they began to drop down with the current, keeping in the shade of the bank. Presently M. Drakovics uttered a stifled exclamation, and the Prince, glancing over his shoulder, saw that the Scythian steamer had left her moorings, and was also dropping down the stream. It was not long before she passed them, the wash caused by her screw making the boat rock.
“If only we could intercept her under the barracks!” sighed the Premier. “But she is much more likely to intercept us. If they discover that I have escaped by water they will signal to her from the palace, and she will pick us up. We will row only as far as the outskirts of the city, and then walk to the barracks.”
This programme was carried out, rather to the relief of Prince Otto Georg, who was more at home on land than in a boat. A brisk walk of two miles, uninterrupted by any exciting incidents, brought them to the barracks, where they were duly challenged by a sentry, rescued by the guard, and conducted into the presence of the hastily aroused and arrayed commandant. M. Drakovics detailed what had happened, and the acting colonel, in response to his suggestion, immediately alarmed his force, and gave orders to prepare the place for defence in case of an attack from the town. This done, an informal council of war was called, composed of the chief officers of the regiment, Prince Otto, and the Premier.
“First of all, Colonel, are your men to be trusted?” asked M. Drakovics.
“They are devoted heart and soul to King Carlino,” was the soldier’s reply. “The news you brought has put them into a perfect frenzy.”
“Good,” said M. Drakovics. “I wonder whether the same can be said of the garrisons in the provinces? Perhaps you will have the goodness to telegraph inquiries to the fortresses with which you are in communication, Colonel?”
A young officer left the room to carry out the order, but returned with the news that no communication could be established with any other station.
“I thought so,” said M. Drakovics. “They have cut the telegraph wires. This plot is a larger thing than we anticipated, gentlemen. Be so good as to have a horse and a mounted escort prepared for me, Colonel. I must start before morning to rouse the country.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Prince Otto Georg. “May I inquire whether you have any guns here, Colonel, that will carry as far as the town?”
“Alas, no!” replied the Colonel. “Our guns are very old-fashioned, and useful only for firing salutes. His Excellency the Premier will remember that there was some question lately of erecting regular fortifications upon this hill, and quartering a battery of garrison artillery here, but that the Minister for War opposed the suggestion on the ground of the shock such a proceeding would give to the susceptibilities of the people of Bellaviste.”
“I remember,” said M. Drakovics, curtly. “But what was your Highness’s idea?”
“It struck me that the threat of shelling the town might enable us to secure the King’s being given up to us unhurt,” said the Prince.
“Ah, General Sertchaieff knows our resources too well for that. But I very much fear that we may even now be too late to save the King.”
“What!” was the general cry. “You cannot imagine——”
“I do not for a moment believe that he will consent to abdicate, and I fear they will not keep him a prisoner, lest the Thracians should rally to release him.”
“But as a hostage for themselves in case of defeat?”
“They do not mean to be defeated. They are fighting with ropes round their necks, and to murder the King would be a plain declaration that they had left themselves no way of escape. They are well supported, but they know that there is no help for them if they fail.”
“Then you think that this conspiracy is incited by Scythia?”
“Not openly, of course. Scythia’s opportunity will come later, when she can throw troops into the country under pretext of curing disorder. No; she has merely allowed fugitives from us to take refuge and hatch their plots upon her soil, and there may possibly be a few retired Scythian officers who have returned with them. But Scythia has not authorised them to come, nor supplied them officially with money. If they succeed, she will reap the advantage of their labours; if they fail, she will disown them.”
“It is possible that there may be retired officers of other armies who will take the opposite side,” said Prince Otto Georg. “Allow me, your Excellency, to offer myself as a volunteer.”
“Your Highness is most welcome,” said the Premier. “You will not, I trust, involve yourself in any difficulty with Germany upon our account?”
“If the telegraph wires are cut, no remonstrance can reach me,” said the Prince, drily.
“In that case,” said M. Drakovics, “I may give utterance to my most earnest wish under the circumstances. I know you will agree with me, gentlemen, that we cannot do better than invite his Serene Highness to direct the military operations for the recovery of the capital. Our own Commander-in-Chief has betrayed his trust, and the officer next in seniority to him is aprotégéof his, the commandant of Tatarjé. Prince Otto Georg of Schwarzwald-Molzau is the pupil of Moltke, and has had a larger experience of war than any of us can boast. If you concur in my suggestion, I will draw up a formal invitation to him to take the command of the army before I start on my journey.”
