The air was shrewd as we set out from Orgov. We took a narrow, winding bridle-path, uncomfortably steep in places, in order to avoid the frontier town of Boruna, wherein trouble might lurk. The stars were out already, with Mars straight before us wonderfully large and red as we rode due east. There was an exhilaration in the atmosphere that was like wine in the veins; and presently we caught the tail of an icy blast that made us glad to wrap our cloaks around us.
An impartial view of such an enterprise rendered it clear that the odds were greatly in favour of a total failure. How could six men and a cripple hope to penetrate into the heart of a closely guarded fortress? And assuming that we got in, by what means did we expect to make our way out again! In all conscience the scheme was wild enough, but this was not the hour in which to lay stress upon that fact.
There can be no doubt that the qualities of our leader were a great aid to his corps. Undaunted courage, invincible optimism were his in amplest measure; and this attitude of mind could not fail to react upon his comrades in arms. Moreover, in the most singular degree he appeared to combine with the audacity of genius, a head for detail and a shrewd practical wisdom, which very seldom embellish the characters of those who depend primarily upon the faculty of inspiration.
As mile by mile we traversed these snow-laden Illyrian mountains, the possibility of anything less than complete success found no place in his thoughts. "Nothing is impossible" was his motto, and this he realised with plenary conviction. His twin soul was calling him to the Castle of Blaenau, and not for an instant did he doubt his ability to obey the summons.
It was our plan to avoid as far as possible all centres of population. Our guides being men of experience, familiar with all the by-paths and bridle-roads, we were able to do this, and even to save time in the process. But as the innkeeper had insisted, Fitz's optimism had misled him when he expected to reach the Illyrian capital in six hours.
When we took our first bait, at an inn above the sinister waters of the Lake of Montardo, it was nearly nine o'clock. Coffee and cakes were very acceptable; indeed I have seldom tasted anything so delicious. But in spite of our diligence and a fair measure of luck, we had come rather less than twenty miles of the journey. Our horses were good for another twelve miles through the formidable pass of Ryhgo, where in the middle of winter the mountain streams are generally in spate.
We went on after a halt of a quarter of an hour. As yet we had seen few signs of the revolution. But at the inn above Montardo ugly rumours were rife. The people and the army were said to have turned against the aristocracy; they were butchering them by the score, and the Crown Princess was declared to be dead.
That our mission was being made in vain Fitz declined to believe. The man's courage had never seemed so remarkable as when confronted with this news.
"If she were already dead," he said, simply, "I should have had information. I shall not believe it until I hold her corpse in my arms."
Through the pass of Ryhgo, overshadowed as it is by the gaunt Illyrian mountains, the narrow path wound along the very edge of a precipice. Below were the waters of the Lake of Montardo, which as we rode above it reflected a baleful grandeur to the stars. The wind was very piercing now and drove sheer in our faces; not a little did it add to the dangers of our progress through the pass. The horses had only to make a false step and their riders would be hurled a thousand feet into those terrible black waters gleaming below.
Before we had overcome this most precarious stage of our journey, the clouds were beaten up rapidly by the wind, and to add to our peril and discomfort it came on to snow. It was, therefore, a great relief when at last we came to an inn at a hamlet with an unpronounceable name which marked the end of the pass. It was then eleven o'clock and we had come little more than half the way.
Here we found a friend awaiting us. He was an Illyrian acquaintance of Fitz's, and he had arranged the details of our mountain journey. A member of a noble family, he was familiar with the court life at Blaenau, and had borne the part of a friend in the previous episode which had culminated in the elopement of the Crown Princess.
He was an agreeable fellow, quite cosmopolitan, and had no difficulty in making himself understood in French, in which tongue he enjoyed a greater felicity than any of us. He answered to the name of John, although his full title, which was very long and hard to pronounce, I have forgotten. He, too, had heard the common report that the Princess was dead, but chose to express no opinion in regard to the truth of it.
When Fitz outlined his project, he expressed a mild astonishment.
"But how," said he, "will you cross the Maravina?"
"You don't suppose," said Fitz, "that we have come as far as this to be deterred by the crossing of the Maravina?"
"All the bridges are closely guarded by the Republicans. The ferries also."