The officers made no objection to the appointment, and indeed, in the helpless condition to which they were reduced by the cutting of the telegraph wires, and their ignorance of the state of feeling in the other garrisons, to say nothing of the treachery of their natural leader, they were only too glad to feel a strong hand at the helm. Moreover, they had feared that M. Drakovics might be about to install himself as Commander-in-Chief, and it was a relief to their minds to obtain a soldier instead. Prince Otto Georg’s appointment was therefore received with acclamations, and when M. Drakovics departed on his journey, he left him firmly established in his post.
To describe in any detail the doings of the next three days would be a task both long and dreary. As soon as it was light on the first morning, an officer, bearing a flag of truce, was despatched to the city to ask for an assurance of the safety of the King, but he was fired upon from the gate, and obliged to return without gaining any information. News on other points was, however, obtained in various ways. In spite of the absence of telegraphic communication, Prince Otto Georg received constant intelligence through messengers. From M. Drakovics’s confidential clerk in Bellaviste he learned, by means of a cipher letter carried by a fisherman, that nothing had been seen or heard of Caerleon, but that King Peter Franza was not among the returned exiles, having preferred to remain at Nice in trustful quietness while his faithful subjects regained his throne for him. General Sertchaieff’s brother, the late Premier, was, however, one of those who had returned, and was now at the head of affairs. He had taken possession of the Government offices, and had levied a certain sum of money from the town—a measure which had called forth much opposition from the people, although the city guard enforced the payment of the impost. News arrived also from M. Drakovics. The garrison of Feodoratz he found to be staunchly Carlinist, while that of Tatarjé was divided, and the division was carried to such a point that the detachment which sympathised with the house of Franza had already set out for Bellaviste with the commandant in order to join the insurgents. This was Prince Otto Georg’s opportunity. Posting his men in a wood on the road by which the mutineers were expected to arrive, he attacked them unawares as they straggled along in a disorderly crowd, captured the field-artillery they were bringing with them, and left only a few scattered fugitives to carry the news to Bellaviste.
This victory proved to possess a double value for the Carlinists. Not only did it deprive the rebels of the reinforcement they had been anxiously expecting, but the news of the battle, spreading with extraordinary rapidity from village to village, came in the nick of time to secure the allegiance of the people, who were bewildered by the sudden rush of events. The country gentlemen and their mountain clans required no such earnest of the eventual success of the Carlinist cause; but the bulk of the dwellers in the more settled districts were accustomed by long tradition to side with the party in power, and it is undoubtedly startling to retire to rest one night knowing that you have an idolised King on the throne, and a determined Minister exercising all the functions of government, and to find on awaking in the morning that your King has probably been murdered, and certainly been dethroned, while your Premier is stumping the country for support. In such a case it was difficult for the obedient partisans of “Government” to know exactly who the Government was, and Prince Otto Georg’s victory came just when it was needed to quiet their minds. He took his prizes back in triumph to the barracks, and the whole of the next day was spent in maturing and preparing with their aid his plan of attack on the city. At night M. Drakovics returned from his tour of the outlying districts, bringing with him a military contingent drawn from the faithful portion of the Tatarjé garrison, and an irregular force of mountain chiefs and their retainers.
“I half hoped that your Highness might have retaken the city by this time,” he said to Prince Otto Georg.
“I never strike until I am ready,” replied the Prince, and M. Drakovics deferred to his wider experience, nor did he, when the plan of attack had been explained to him, regret that he had done so.
The next morning—the third after the seizure of the palace—broke dull and hazy, a fact which Prince Otto Georg hailed with delight as of the greatest moment to his scheme. During the two days that he had held office he had stopped all the vessels which came up the river, so that he had now under the guns of the barracks a miniature fleet of small steamers and cargo-boats, from which he selected a certain number to convey the greater portion of the artillery which he had captured from the Tatarjé rebels. Each vessel mounted one gun, and carried a small number of soldiers, sufficient merely to work it and to defend the ship. Before it was light these ships were now towed up the river in perfect silence by boats with muffled oars, and anchored close under the batteries, the fire from which would, owing to this precaution, pass harmlessly overhead. The batteries had been constructed to command the deep channel in which alone warships could anchor, and their guns were hopelessly unable to reach the small river-steamers with their light draught of water. Secured in this way against interference from above, the vessels opened fire on the town, and maintained their position with ease, even beating off successfully a boat-expedition led against them by Louis O’Malachy. Although the effect of the firing was small, since Prince Otto Georg’s object was to frighten rather than hurt, it was evident that the rebels regarded the situation as serious, for they left the batteries which they had been engaged in constructing in other parts of the town, and began to throw one up at the end of M. Drakovics’s garden, with the intention of rendering the position of the vessels untenable. This gave the Prince the opportunity for which he had been waiting. He had very soon perceived that when the rebels had effected their greatcoup, and had telegraphed to the various European capitals the news of the revolution (as M. Drakovics informed him had certainly been done), and then cut the wires, they had worked themselves at least as much harm as their opponents. If they had managed to capture M. Drakovics as they had intended, all would have been well; but they had been baulked in this, and he, once outside the limited zone in which the wires were cut, had used the telegraph to call together his adherents from all parts of the country, while they had no means either of gaining information or of sending orders to their more distant supporters. Disappointed of the help they had expected from Tatarjé, their action would necessarily be partial and undecided, since they had no idea of the extent to which their views found support outside the capital, although it was evident that the country had not risen in their favour as they had anticipated. It was true that they had made an attempt at a cavalry reconnaissance the day before; but the troopers had been driven back into the town in disorder with the help of the guns taken from the Tatarjé contingent, and at the present moment every one was far too much engrossed by the attack on the river-face to think about obtaining information on the land side.
Once assured that his naval demonstration was successful, Prince Otto Georg led the main body of his little army, together with two guns which he had reserved for this purpose, round to the other side of the city, remote alike from the river and the Carlino barracks. By taking advantage of every scrap of cover afforded by the woods and rising ground, he succeeded in performing this manœuvre without its being perceived by the townspeople, the attention of whose leaders was completely occupied by the attack on the river-face. Bringing his guns into position on the edge of a wood, he formed up his men in readiness to advance, and opened fire on the gate nearest him, following up the first effective shot by an immediate rush forward. The small guns mounted on the wall, and served by half-hearted townsmen, who were by no means anxious to provoke an artillery fire which would probably bring their houses about their ears, had little result in checking the advance of the besiegers, and before the rebel leaders could be recalled from their futile labours on the other side of the city, the gate was down and the Carlinists were pouring in.
Prince Otto Georg smiled grimly as he watched the operations from a point of vantage. “Never trust citizens to defend their town,” he said. “They surrendered Strasburg.”
The worst of the fighting was yet to come. From house to house and from street to street Prince Otto Georg’s soldiers made their way, with their ranks at one moment swelled by a band of welcoming sympathisers, at another thinned by a stream of fire from some public building turned into a fortress, and fiercely defended by desperate men, who had rushed from the river-face to make a last effort for their lives. While one party of the assailants was making for the palace, two others were gaining possession of the walls, and turning the guns there upon the quarters where the strongest resistance was experienced; and the Prince himself appeared to be ubiquitous, alike in keeping up communications with the strong force he had left to hold the gate, guarding against a flank attack by an overlooked force of the enemy, and moderating the fierceness of the strife by proclaiming, whenever he could get a hearing, quarter to those who were willing to lay down their arms. After all, the bulk of the townspeople were very glad to submit to the besiegers. The exactions of the rebels had not endeared them to any one within the walls, and there had been rumours of what was to happen to the faithless city on King Peter’s return which caused most people to tremble for their property, if not for their lives. Only the men of the city guard, knowing, as M. Drakovics had said, that they fought with ropes round their necks, persisted in maintaining the fight, making a stand at every available point, and at last crowding with their leaders into the palace for a final effort.
Even now, if it had been possible to move the great guns from the river batteries to the palace, and turn them against the town, the result of the day’s fighting might have been different; but time and appliances were alike wanting for this operation, and after a short resistance the wall of the garden was scaled, and the rebels made their last stand in the palace itself.