"We can swim the Maravina, at a pinch."
"You English can do most things," said John, "but don't attempt to swim the Maravina in the middle of January is my advice."
John's view drew a growl of deep bass approval from no less a person than the Chief Constable of Middleshire.
"We shall do what we can," said the Man of Destiny, with excellent indifference.
"Yes, but we damn well needn't do what we can't," said the Chief Constablesotto voce, yet meaning no disrespect to his native tongue.
I must confess to an involuntary shudder, as, at the instance of a too-active imagination, the waters of the Maravina pierced a pair of leathers "by a local artist of the name of Jobson." They seemed miserably damp already. And if anything feels more miserable than a pair of leathers when they are damp, I pray to be spared the knowledge.
High as our mission was, the flesh was loth to quit the warm stove at the hostelry of "The Hanging Cross" for those terrible purlieus that wound through the heart of the wild Illyrian mountains. But at least we could congratulate ourselves that the pass of Ryhgo was at an end, and that the black waters of Lake Montardo no longer lay in wait for the hapless traveller a thousand feet below. Also the snow had ceased, the wind had fallen, Mars and his brethren were looking again upon us, and there was a faint suspicion of a crescent moon.
Our weary beasts had been exchanged for a fresh relay at the hostelry of "The Hanging Cross." In addition to a reinforcement in the shape of John, a led horse with a side saddle accompanied us for the use of the Princess. With fairer conditions and a path less perilous to traverse, we began to improve considerably upon our previous rate of progression. Then the road began again to grow difficult, but happily the sky kept clear.
During the later stages of the journey we passed through several hamlets and small towns. To judge by the lights in the windows of the houses and the demeanour of little groups of people in the streets, a general spirit of uneasiness was abroad. Men clad in the picturesque skin caps which are so typical of the country were to be seen carrying formidable-looking guns; and although such a cavalcade excited their curiosity they allowed it to pass.
We had no adventures worthy of the name. In one of the mountain valleys a deep crevasse was concealed by a drift of snow, and we owed it to the vigilance of our guides that we were not its victims. The wind was still very piercing, but acting upon Fitz's advice before we started, we had all taken the precaution to be well clad.
Our progress was really better than we realised. A sudden turn in the road revealed a very broad and rapid torrent. It was the Maravina; and there upon the farther bank was the bluff upstanding rock crowned with the majestic Castle of Blaenau. Nestling close about it was a dark huddle of houses and gaunt church spires of the capital city of Illyria.
"There you are," cried John, with a wave of the hand. "Now, my friends, are you tempted to swim across?"
"I daresay we shall find a bridge," said Fitz, nonchalantly enough.
"They are all bound to be guarded by the enemy."
"May be," said the Man of Destiny imperturbably.
Away to the right, at the distance of a mile, was one of the smaller bridges into the city. It was a rickety, wooden structure, guarded by a gate with a turret, which had a quaintly mediaeval aspect. In front of the gate a bright coke fire was burning in a bucket, and sprawling around it in attitudes which suggested varying phases of somnolence were a number of men in uniform.
A shaggy, fierce-looking, finely-grown fellow rose to his feet and challenged us. Fitz replied promptly in his suavest and best Illyrian. Not a word of the conversation that ensued was intelligible to me, but it was punctuated by the approving laughter of John and the guides, and was conducted on both sides with the highest good-humour.
Its conclusion at any rate was in keeping with this surmise. Fitz was seen to slip a piece of gold into a furtive palm; the password was whispered to him; and the gate was opened just far enough for each of us to pass through one at a time.
"If there is a more corrupt rogue than an Illyrian corporal of infantry," said John, "on the face of this fair earth, I am glad to say I have met him not."
"Evil practices breed an evil state," said the sententious Fitz. "If chaps have to whistle for their wages what can you expect?"
"Let us hope the custodians of the Castle will prove as susceptible," I observed, piously.
"Ah, there you have another sort of bird!" said Fitz.
There was a second gate on the city side of the bridge. This also was guarded by the soldiery, but the password given boldly got us through without a question. There were tall spikes set in a row on the top of the heavy and unwieldy gate. They were adorned with a row of human heads.