“Take them alive! Take them alive!” had been the reiterated order of Prince Otto Georg and M. Drakovics. “They know what has become of the King,” and the Carlinists, mad with rage and fight though they were, did their best to obey. When the stubborn contest ended at last, Ivan Sertchaieff, the Premier, lay dead on the grand staircase where Caerleon had been taken prisoner; his brother, less fortunate, was in the hands of the victors, and with him were Louis O’Malachy and about a score of others. The civilians of the party were committed to the custody of the police, who had been imprisoned in their barracks by the rebels, and had done good service by breaking out during the street-fighting and joining the Carlinists. A summary court-martial sat immediately, under the presidency of Prince Otto Georg, to try such of the prisoners as had belonged to the army, while M. Drakovics, who had fought his way in with the troops, searched the palace and interrogated the other captives as to the King’s whereabouts.
What the Prince was chiefly anxious to discover from the men before him was the extent to which the disaffection which had led to the rebellion had spread in the army and in the country, and also whether Scythia had committed herself to any definite encouragement of the scheme; but from General Sertchaieff he could gain nothing but a denial of the competency of the tribunal to try him, from Louis a declaration that he was a Scythian subject, and from the rest more or less vehement protestations of devotion to the house of Franza and of their readiness to die in its service. The competence of a court presided over by the Commander-in-Chief to try officers undoubtedly belonging to the army could not be seriously questioned, and the trial proceeded with due ceremony until it was interrupted by a tremendous uproar outside the hall. Prince Otto Georg ordered the sentries to clear the approaches to the court; but the moment that the door was opened a motley throng of Carlinists streamed in, with M. Drakovics, wrathful and agitated, at their head.
“What is the meaning of this unseemly proceeding?” inquired Prince Otto Georg. “I am surprised that you should so far forget the gravity of the occasion as to interrupt the trial.”
He was addressing himself to M. Drakovics; but his words were drowned by the excited crowd, who pressed about the prisoners with shouts and gestures of rage, and were only prevented from rushing upon them by the exertions of the guards.
“Where is the King?” they cried. “Give us back our Carlino!”
“Gentlemen,” said M. Drakovics, addressing the officers who formed the court, “I am grieved beyond measure to tell you that we have searched the palace and a great part of the city, but we can find no trace of our beloved sovereign.”
General Sertchaieff smiled sardonically. “It is scarcely likely that you will,” he said.
“Great heaven!” cried Prince Otto Georg; “they have murdered him, then!”
“You will not find it easy to bring him back,” went on General Sertchaieff. “Ask Captain O’Malachy if you wish to hear what has become of your Carlino.” It was evident from his tone that he anticipated a surprise for his hearers; but it was also clear that when Louis spoke he received one himself. While the rapid dialogue was in progress, Louis had been weighing the situation in his mind. Would truth or falsehood serve the cause best at this juncture? The fate of his comrades and himself was already sealed, and nothing that he could say or refrain from saying would avail to save any of them. But what of that? It was still possible to produce an impression which might go far to effect the object aimed at by the revolt. Were Caerleon alive, the Drakovics party would rally around him in irresistible strength; if he were dead, the weary, dispiriting search for a King must begin again, with all the jealousies and strifes it involved, and the opportunity it offered to Scythia for armed intervention. He hesitated no longer.
“You will certainly consult the best authority,” he said, sarcastically. “I had the honour of being present during his Majesty’s last moments.”
A howl of rage went up from the crowd of Carlinists, and the rest of the prisoners repressed a start of astonishment.
“You killed him?” was the cry. Louis bowed calmly.
“That duty fell to me,” he said.
“But how? where?” asked many voices.
“I took him on board the Scythian steamer,” returned Louis, “with his brother and his English servant. They were all bound. I stabbed them one after the other, and threw their bodies into the river.”
“But why on board the steamer?” asked Prince Otto Georg.
“Because it was feared that some of our less ardent supporters might object to Carlino’s death if it was carried out before their eyes,” said Louis.
“You give us to understand that you murdered three unarmed men in cold blood?” said Prince Otto Georg. “This is inconceivable. Human nature is not capable of so horrible an atrocity, though why you should attempt to deceive us in such a matter I cannot imagine. You are not in earnest?”
“Am I likely to tell you anything but the truth at such a moment, and on such a subject?” retorted Louis. “Your Carlino is dead, and I killed him. I have not yet heard any of my comrades,” he glanced round at his fellow-prisoners, “deliver the dying message with which he charged them. I am the only honest one among them, after all. He wished it to be known that he chose death rather than abdication. Well, he had it.”
“You—a soldier,” said the Prince to General Sertchaieff, “and connived at the commission of this dastardly murder?”
“We did not expect to make our revolution with rose-water,” returned the ex-Minister. “Our intention was to surprise Carlino, and to force him to abdicate by means of threats, if possible; but Captain O’Malachy had strict orders to kill him if any resistance or rescue were attempted, and he did so.”
“I should wish to adjourn the court,” said Prince Otto George. “I do not feel that I can conduct business properly after receiving this terrible news.”
“Then the mountain men will break in and tear the prisoners to pieces,” said M. Drakovics, in a low voice, glancing at the crowd of excited peasants who stood with weapons in their hands, muttering imprecations and glaring at the self-accused murderers. “I entreat your Highness to bring the trial to a close, so that it may be evident that the murderers will meet the punishment demanded by their crimes, and then to come with me to break the news to the people.”
Prince Otto Georg turned impatiently to the papers on the table before him, and M. Drakovics succeeded in inducing his followers to leave the hall by assuring them that summary justice would be done by the court-martial. Indeed, the evidence was so clear that there could be no doubt of the result of the trial. Even leaving out of sight the added atrocity of the murder of the King, the prisoners had committed a sufficient number of crimes against both military and civil law to cause them to incur the death-penalty several times over. There was not a dissentient voice among the members of the court, and the President pronounced the sentence with a sensation not far removed from loathing.
“I never saw a man so bloodthirsty as that O’Malachy,” he said to himself as he left the chair after the prisoners had been removed. “I believe that the murder was his doing altogether, for Sertchaieff seemed at first as much surprised as I was. I wonder whether there could have been any truth in that story about a sister of his that got into the Scythian papers? It would account for his peculiar ferocity.”
It would have afforded Louis additional gratification had he known that the apparent purposelessness of his conduct had cast a slur upon Caerleon’s name, but he was very well content as things were. His was not the part of the informer, who is said to be present, by some strange fatality, whenever two Irishmen are plotting together, and through whom the best-laid schemes go wrong; on the contrary, he had carried out his share of the conspiracy with triumphant success, and even at the bitter end had turned defeat into victory. Of this character were his exultant musings as he was led away with his companions, but in indulging such hopeful anticipations he was reckoning without his host. M. Drakovics’s proverbial resourcefulness had not forsaken him at this crisis, and from the moment of hearing the fatal news of Caerleon’s death he had been preparing acoup d’état. When Prince Otto left the hall in which the court-martial had been held, he found that he was awaiting him, and the two men rode down the steep street with their escort to the Hôtel de Ville, in the square in front of which were assembled the loyal townspeople and the irregular troops. A momentary cheer saluted the Premier and his companion as they made their appearance on the balcony; but the news of the King’s murder had spread among the people, and the feeling of mourning was universal. The soldiers alone greeted Prince Otto Georg with shouts when M. Drakovics presented him to the crowd as the saviour of Thracia, and he retired into the background while his companion came forward again to speak. The crowning triumph of the great orator’s eloquence was to be obtained to-day, and the lack of responsiveness among his audience only served to stimulate him to surpass himself.
He began his speech by paying a well-deserved tribute to the troops, both regular and irregular, who had fought so bravely in crushing the revolt. Their courage and endurance had been beyond all praise; but they had been sustained by the hope of rescuing their beloved King from the hands of the dastardly conspirators who sought to deprive him of his throne. The struggle was successful, the victory was won, but, alas! success had come too late. Their young sovereign, who had given up the splendid prospects which belonged to him in his own country in order to lead the forlorn hope in Thracia, had chosen to die rather than forsake the trust he had received from the people. He was the last martyr on the glorious roll of Thracian independence. Let them look around them. There on the hill above them was the sacred shrine at which, that very day, Carlino was to have received the crown of Thracia, and there also was the palace in which he should have lived for many happy years, beloved and honoured. But beside them there flowed the river, accursed from that day forward, whose waters had rolled over his blood-stained corpse, and there remained yet in the land of the living the miscreants who had not scrupled to murder in cold blood a bound and defenceless man.