To me, I confess, these grisly mementoes brought a shudder.
"They appear to do things pleasantly at Blaenau," said Frederick.
"They can go one better than that, my son," said Fitz, "if they get the chance. I should advise each of you, in the case of emergency, to leave just one cartridge in his revolver."
To a married man, a father of a family, and a county member, with his left arm in a black silk handkerchief, who did not feel particularly secure in the saddle as he rode knee to knee across the bridge with his misguided friend the Chief Constable of Middleshire, the icy wind which saluted him from the mighty torrent swirling beneath, blew distinctly "thin." Somewhat bitterly he began to deplore that decree of fate which had bereft him of the use of a hand.
Through narrow, close-built streets, whose odours were decidedly unpleasant, we passed unmolested until we came into the shadow of the Castle rock. In the faint light of the stars it towered a sheer and beetling pile.
Dismounting, we tied the horses to a fence. Fitz took a dark lantern from his saddle; and among a miscellaneous collection of articles with which he had the forethought to provide himself, was a coil of rope. This it seemed was capable of adjustment into the form of a ladder; and our leader affirmed his intention of being the first man up the Castle wall. He proposed to affix this contrivance to the coping at the top in order that the others might climb up as easily and as expeditiously as possible.
There was nothing for it save to resign myself to stay with the two guides in the charge of the horses. It would have been a physical impossibility for a man bereft of the use of an arm to climb that sheer precipice.
Fitz's parting words of advice to me were characteristic.
"If," said he, "a sentry should come along, and want to know your business—I don't suppose he will, because they don't appear to have mounted a picket—knock out his brains at once, and make one of the guides put on his uniform and shoulder his gun and march up and down. So long, old son."
The Man of Destiny was gone, perhaps for ever. As each of my comrades in arms climbed over the low fence in his wake I wished him good luck. It seemed hardly a fighting chance that we should ever look on one another again.
They had left their cloaks behind, and these, together with my own, were thrown over the horses which had carried us so well. Tobacco is a great solace in seasons of tension, but the long-drawn suspense to which I had to submit soon became intolerable.
To a lover of theaurea mediocritas, a twentieth-century British paterfamilias confirmed in the comfortable security of a civil life, such a predicament was absurd. It was painful indeed to march hour after hour up and down the broken ground at the foot of the Castle rock. A pipe was in my teeth, otherwise I was signally exposed to the rigours of a long January night in Illyria. A bloody end was my perpetual contemplation. And I hardly dared to think what lay in store for my comrades, the faint hope of whose return it was my bounden duty to await.
There were moments in this season of poignant misery when I felt myself to be growing absolutely desperate. Why be ashamed to make the confession? The sensation of impotence was truly terrible. As the time passed and not a sound was to be heard, God alone knew what was being transacted in that frowning eyrie under the cover of the night.
Like most of those who have the unlucky leaven of imagination in their clay, my instinctive optimism is often on its trial. While I marched up and down in the darkness, trying vainly to keep warm, waiting for that tardy dawn in which death lurked for us all, I would have laid long odds that the doom of the Princess was sealed already and that my comrades in arms would share it.
A man should strive in some sort to figure as a hero when he comes to the purple patches in his own history. But if a profuse fear of the immediate future in combination with a lively horror of the present are compatible with that degree, so be it. Throughout those hours of inaction I suffered the torments of the damned.
Again and again I strained nervously to catch a footfall, and each time I did so Fitz's sinister injunction was in my ears. I recognised its wisdom, but what a counsel for a respectable law-abiding Englishman! Conceive the husband of Mrs. Arbuthnot, the father of Miss Lucinda, the sensitive product of a settled state of society, lying in wait to knock out the brains of a fellow creature on hardly any pretext at all!
Prudence is not without a tenderness for those who court her; at least a liberal supply of tobacco was in my pouch. In a state of sheer desperation I smoked away the intolerable hours, and even had tobacco to share with the guides who placidly awaited the dawn in the lee of the horses.
These were rugged, silent, contained men. I had not a word of their language whatever it was, and I think it was a kind of Milesianargot. But there was an air of torpid responsibility about them. They were honest peasants, calm, unimaginative, faithful.
The hour of five was told from half a dozen steeples of the capital. In less than three short hours the fate of us all would be sealed. My mind went back to Middleshire and I could have wept for vexation. Everything was so happy and comfortable there. If Mrs. Arbuthnot did not see eye to eye with me in all things, an occasional discreet diversity of opinion merely added piquancy to double harness.
Yes, life and all that pertained to it was very dear to me. It is proper, of course, to maintain a becoming reticence about that indissoluble core of egoism that lies at the heart of us all. But during these unspeakable hours I could not dissemble it. Why had it pleased fate to project this ill-starred creature, one altogether outside the circle of my interests, one alien in birth, in race, in fortune, into the quiet backwater of my years! Was there not a wantonness in shattering such a comfortable hedonism in this cruel, meaningless, irresponsible way?
What man can be a hero to his autobiographer! By all the rules of the game I ought to have been bathed in a kind of moral limelight as I walked my miserable beat throughout that cursed Illyrian night. It should be the easiest thing in the world to present a picture of stoical disdain for Dame Fortune and her fantasies.
But the blunt truth is before me, ignoble as it is. Life meant too much. The least of my thoughts should have been dedicated to that high and noble mission which had lured me from my happy home in an English county. I should have had my mind wholly concentrated on the fate of the royal lady and on that of those stout fellows who had come so far and who had endured so much that they might serve her.
Well, I will not deny that in a measure my thoughts were for them. But I did not dare to speculate on what had happened to them; their fate was too big with tragic possibilities. Yet ever uppermost within me was a sore vexation. I did not want in the least to die, and I was determined not to do so. Unhappily Fitz had not given me the password which in the last resort might take me across the bridge; I could not communicate with the guides; I was a stranger in a strange land.
Six o'clock was told from the steeples of the city, but there was not a sound from the Castle rock. Despair gripped me by the heart. The Princess was dead and my friends had been unable to make their way out of the fortress they had had the incredible foolhardiness to enter. But until daylight came I must wait at my post; yea, if I could contrive it, longer than that it behoved me to remain.
Already the sleeping city was beginning to stir uneasily. Distant sounds proceeded from it; within ten paces of our horses a farmer's wagon had passed along the road. Figures began to emerge from the darkness and to re-enter it. Doubtless they were workmen going to their toil. The icy blasts from the river congealed my blood. Half-past six told from the steeples; housemaids in pink print dresses were lighting the fires at Dympsfield House.
I began to scourge my brain for a plan of escape in broad daylight from this accursed place, in case Fitz did not return. But even my mind was numbed, and it was under the dominion of two clear facts: I did not know a word of the Illyrian tongue, and I knew nothing of the habits and customs of the country.
The row of heads upon the city gate occupied a chamber to themselves in the halls of my imagination. In whatever direction I turned my thoughts, there was that grisly frieze before my eyes. Presently I made the discovery that I had bitten the stem of my pipe clean through.
It was now seven o'clock and I had yielded up all hope of Fitz. So tragedy after all was to be the end of these wild oscillations which had begun with broad farce. The unhappy "circus rider from Vienna" had been done to death by the people for whom she had given all. Not only had they rejected her sacrifice but they had requited it with brutal treachery. And the noble man who had loved her, and those brave fellows who had dared everything to serve her, regardless of lives they valued as highly as I did my own, had perished in her cause.
Rage and horror began to rise up within me. God in heaven, was this the end of our adventure? It was a quarter past seven; the whole city was astir.
The dawn was coming. There were a few faint streaks of grey already above the Castle rock. Numbed and helpless I strained my eyes upwards to that sinister pile. Cold in body, faint in spirit, I knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. And then, before I could realise what had come to pass, there was a surge of dark and stealthy figures, there was a hand on my shoulder and a low voice was in my ears.
"The horses! The horses!"
Half paralysed as were the physical senses, there was a magic in the words. Involuntarily, scarcely knowing what I did, I helped to unloose the horses. I saw others climb into their saddles; with a little friendly help I got into mine.
In the growing light of the dawn, we started at a gentle pace towards the old and quaint and many-gabled city. Yet it was still too dark to see who precisely was of our company. We came to the bridge, and halted while Fitz gave the password at the gate. Suspicious eyes were cast upon him, but they let us through.
At the farther gate Fitz gave the password again. There was a little delay, in the course of which Fitz spoke in a jovial manner with the corporal of infantry. Finally another gold piece changed owners, and then we were allowed to pass on to the open country.
Without having to fire a shot, we had got clear of the city. As yet I knew nothing of what had happened during the hours of my suspense, but I was able to make out in the dim light that two of another sex had augmented our company. One riding by the side of Fitz had a familiar outline; the other, an unknown lady, was accommodated somewhat insecurely in front of the saddle of Joseph Jocelyn De Vere.
As we turned towards the mountain road there came the booming of a gun across the turbulent water of the Maravina.
"They are awake at last," said a gruff voice at my elbow. The Chief Constable seemed very weary and very grim.
Hard and straight we rode through the comparatively easy country to the inn at the head of the pass of Ryhgo. We had to be content with a change of horses here; there was not time to allow of anything else beyond a cup of spiced wine.
In broad daylight the pass of Ryhgo was shorn of many of its terrors. But as we rode above the lake the path was so narrow and its turns so sharp that care was still necessary. Happily the wind was now dead.
Even now I was hardly in a state to realise what had occurred. The strain upon my mind was still acute; my faculties seemed to have got out of control.
"We had wonderful luck." The voice of the Chief Constable sounded remote and meaningless. "It was a devil of a climb up that rock, and I'll lay odds that we should never have got to the top at all, if Fitz hadn't remembered a secret stairway that led right into the heart of the place. Either the burghers of Blaenau had forgotten all about it or they didn't know of its existence. But Fitz remembered it all right as soon as he happened to see the hole in the rock. When we got in, it was as black as the tomb, except for Fitz's lantern.
"It was a poisonous journey up an interminable flight of winding stone steps. It took us quite an hour to come to the end. And then we found ourselves confronted by a door of solid oak, which was three parts rotten. It took us another hour to cut through that, and Fitz's lantern went out and we had to keep striking matches. I shall never forget that hour in the dark until my dying day. And when we got through that infernal door at last, where do you suppose we found ourselves?"
"I cannot say," I said, dreamily, with a vague eye upon the black waters of the lake below.
"Behind the tapestry of the King's bedroom. A marvellous piece of luck! It is a strange providence that watches over some things. And there we waited in the darkness, with our hands on our weapons, while Fitz made his way to the Princess, and he brought her and her woman to us, and we got clear away without disturbing a soul."
"A wonderful and an incredible story!"
I began to have a fear that I might pitch from my horse. But we got through the fell pass of Ryhgo at last, and by three o'clock that afternoon were in the presence of food and shelter and security in the hostelry a mile beyond the frontier. Thereupon a mute prayer passed up to heaven from the still shuddering soul of a married man, a father of a family, and a county member.
The unknown lady whom Jodey had borne so gallantly upon his saddle through the perilous mountain passes was none other than the Countess Etta von Zweidelheim, that lover of Schubert, that charming interpreter of Schumann who had made herself responsible for the statement that our memorable evening at the Embassy was "petter than Offenbach."
Even when she was lifted cold, hungry and desperately fatigued from the saddle of her cavalier, she was inclined to laugh; and we were able to raise among us a sort of hollow echo of her mirth when we observed the solemnity with which my relation by marriage escorted her to the stove and chafed her bloodless hands to restore the circulation.
The somewhat formal, perhaps slightly embarrassed nature of our laughter did not fail, even in these circumstances, of its customary appeal to her Royal Highness. Her own, however, unloosed a thousand memories which I shall carry to the grave, and perhaps beyond.
"Aha,les Anglais!" There was a maternal indulgence in the gaunt eyes. "Très bons enfants!" Her voice was low, canorous, quaintly caressing. "Très bons enfants!"
Suddenly she turned and gave both her hands to me. Lightly my lips touched the frozen fingers. For an instant my eyes were upon the strange pallor of her face; and then they met in a kind of challenge the sunken brilliancy which gave it life.
"The creatures of Perrault, ma'am," I said, rather hysterically.
THE END
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON, 1912.